Chapter 8 – Try, try again

"Yeah, I'm up Mom, give me a sec," I call back.

I haul myself out of my chair, which feels like a heroic feat considering my muscles are still screaming profanities at me from yesterday's workout, and shuffle to the door. When I open it, I'm greeted by the sight of my mother in all her... well, her everything.

Fiona Gray is, to be succinct, a busty MILF of a woman. Long straight green hair flows down to her hips like flowing strands of emerald silk, framing flawless porcelain skin that seems to glow in the morning light. She has a cute, small nose and plump pink lips that curl into a warm smile. Most strikingly, she has a pair of large, mesmerizing green eyes that sparkle with maternal affection, they perfectly match her unique hair color.

And then there's the rest of her, which my eighteen-year-old brain is trying very hard not to catalog in detail because she's my mom and I still have some boundaries left.

Her figure is... otherworldly. That's the only way to describe it. Massive H-cup breasts that seem to defy physics, somehow maintaining their shape despite their generous size. They strain against her soft cream-colored sweater, the fabric clinging to curves that would make sculptors weep. Her waist cinches in dramatically, impossibly slim, the kind of proportions that would be created by game developers, who then receive criticism for unrealistic body standards. Below that, her hips flare out in an exaggerated hourglass that leads to thick, powerful thighs that jiggle subtly and bounce with every movement she makes. They look like they're made of something softer than anything found in nature, wrapped in a thin elastic wrap, just thick enough to allow them to keep their shape.

Okay, stop. Full stop. I know what you're thinking. "Oh great, this kid has a crush on his two non-blood-related sisters, and he's got a thing for his mom too? What's next, the family dog?"

But no. We don’t have a family dog.

But also, no I am NOT (currently) infatuated with Fiona, my not-related-by-blood, not-related-by-law, but-definitely-my-mom-in-every-way-that-matters mother. So there. I'm just... observationally aware that she happens to be objectively attractive. It's a burden, really. Walking around with a mom who looks like she stepped out of a reality show about trophy wives is exhausting. Do you know how many of my former friends made "your mom" jokes before I stopped having friends entirely? Many. Too many.

"Morning, sweetie," Mom says, pulling me into a hug before I can protest.

And look, I'm not going to lie, she's soft. Like, incredibly soft. The kind of soft that makes you understand why babies cry when you put them down. My face gets pressed directly into her chest because I'm five-foot-two and she's five-foot-ten, and physics has a cruel sense of humor. Her breasts cushion either side of my head like the world's most awkward pillows, warm and yielding through the fabric of her sweater, with a subtle firmness that allows them to keep their shape. I can feel them compress gently against my cheeks, enveloping my face in softness that's both comforting and deeply embarrassing. I take a deep breath of her warm scent, warm honey and morning dew, mixed with a hint of the lavender detergent she uses, and find myself nuzzling into her embrace like I'm five years old again instead of eighteen and deeply aware of how pathetic this looks.

"Morning, Mom," I mumble into her sweater, my voice muffled by the generous cushioning.

She pulls back and studies my face with those concerned mom eyes that can apparently detect lies, hidden junk food, and emotional distress from fifty paces. "You feeling okay? You seem... different."

"A good different or 'should I be worried you're having a mental breakdown' different?"

"Different... I don't know. Energized?"

I pause. Am I energized? I did just spend the last half-hour researching social interaction strategies like I'm preparing for a heist, something I've never bothered trying before. "I'm good, Mom. Just thinking about school stuff."

"Well, come on then. I made pancakes."

"You made pancakes? When did you even have time—"

"I woke up early." She's already heading down the stairs, and I follow, trying not to think about the fact that she probably got home at ten last night, went to sleep around midnight, and still woke up at six to make breakfast.

The house reveals itself as we descend, and honestly? It's seen better days. The furniture looks tired: sagging couches with faded upholstery, a coffee table with water rings we've given up trying to remove, chairs that creak ominously whenever anyone sits down. The walls have paint peeling in places, revealing layers of previous tenants' questionable color choices like an archaeological strata of bad decisions. The appliances are old enough to vote, and the microwave sounds like it's summoning demons whenever you use it for more than thirty seconds.

