The Chosen One and the Uncrustable Prophecy

Bartholomew Butterfield existed primarily in shades of beige. His apartment, his uniform, even his mandatory "Optimized Nutrient Paste" – all variations of beige. In Sector 7, individuality was a glitch, and Bartholomew, quite frankly, was a total system crash. He wasn't brave; he was mostly just clumsy. He wasn't intelligent; he was just perpetually confused. His most notable skill was an uncanny ability to misplace his assigned data-slate.

His destiny, however, was about to manifest with the sticky solemnity of a forgotten school lunch. During the daily "Synergy Collective Group Sustenance Protocol," Bartholomew, in a moment of existential ennui, nudged his Nutrient Paste container off the table. It splattered, revealing, not the expected grey floor, but a perfectly preserved, circularly sealed, crustless peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It pulsed with an anachronistic vibrancy against the beige.

A gasp echoed from Archivist 7B, a frail figure whose job mostly involved cataloging defunct motivational posters. His cataract-ridden eyes widened. "The Prophecy!" he croaked, pointing a trembling finger at the sandwich. "The Sealed Custodian of the Circular Crustacean! It is *you*, Bartholomew Butterfield!"

Bartholomew, who had just been wondering if he had enough credits to buy a new paste unit, blinked. "Me? But... it's just a sandwich."

Archivist 7B merely cackled, a sound like dry leaves skittering across concrete. "The ancient texts foretold of a hero so unremarkable, so utterly devoid of typical heroic attributes, that only *he* could wield the primordial power of... well, *that*. You must reunite the Spreads, Bartholomew! Restore the balance of Fruit and Nut! Only then can the oppressive Synergy Collective, with its insidious 'Optimal Beige' initiative, be dismantled!"

Before Bartholomew could protest, a flash of actual color appeared in the dreary hall. A girl, impossibly vibrant with hair the color of sunset and eyes like freshly bloomed violets, glided towards him. "I felt the ancient aroma!" she declared, her voice a melodious chime. "The destined one! Bartholomew, I am Petunia Petalbrook of Sector 9, the Floral District. My heart hums in resonance with your... preserved fruit goo."

Bartholomew looked from the sandwich to Petunia, then back to the sandwich. The fate of humanity rested on his ability to... *eat* this sandwich, apparently. He sighed, already missing the simplicity of his beige-tinted existence. His journey to save the world, or at least its palate, had just begun. And he really, really hated sticky fingers.