Face-Slapping15 min read
I Refuse the Plot — So the System Gets Angry
ButterPicks17 views
"I won't get up yet," I croaked without opening my eyes.
"Get up, Gwen! It's past dawn. Your breakfast is on the stove, but it's getting cold," my mother shouted through the thin door.
"Fine. I'm up," I said, dragging the words like a blanket.
Jana Hussein kept at it. "You lazy thing, always avoiding work. Eat and don't stay in bed all day."
I stayed in bed a little longer and listened to the village wake. Birds, the distant clank of tools, people's voices going to the fields. I had only been here for a month, if you could call it "here." The truth was stranger — I had died once, and then I woke up in this body with a system in my ear.
The system tended to be persuasive. It liked to hand me choices like poisoned candies.
[ping] "Detected: Last night's rain made the mountain full of mushrooms!"
[ping] "Choose:
1 — Go pick mushrooms now, reward: one nationwide watch ticket.
2 — Go to the hills for a random outing, reward: 66 yuan.
3 — Stay home, reward: a can of malted milk."
"I choose three," I muttered and felt the system press a tiny approval into my mind.
[system] "Choice accepted. Reward: one can of malted milk."
I smiled a little. Staying inside was safer. Being outside meant stepping into the story the original novel had set: me in the old girl's body who always pushed the heroine, who got pushed into a marriage with a violent man, who died. Not happening. Not this time.
The sound of someone pounding on the door pulled me out of my thoughts.
"Open up! Gwen! It's Justine!" a familiar voice called. She was always loud — she had a way of being noticed.
I ignored the door and chewed the egg pancake my mother had left. It tasted of straw-roasted eggs and simple oil. I told myself I liked quiet life: eat, sleep, maybe cook, maybe nap. That was my plan. The system tried to pull me out of the house at every turn, but I would not. I would not be a cannon fodder for anyone's plot.
"Come on, Gwen. Open up," Justine Guerrero shouted again.
"Not my problem," I muttered.
Then the words came through the system, as if whoever had installed it were watching my every movement.
[ping] "Task: Justine Guerrero has come to your door to 'ask for help' about York Tucker. Choose:
1 — Help her, reward: bicycle ticket.
2 — Refuse to help but secretly assist, reward: radio ticket.
3 — Refuse outright and stay home, reward: ten rural eggs."
I looked at the two choices and rolled my eyes at the world that insisted on scripting me. "Three," I said aloud.
[system] "Choice accepted. Reward: ten eggs."
The door shook. "Gwen! Open up! If you don't, York will be taken by that little city girl!"
"City girl," I snorted into my pancake. As if I wanted York Tucker, who looked like a book's hero even when he stood awkward among us. As if I had anything to gain.
The door slammed open. I opened it and stared down Justine, who tried to look righteous and hurt at the same time. "You were home?"
"I pretended." I wagged a finger. "I can hear drama a mile away."
Justine's face flamed. "You liar. You were supposed to..." She trailed off, angry and embarrassed. I shut the door in her face. She couldn't drag me into any scene today. Today I would eat malted milk and watch.
"Who was that?" my father asked as he stepped in, his boots dusty from the fields.
"Just one of the village girls," I said, smoothing my apron, acting small and harmless. That malleable face was an advantage. Let them think I was still the same old spoilt girl — it would keep suspicion low.
"You look different," my father, Gustav Esposito, said, squinting.
"I made breakfast," I said and tried to laugh like it had been no work at all.
"You made it? Well, let's see," he said, and his face brightened. Praise was useful. I knew how to accept it. I had to keep the act: lazy in public, charming at home.
Three days passed like a breath. The system still pinged when it wanted me swept into some forced encounter. I refused most of it. Sometimes the reward was tempting — a watch, a bike — but those items often came with strings I didn't like.
One afternoon, a cry disrupted the mountain air.
"Help! Someone is bleeding!"
I looked out and saw a crowd near the hill—Isla Carlson, the girl from the knowledge brigade, lay with a wound on her head. Justine stood nearby with a pale face.
"Justine, what happened?!" people cried.