We rent this place. Have for years. Mom's the only one with a full-time job, she works as a maid for some fancy cleaning service, and she's constantly pulling overtime to make ends meet. The math is simple and depressing: one income, four people, one house in a decent school district. Something's gotta give, and that something is apparently the structural integrity of our kitchen cabinets.

My sisters and I have offered to help pay for stuff over nine thousand times. Mom has refused over nine thousand times. Her exact words are usually something like, "You're children, you focus on school," which is sweet but also completely impractical when your definition of "children" includes three legal adults.

So we help in stealth mode. Buying groceries and claiming we "just felt like shopping." Replacing broken dishes and saying we "got them on sale." Paying for our own school trips and supplies. It's like we're running an elaborate covert operation just so we can help save our mother some money.

The kitchen smells like heaven: butter, maple syrup, and slightly burnt edges because our stove has two settings, "barely warm" and "surface of the sun." Selene is already at the table, looking disgustingly energetic for seven-thirty in the morning, her pink hair somehow perfect despite the fact that she probably rolled out of bed fifteen minutes ago. Bianca is slouched in her chair like she's actively melting. She’s still in her pajamas: an oversized black band tee, faded from too many washes, barely clinging to her frame. Pants, as usual, are her sworn enemy at home, so she’s likely rocking just some random panties.

"Morning, Adam!" Selene chirps, way too loud for this hour.

"It's seven thirty in the morning," I groan, sliding into my seat between my sisters. "Why are you like this?"

"Born this way, baby." She kicks me under the table.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"Existing." She grins, then kicks me again.

"I will commit a war crime," I warn her.

"You won't."

She's right, but I'm not admitting it.

On my other side, Bianca makes a sound that might be a greeting or might be her dying. Without a word, she leans over and rests her head on my shoulder, apparently deciding I'm now a pillow.

My heart does a backflip as her sweet scent rushes into my nose and takes over my brain's controls for a solid second.

"Good morning to you too, Bianca," I say gently.

"Mmph," she responds eloquently.

"Why's she still so bad at mornings?" Selene asks, genuinely curious.

I look at her like she's insane. I doubt many people are "good at mornings" the way she is.

Mom sets down a stack of pancakes that could feed a small army, or more accurately, a family of four. They're golden brown, slightly misshapen because our pan is warped, and absolutely perfect.

"Dig in, everyone," Mom says, settling into her own seat with a smile that makes the worn-out kitchen feel a little less depressing.

I grab four pancakes, and drown them in syrup while Selene continues her campaign of kicking me under the table. Each kick is punctuated by an innocent smile, like she's not actively bruising my shins.

"So," Mom says, cutting her own pancakes into precise little pieces like a normal person instead of rolling them up like a burrito like I'm about to, "how's school going for everyone?"

"Great!" Selene says immediately, which is a lie. I know for a fact she got a C on her last history test.

"Fine," Bianca mumbles into my shoulder, which is also definitely a lie. She hates school with the passion of a thousand burning suns.

Mom's eyes land on me. "Adam?"

"Uh, good." Not a lie! I've been pulling straight A's my whole life. Turns out, when you have no social life, you have a lot of time for homework.

Mom's face lights up brilliantly. "I'm so proud of you, sweetie. You work so hard."

"Thanks, Mom," I say, suddenly shy and very interested in my pancakes.

"Unlike some people," Mom continues, giving Selene and Bianca a pointed look, "who seem to think homework is a suggestion."

"School is a prison," Bianca mutters.

"School is necessary," Mom corrects.

"School is a prison that's necessary," Bianca amends, which makes Selene snort syrup out of her nose.

The rest of breakfast passes in a blur of stolen bites (Selene keeps trying to stab my pancakes with her fork), more kicks under the table (I'm developing immunity), and Mom's gentle nagging about posture and vitamins and please-don't-eat-too-much-junk-food.

By the time we're done, Bianca has achieved consciousness, Selene has stolen a tenth of my breakfast, and I've accepted that family meals are just organized chaos with syrup.

The walk to school is equally exhausting.

Selene talks the entire time about some drama involving the cheerleading team, apparently someone hooked up with someone else's ex, while Bianca puts in her earbuds and zones out completely. I'm just trying not to trip over my own feet, which is harder than it sounds when you're simultaneously exhausted and weirdly energized about your new life-improvement system.

School passes by quickly. Classes happen. I take notes. I try to be social.

