Lopez and the Cosmic Keg

A humble gamer saves the world if only to ensure he can still game after hours

Lopez leaned over the polished bar at The Rusty Nebula, a dimly lit joint tucked in a neon-drenched corner of New Albuquerque. His hands moved like a maestro’s, pouring a glowing shot of Andromedan whiskey for a grizzled spacer. The bar hummed with chatter—traders, drifters, and the occasional AI on the fritz. Lopez, with his faded gamer tee and quick smirk, was the heartbeat of the place. But his real love? The holo-rig waiting at home, where he’d sink into StarPulse, a galaxy-spanning MMORPG, and dominate leaderboards as "PixelWraith12."


Tonight, though, the universe had other plans.


The bar’s vidscreen flickered, cutting off a grav-ball match. A holographic figure materialized—a robed alien with eyes like dying stars. “People of Earth,” it intoned, “I am Zykar, Herald of the Void. Your planet has 12 hours before the Cosmic Keg detonates, unraveling your reality. Only one among you holds the key to salvation.”


The bar fell silent. Every patron turned to Lopez, who was wiping a glass, oblivious. “What?” he said, catching their stares.


“Lopez,” slurred Old Man Jenkins, a regular, “Zykar’s talkin’ ‘bout you. That prophecy from the Orion Wars—‘the one who pours shall mend the stars.’”


“Me?” Lopez snorted, tossing his rag. “I pour drinks, not miracles.”


But the vidscreen zoomed in on him, Zykar’s voice booming: “Lopez Alvarez, your destiny calls.”


Cue chaos. Patrons scrambled, some begging him to save them, others looting the bar. Lopez ducked a flying bottle, grabbed his jacket, and slipped out the back. Destiny? Bullshit. He just wanted to log into StarPulse and forget this nonsense.


Except the streets were a mess—riots, ships fleeing, drones blaring evacuation orders. A sleek black hovercar screeched up, and a woman in a tactical jumpsuit leaned out. “Lopez! I’m Agent Mara, Galactic Defense. Get in. We need you.”


“Pass,” Lopez said, heading for his apartment. “I’m not the hero type.”


Mara tasered him. He woke up strapped into a cockpit, hurtling toward a massive, pulsing orb in space—the Cosmic Keg. Mara briefed him mid-flight: the Keg was an ancient superweapon, rigged to collapse reality unless deactivated by someone with a “unique neural signature.”


Guess who? Lopez.


“Why me?” he groaned, rubbing his head.


“Your brain’s wired like a quantum processor,” Mara said, dodging asteroids. “Years of gaming, multitasking at the bar—it’s you or nobody.”


Lopez glared. “Fine. What’s the plan?”


The Keg’s core was a labyrinth of shifting energy fields, guarded by void-beasts—think tentacles with attitude. Mara handed him a plasma pistol and a wrist device that projected a holographic interface. “It’s like a game,” she said. “Hack the core, shut it down.”


Lopez cracked his knuckles. This, he could do. He dove into the Keg, moving like he was speedrunning a StarPulse raid. Void-beasts lunged; he dodged, weaving through energy fields with the reflexes of a pro gamer. The wrist device felt like an extension of his holo-rig, its puzzles clicking into place as he rewired the Keg’s matrix. Mara fought off beasts, shouting, “You’re insane!”


“Top-tier reflexes,” Lopez grinned, hacking the final node. The Keg pulsed, then dimmed, its countdown frozen. Reality saved. No biggie.


Back on Earth, the world threw him a parade. Medals, speeches, the works. Lopez hated every second. He ditched the ceremonies, slipped into The Rusty Nebula, and poured himself a beer. The bar was empty—everyone was still celebrating. Fine by him.


He locked up, went home, and fired up StarPulse. His guild was mid-raid, and PixelWraith12 was late. “Where you been, man?” his teammate pinged.


“Saving the world,” Lopez typed, smirking. “Now shut up and let’s frag some bosses.”


As starships exploded on his screen, Lopez leaned back, controller in hand. The universe could keep its prophecies. This—gaming, the grind, the glory—was his real destiny.