"It wasn't my fault! She tripped!" Justine sobbed, then started fixing a wooden basket in the chaos like nothing had happened. Her hands moved with selfish speed.
York Tucker was there like a statue that moved when it saw injustice. He lifted Isla gently. "Take her to the clinic," he said, voice flat but kind.
"Ari—" I started to speak, then swallowed the sharpness in my throat. I could have intervened, played hero, made history. But this life had one plain rule: survive. I stepped back into the shadows and let the scene unfold.
[ping] "Task: You are nearby. Choose:
1 — Show concern for York and gain a Swiss watch.
2 — Stop Isla from calling the police and win a radio.
3 — Watch quietly, reward: ten eggs."
"I choose three," I whispered. The system sighed, perhaps as annoyed as I felt.
It was not the only thing that stirred. Decker Wagner — the big man, the one with the faded army jacket and a history that made mothers shudder — watched me from beyond the courtyard wall as I turned back into my house. He had a look that made my bones want to run.
The next day I took up the spatula at home. I used eggs and scallions and tried to be careful. My father and mother pretended surprise. Let them delight; keep them soft-hearted. When I served the first egg pancake, they ate like they had not eaten in days.
"You made this?" Jana asked, astonishment in every syllable.
"Of course I did." I tried not to smile too openly. I wanted to keep the small illusion of competence—it kept my family happy and kept people from thinking I was slippery or somehow morally suspect. People liked stories that felt right.
After dinner, Decker came over. He stopped at the gate, lifted the shovel he had used to cut wood, and gave a small nod. "Gwen," he said simply.
"Yes?" My voice came out thinner than I liked.
He stepped in with a broad, rough manner, and his scars showed when he moved. He wasn't a man who smiled much.
"You look... different," he said. Not unkindly.
"Maybe I had a good meal," I answered.
He watched me carefully, then left, and the day folded back into itself. But the system was restless.
[ping] "Detected: You are over the normal range. Choose to walk after dinner for shoes, walk at the gate for cloth, or stay and be rewarded with coupons."
I chose to stay. I had promised myself I would not be dragged into more plot motions. Life could be small. Life could be safe.
Then the worst thing happened.
A body was found in the cornfield at dawn.
"Someone's found a body!" a neighbor cried.
We ran. The field looked obscene in the early light.
"There—" a man stammered, pointing. The body lay among the trampled corn: a young woman, pale and still, her clothes torn. People circled, noise like a sick swarm.
"Who did this?" someone whispered.
I felt cold in my chest. I had chosen safety. I had stayed home. If I had gone out the night before—had I been the small motion that mattered? A thought like a knife slid under my ribs.
"No. It's not your fault," Decker Wagner said gently as he took my hand. "Don't think 'if.' It won't help."
"She was found naked," someone added, voice wobbly with rage. "Whoever did this—"
"My poor neighbor," a man groaned.
I wasn't used to this kind of finalness. This was not a plot device; this was a human body. I felt completely unready. Something in me slid, and I stopped being the lazy girl. For the first time since waking in this body, I felt a true push: I wanted justice.
That night, a knock came at our door.
"York Tucker, Ari Bradford, and Isla Carlson are here," a voice said outside.
Isla stood at my doorway with a plan in her eyes. York's jaw was a stone, ready to break. Ari stood nearby with a worried expression.
"We have an idea to flush the killer out," York said plainly. "We need everyone to give a hair sample. Come with us and say you'll cooperate."
I watched them and thought of my choices. I had been avoiding becoming someone else's pawn, but this was different. This was for a life. This was for a human being who could not speak. I heard the system whispering of rewards—strange rewards that sounded like echoes of things that might be useful later.
[ping] "Task: Help Island Carlson persuade the village to cooperate. Choice:
1 — Support fully, reward: one 'spirit water' vial.
2 — Support mildly, reward: diluted spirit water.
3 — Let them handle it, reward: maize."
I chose full support. The system sounded pleased like a cat that had found a warm lap.
At the meeting the next morning, I stood up. People listened because I was Gustav Esposito's daughter and because I had once been careless enough to be known. "We need to try something," I said, voice cutting through the murmur.
