Chapter 6 - The Marshmallow Nightmare
The pulsing purple steam dissipated slowly into the crimson air, leaving behind a sickly sweet, intensely spicy aroma that burned the back of the throat. Marcus took a protective step backward, crossing his massive arms over his dark blue t-shirt as if shielding himself from a biological hazard.
"That is a war crime against Italian heritage," Marcus muttered, his face contorting in genuine disgust. "Even for the algorithm, Vance, this crosses a line."
Vance didn't blink. He tapped his glowing tablet, bringing up a live holographic projection that hovered directly above the cursed pizza slice. Millions of floating, transparent viewer icons drifted through the air like digital ghosts, their real-time chat logs scrolling in a frantic waterfall of text.
TrollMaster99: EAT THE PEPPERMINT PIZZA OR NO CHEESE FOREVER!
SweetTooth_Sue: Add chocolate syrup or I unsubscribe!
GlutenFreeGamer: Do it, kid! Prove your patriotism!
Leo stared up at the floating holographic horde, his lower lip beginning to quiver once more. The red, white, and blue fabric of his onesie felt suddenly heavy, like lead armor weighing him down. He had wanted pizza—warm, savory, perfectly melted mozzarella pizza—not this radioactive confectionary disaster spawned from the darkest corners of the internet.
"I... I don't think I like this," Leo whispered, his voice trembling as he took a cautious step backward, his heel bumping against the leg of Marcus’s chair.
"Personal preference is irrelevant in the attention economy," Vance said smoothly, his grey eyes reflecting the chaotic scrolling text of the hologram. "The audience demands a verdict. Take a bite, Leo. Prove your commitment to the grind. Only then will the gates of authentic pepperoni open unto you."
Marcus uncrossed his arms, looking down at the tiny toddler with a conflicted expression. Beneath his tough exterior and strict adherence to algorithmic rules, a flicker of genuine human empathy seemed to spark in his heavy chest. He reached down, placing a massive, warm hand gently on Leo’s small shoulder.
"Hey," Marcus said, his voice dropping its previous harshness, turning surprisingly gentle. "You don't have to do this, kid. Walk away. There are other restaurants. There are plain crackers, or apple slices, or things that won't scar your palate for life."
Leo looked up at Marcus, seeing the genuine concern hidden beneath the muscular facade. For a second, a spark of hope returned to his big eyes. Could he just leave? Could he escape the crushing weight of viral expectation and go back to a normal, unrecorded childhood?
Before Leo could answer, Vance slammed his hand down on the table with a sharp crack.
"If he walks away now," Vance warned, his voice turning icy and absolute, "his entire digital footprint is wiped. Forever. Zero followers, zero history, zero future. He will be a ghost in the machine, forgotten by the timeline before he even learns to tie his shoes."
Leo froze. The thought of being forgotten—of fading into digital nothingness without ever tasting the glorious stretch of melted mozzarella—terrified him more than the purple steam or the peppermint chunks. He swallowed hard, his throat tightening as he squared his tiny shoulders inside the American flag onesie.
"I'll do it," Leo whispered, his voice gaining a sudden, surprising firmness.
Marcus slowly withdrew his hand, stepping back with a grim expression of resignation. "God help you, kid."
May you like
Leo stepped up to the metal tray. He reached out with a trembling hand, his small fingers hovering over the marshmallow fluff before pinching off a single, sticky corner topped with a crushed peppermint shard. He closed his eyes, held his breath, and thrust the cursed morsel directly into his mouth.
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