Eight hours later, I'm walking away from Fairchild High with my tail between my legs, metaphorically speaking.

My quest progress? Absolutely pathetic.

I answered one question in English class. One. And it was a one-word answer. Mr. Adams asked, "What is the meaning of melancholy?" and I raised my hand and said, "Sad." That's it. That's my participation for the day. I also sat next to someone in the cafeteria during lunch. His name was... I don't know, actually, because he had headphones in the entire time and I didn't want to bother him, so I just sat there eating my sandwich in silence while he bobbed his head to music I couldn't hear.

So. Progress: minimal. Social skills: still in the negatives. Confidence: plummeting.

But you know what? Screw it. I'll make a new plan. I'll do better tomorrow. If there's one thing my iron will gives me, it's a stubbornness that won't lose out to a particularly stubborn mule.

I head home with renewed determination, and I see a package waiting at the front door. My skincare products!

I grab the box and bring it inside like I've just retrieved the Holy Grail, which, given the state of my face, isn't that far off. The house is empty, Mom's still at work, and my sisters are still at school, probably busy with club activities. I head up to my room and decide to get the workout out of the way first.

I start with my Knee pushups. I drop down, get into position, and start pushing. My arms immediately start shaking like they're auditioning for a horror movie. One. Two. Three—and I collapse face-first into the carpet.

Three knee pushups. That's worse than yesterday, but it’s just because I'm still sore, so go kick rocks if you're laughing.

Next: squats. Like yesterday, I position myself near the bed to sit down and stand up repeatedly. Hey, this time I manage seven of them, not too shabby!

Then jumping jacks. Six of them.

Finally: planks. I last six seconds before my core gives up entirely and I become one with the floor.

I lie there for a moment, panting and questioning my life choices, before dragging myself to the shower. When I get out, I towel off and stare at the skincare products like they're alien technology.

Cleanser. Retinoid serum. Moisturizer.

Surprisingly, the instructions are pretty straightforward. I follow them carefully: wash face with cleanser, pat dry (not rub, apparently that's important), apply the retinoid serum to problem areas (so... everywhere), wait for it to absorb, then moisturizer.

The whole process takes maybe five minutes, but it makes me feel good about myself. The ritual feels like I'm preparing for battle. My face tingles slightly from the retinoid, which the instructions said would happen, so I'm choosing to interpret that as "it's working" and not "chemical burn."

I'm just finishing up when I hear it.

Ding!

You’ve completed the quest: Acne Begone!

Rewards:

"Yippee," I think to myself, as I mentally bring up my system interface and pull up the quest menu.

Available Quests:

I click on Acne II to check for more details about my newly acquired quest.

Acne II - Electric Boogaloo

Description: This acne is persistent! No worries, you have an iron will that even I admire! Continue with your skincare routine! Keep it up, and I'll give you some help!

Quest Details: Continue using your skincare routine for five days, once in the morning and once at night!

Quest Progress: 0/10 applications completed

Quest Rewards:

I stare at the screen.

"This is insane," I say out loud to my empty room. "Goddess or demons or whoever gave me this system, I could kiss you right now!"

Two evolution points and clearer skin?! I’m so happy that I do a little impromptu dance.

My eyes drift down to the last quest on the list.

Find a Part-Time Job! Must be service-related! (One month minimum) - [10 Evolution Points]

Ten points. Ten. But a service-related job? That means interacting with people. Customers. Making small talk. Smiling at strangers.

"I can't handle that right now," I mutter, closing the menu. "I'll work on that after I finish my other two social quests."

Yes, the job quest can wait. First, I need to handle the basics: skin, fitness, actually talking to people at school like a functional human being.

I spend the rest of the night doing homework, calc problems that are somehow both boring and infuriating, eating dinner, and starting a new freelancing project. Some small business needs a website redesign, and they're paying decent money for it. Once again, I realize that I feel most comfortable sitting behind a computer screen.

By the time I'm done, it's almost midnight. My eyes are burning from screen time, my back hurts from hunching over my desk, and I can hear my sisters laughing about something downstairs.

I yawn, save my work, shut down my desktop, and flop onto my bed.

I make a silent vow to myself. I'll do better tomorrow.

The chat interface pops up once again, encouraging me like a guardian angel: "You're already doing well, Adam. Take your time."

I fall asleep with a small smile on my face.