Isla explained: "We will test hair samples. We will say that we can find evidence from the body that points to the killer's hair. This will scare anyone with something to hide into making a move or a mistake."
"Is that possible?" someone asked.
"Which matter is real or fake doesn't matter right now," York said quietly. "We need to flush someone out."
The town obeyed. They lined up and handed over hairs tied with white paper and names. It felt ridiculous and brilliant at once: a sham that could make guilt twitch and betray its owner.
We set a trap. We told the police what they wanted to hear. We arranged watchers at the road. We said the testing would take time, but a fake lab report could be made to look real.
At dawn, as the village slept in uneasy fits, a man tried to run out. It didn't feel like a movie; it felt like a net catching a fish. The people who had been on watch dragged him back.
"They're calling him Zhanghu," someone said. "He was seen at odd times, near the field."
He begged. "I didn't— I didn't do it! Please, I swear!"
His voice shook like a child. Men crowded him. The police took him away to question.
The whole thing was messy. People cheered when the police led him away. But I couldn't help a quiet ache. Justice tastes bitter when it is choked down with fear and confusion.
Then the second humiliation came: the village found out about Justine's roles in smaller plots—her lies, her manipulation to get at York and Isla, her petty betrayals.
I knew the system had been watching me, watching how I kept my head down or looked the other way. I knew the town liked stories where liars got what was coming. I also knew that having a public punishment could force a different kind of justice. I had to use it.
At the banquet for the engagement — they had insisted on a small betrothal ceremony after the pond incident — the village hovered like an audience. Decker had brought a bicycle as a formal pledge. We ate, but I had decided what to do.
"Everyone," I stood slowly and felt eyes on me like nettles. "I have something to say."
"What is it, Gwen?" my mother asked, smiling and anxious.
My hand went to my chest. "This village deserves the truth. Not gossip. So I'm going to tell what I know."
They leaned forward like pulled string. I had only known for a short while what I had to do. I stepped into the center and read the careful letter I had prepared. It was part confession, part charge: I explained the falsehoods Justine had whispered, the manipulations she had done to get attention and to set eyes on York, and how she had tried before to make the village turn against Isla.
"Why are you saying this now?" Justine burst out. Her face had been painted sweet; now it crumpled with panic.
"Because the village needs to know the truth," I said, and my voice did not tremble.
"You're lying!" she screamed. "You liar, you always—"
"Silence!" my father banged his palm on the table. "Speak clearly."
I called for witnesses. "Emily Vogt, Kenia Russo, Christina Dubois, stand."
They came and recounted the small things: gifts withheld, the pushing at the hill, the tales spun. The crowd murmured. Justine's face changed from arrogance to irritation to shock.
"You're making this up," she snapped. "I would never—"
"Then why did you tell the council that Isla seduced York?" I said, and the question cut deeper than a knife.
The murmurs turned into a hum of outrage. Justine's mouth opened and closed. She grabbed for an excuse and choked on it.
"You're trying to ruin me!" she cried. "I'll— I'll go to the tribunal!"
The crowd pressed in. Someone whispered into a pocket sized camera; more hands produced phones. People took photos. A woman in the back clapped like a gavel fell.
"Stop it," Justine pleaded suddenly, her voice high and like a child. "Please! I didn't mean to— I was jealous—"
At that moment the balance tilted. A hundred small votes of conscience swung like a tide. People stepped in to make her stop. One by one, those who had seen certain things stepped forward and told them plainly: the whispering, the manipulation, the attempt to isolate Isla. It poured out. A circle of witnesses formed around her like a net.
Someone in the crowd started to record. "This is her," the man said. "She talked to me about how to get York's attention. She said to make a scene and to make Isla look bad."
Justine's eyes blazed with denial. "You're lying! You can't—"
Then one by one those who had once been her allies told the truth. Their voices were steady, old debts paid in hard words. Her expression shifted.
Pride — shock — denial — panic — collapse.
It was like watching someone freeze and melt. Her voice broke as she tried to dig out an argument. It came out thin. "I— they forced me. They said it would be easy—"
"Who forced you? Who?" people shouted.
"Nobody forced me. I did it myself." She folded like paper under a thumb. "I was jealous. I wanted to be seen. I thought if York looked at me, I'd be saved."
There was an intake of breath across the room. People whispered like rain.
I had seen the arc before in old stories: the arrogant woman falls. But what the story did not show was the way people react to the fall. Some were cruel, some were compassionate. There were phone cameras now, faces illuminated in screens. Someone took the first step forward and spat, "Shame on you." Another laughed hollowly. A brave person clapped once, then twice. The small folks started to clap in agreement, as if applause could seal a small justice.
Finally, Justine folded to her knees.
"No!" she gasped. "Please! I can explain!"
"Explain what?" someone shouted.
"Please! I won't do it again! I'll leave the village. I'll—"
Her voice broke. The room silent but for the sound of a hundred watches, a hundred small devices, a hundred shallow breaths.
She began to beg, the kind of begging that's gut sound and scraped voice. "Please. Please. I didn't mean to hurt anyone. Please. Please!"
Around her, people recorded. Around her, people left. Some clapped. A man laughed. Someone made a video that would spread. In the end, she sat on the ground holding her face, people looked at her as if she had been unmasked and then quickly classified.
I saw her reaction change: a hardened arrogance dissolved into desperate pleading, then into a fragile collapse. It was exactly the arc the system wanted: smugness to humiliation. She lost everything in public. People made notes and took pictures, and some muttered about the need for real penalties. She begged for mercy. Some in the crowd spat on the ground. A woman near the edge raised a hand and said, "She should be made to stand and confess to everyone she tried to ruin."
The mayor agreed. "You will stand tomorrow in the square and declare your actions." He spoke low. His voice had the authority of someone who could make you carry your shame in full public view.
Justine's knees hit the earthen ground again. "Please, I—"
"No," the mayor said. "You will stand. And you will apologize. And if you try to cause harm again, you will be banished. You will be publicly shamed so everyone knows to beware of this behavior."
Her pleading shifted to a softer keening. "Please! I will do anything! Don't send me away!"
People cheered like a verdict had been reached. Cameras clicked. Someone laughed. Someone else cried. The public consensus had pushed her from false queen of gossip to a husk. The show fed the appetite for justice.
But the worst was not over. The hair-sample trick had actually worked in one way we had not expected. The man detained — Zhanghu — had been caught, confessing in fragments. When the police pressed him on details, he crumbled and we heard details we had not imagined. The village had been bleeding from more than one wound.
At the public forum before the fields, with the sun high and the corn stalks whispering, we had the real punishment.
They brought him — Zhanghu — to the center of the field. People formed a huge circle. The air smelled like cut grass and hot soil. He was already shaken; his clothes were dirty, his hands trembling as he was forced to stand while the town looked on.
"Do you know why you're here?" the police sergeant asked, voice steady.
He met the gaze of no one. "I... I didn't—" he began.
"Look at what you did," a woman cried, pointing to a photo pinned to a board: images of the field, the tracks, a smear of fabric, a torn ribbon. The crowd murmured.
He looked up at the faces. His chest heaved. He tried to laugh. "I was drunk!" he said. "It was an accident!"
"Then explain the wounds!" someone shouted.
The man shifted. Pride turned to unease. "I didn't mean— I didn't know—"
"Do you still deny it?" voice after voice asked as the questions rolled in.
He stood with the circle pressing like a drum. He had been arrogant when he thought no one was watching; now he turned from belief to panic.
"Please," he begged suddenly, voice raw. "I didn't mean to! Please! I didn't want to—"
The crowd's mood changed with every syllable. Smugness had become violent anger. People shouted accusations. A woman began to cry. Some took pictures. Some of the younger ones stood in stunned silence like witnesses to history.
"Down on your knees." The sergeant's voice was the thing of law and order.
He dropped to his knees and for a moment the world seemed to tilt. Sweat ran down his face. "Please," he said, and for the first time there was a real, human fear in the plea. He shook his head. "Please! I didn't want to! Please! I am sorry!"
That day the crowd watched him change. His face moved from arrogance to shock to denial to breakdown; the arc echoed the earlier scene with Justine, but this was blood and bones. Young men spat at him. Women cursed. A few people sobbed. Some stood and filmed.
He was forced to stand and recite his confession aloud. He read the words like a worm that had once lived unbothered in the dark and now found light. "I dragged her away," he said. "I was stupid and cruel. I cannot—"
The confession rang in the field. An old woman in the back began to clap, then others joined. When he fell to his knees and begged, it had the feel of a play's final act.
He begged, loud and wet: "Please! Please! I will do anything! Do not—"
"No more," the sergeant said. "You will confess to the proper court. You will be judged. Today we make this a public record."
Around him, the villagers shouted what punishment they wanted. Some wanted chains; some wanted exile. A man in the front shouted he wanted the killer to be publicly humiliated for weeks. The voice carried. The public had its pound of justice.
The man knelt, his knees making half-shallow dents in the dust. He tried to crawl, to hide, to wrap himself. People around him took photos, recorded, and the footage would not leave him. He writhed through the rituals of guilt.
"Please," he kept saying. "Please."
No one answered except to point.
He became smaller. From bold to broken. He begged with a sound that could not be unheard. People watched like they watched the sky change.
The punishment lasted hours in memorial: speeches, recitations of what had happened, the village's vow to prevent such horrors again. They made him stand in the center while they told him what they'd do — it was humiliation made flesh.
When the hour passed, the man, now a shell, was led away, hands bound, head bowed. His pleading stayed behind like a bad dream, broadcast by phones and tongues. Faces would remember. Children would learn. For us, it was a terrible victory: we had found a man who had done something unspeakable and had given him a public undoing.
After those two scenes, the village changed. People who had gossiped now kept their lips pressed, not trusting the quiet that remained. Justine was banished from certain tasks. The man was in the hands of men with badges and laws.
I went home and sat with my mother and father. "You were brave," my father said.
"I only wanted the right person caught," I said. "I didn't want more blood."
"You did good," Jana insisted, her voice small and sure.
I went to my room and lay down. My mind felt full of loud things — the begging, the clapping, the cameras. The system pinged once more.
[system] "Task complete. Reward: one vial of 'spirit water.'"
I laughed, not really able to tell if it was a good laugh or a bad one. "Weird gifts," I said aloud.
Weeks later, life wandered back to a new normal. The field healed. The corn grew toward the sun. Decker and I found strange quietness in each other's company. York and Isla kept close, less cold than before. Justine's reputation dragged on the ground like a heavy cloak.
On the day of my betrothal — the formalities were small, but everyone came — I watched Decker try to put a smile on his face for the crowd. He had once been accused of violence in stories people told at dusk. He had something like a rough tenderness; I had seen a man who wanted to protect and control. I had agreed, to get the system reward that would make the world easier for me. The deal tasted like honey and iron.
Later that night, under the low roof and the tin light, Decker kissed me and reached into me what life promised and what life withheld. He was clumsy and devoted. I turned to him once and thought of the man taken away, the one who begged — and of Justine kneeling — and of the system that offered rewards like bait.
"I won't hit you," Decker whispered into my hair once, having misunderstood my list of demands earlier.
"In bed doesn't count?" I teased, and he laughed softly.
In those quiet moments I found a small strange peace. I had been a coward, then a helper, then a manipulator. I had used a fake test to catch a real killer. The village had watched public, raw punishments. People had wept, clapped, recorded, and then moved on.
But I had also learned that being alive in this new body meant a thousand small choices. I would keep choosing carefully. If the system tempted me again, I would be ready.
That night I took out the black wool the system had given me once as a joke reward and started to knit by lamplight. It was ordinary and useless and strange.
"I will keep this," I told the wool. "I refuse your story. I will live my own."
The needles clicked softly. Decker breathed next to me. Outside, the corn hushed the world.
I did not promise anything that sounded like every other story's end. I simply threaded another stitch and listened to the present.
The End
— Thank you for reading —