Karina landed with a dull thud on the sagging seat of an ancient computer chair. The springs gave a piteous groan, protesting such treatment, but they held.
"Blimey..." the girl exhaled, ripping off a headset that looked like a pair of cheap market-stall headphones held together with blue electrical tape. "That was mental. I almost lost my channel because of that maniac in the tin can."
She stretched, arching her back until her spine gave a satisfying series of cracks. In reality, she wore neither a rib-crushing corset nor a heavy sword. Her 'armour' here consisted of a threadbare camisole with spaghetti straps that barely contained her chest, and short cotton pyjama shorts with pink polka dots. They were so brief that the moment she shifted in her seat, they functioned more as knickers than actual clothing.
The desk was occupied not by a sleek flat-screen or a high-end plasma, but by a massive, bulbous CRT monitor in plastic that had yellowed with age. It hummed like a transformer station, emitting enough heat to warm a small greenhouse. On the curved glass, flickering with green lines of code, a message hung:
[Session complete. Connection severed. Session time: 4 hours 12 minutes.]
[Experience gained: Synchronisation Error] [Loot: Saved to local cache]
"Synchronisation error, yeah, right," Karina snorted, adjusting a strap that kept sliding off her shoulder. "As long as the donations sync with my bank account, I don't care."
She bent over to switch off the system unit. The shorts pulled taut, outlining the perfect curves that earned her thousands of likes in the game world, but here, in the dusty cellar, were witnessed only by a spider in the corner. Yet Karina, ever the professional, maintained her poise even in solitude. She knew a true goddess must be flawless at all times, even when turning off a computer with her toe.
The tower under the desk matched the monitor: a beige coffin the size of a suitcase, complete with a floppy disk drive and a 'Turbo' button that had been jammed in since the nineties.
"Night-night, old-timer," she whispered, hitting the power button.
The internal fans gave one last howl and fell silent.
The secret—the great mystery that had thousands of players stuck in the Age of Sins, weeping and dying for real—lay in this piece of dusty hardware Karina had found a fortnight ago.
It all began when her life, as she saw it, had gone completely tits up. Her mother, a business mogul with an iron grip, had swanned off to Paris for some conference on nano-bio-tech. Karina had stopped listening after the word 'Paris', feeling slighted that she wasn't taken along for the shopping. Then the nanny looking after her grandad suddenly quit, claiming the "astral entities in this house are too aggressive," and fled to a convent.
And so, Karina—Instagram star (well, nearly a star, 15k followers is nothing to sneeze at), contouring expert, and goddess of Stories—found herself stranded at an old dacha in the middle of nowhere, acting as a warden for her own grandfather.
The boredom was terminal. You could only get a signal if you climbed a birch tree and held your phone at a forty-five-degree angle to the North Star. It wasn't nearly enough for mobile streaming. Karina was ready to climb the walls when she decided to rummage through the cellar junk in search of some old wine her mother had once mentioned. She didn't find the wine, but under a tarpaulin covered in a centimetre of dust, she found It.
An ancient computer.
"Grandad probably used this to type up memos for Lenin," Karina had giggled at the time, blowing away the dust.
Out of pure boredom, she flipped the switch. She expected to play Solitaire or Minesweeper, but when the machine groaned and vibrated into life, there was only one shortcut on the desktop: [World_Gate.exe]. The icon looked like a pixelated door.
Karina, not one to overthink things, double-clicked. She expected some retro Tetris but found herself staring at a character creation screen with graphics that made her jaw drop.
"Cor!" she'd said. "What's this? Where did Grandad get kit like this?"
She created a character—a copy of herself, naturally, though she upsized her chest by a couple of cups—and chose the class that sounded the most elegant: 'Windseeker'. Then she hit [Enter].
And was transported there.
The first time, she screamed for ten minutes straight upon realising the wind was real, the mud actually stained, and the goblin trying to grab her backside smelled like rotten fish. She thought she'd gone mental or that it was some elaborate prank with VR goggles she'd put on in her sleep. But then she noticed the interface. And, most importantly, the [Broadcast] button.
It turned out the ancient junk didn't just run a game. In some way—Karina didn't bother with the technicalities, she was a humanities student after all—it streamed the experience directly to her channel. And not just a simple stream, but a full-immersion experience for the viewers. Her dull broadcasts for fifty people turned into massive hits. People were floored by the graphics, assuming it was some super-exclusive beta for a next-gen title.
Only one thing set Karina apart from the Knight of Vengeance or the other poor souls: she had a [Log Out] button. And it worked. Always. At any moment.
"I'm just a VIP user," she decided, rising from her chair. "The rest are just noobs who didn't read the terms and conditions."
She reached for her phone on the edge of the desk. The screen lit up with notifications:
[Twitch: Your channel has received a warning for a rules violation (Violence/Gore). Please be careful.]
[DonationAlerts: Balance updated +￡500.]
"Yes!" Karina jumped, her chest bouncing happily under her camisole. "Five hundred quid! I'm getting those shoes! And there'll be enough left for a spa day!"
She switched on the front-facing camera, checking her make-up after the transition between worlds. The reflection showed a pretty blonde with large blue eyes. A bit of mascara had smudged in the corner—likely from the stress of seeing dismembered limbs.
"Right, need to post a Story," she murmured, striking her working pose: duck face, phone slightly above eye level to sharpen her chin, and the camisole pulled just low enough. In the frame, quite by accident, was the edge of her lace knickers peeping out from under her shorts.
"Hey guys!" she sang in a saccharine voice. "The stream was absolute fire! Sorry I had to cut it short, the internet lagged out. That knight is total cringe, isn't he? Completely ruined the vibe. Но did you see those dodges? I'm basically a ninja! Love you all, mwah!"
She posted the story and smiled contentedly. Life was good.
Suddenly, a massive crash erupted from the floor above. It sounded as if someone had dropped a wardrobe and then started doing a tap dance on top of it.
"Oh, for heaven's sake..." Karina rolled her eyes. "Here we go."
Throwing a pink dressing gown with 'Princess' emblazoned on the back over her shoulders and sliding her feet into fluffy slippers, she hurried to the stairs. The cellar was her sanctuary, her studio, her secret HQ. But upstairs, Chaos reigned. And the name of that Chaos was Grandad Ignat.
Climbing the creaking steps, Karina opened the kitchen door and narrowly dodged a flying saucepan.
"Begone, demon!" a gravelly voice thundered. "You'll not take an old Archmage with your bare hands! My mana is full!"
In the middle of the kitchen, waving a ladle like a battle-staff, stood Grandad Ignat. A sturdy old man with a thick silver beard full of biscuit crumbs and a manic glint in his eyes. His attire was striking: a striped sailor's vest and flowery boxer shorts, with one woolly sock and one ski boot on his feet. But the crowning glory of his wardrobe was his hat.
Perched proudly and slightly askew on Grandad Ignat's head was a size 10 rubber boot. Black, shiny, with a red sole. Pulled down to his eyebrows, it gave him the appearance of a surreal mushroom.
"Grandad!" Karina shouted sternly, hands on her hips. Her gown fell open, revealing her domestic attire, but her grandfather was far above such worldly distractions. "Have you forgotten your meds again? What mana? It's a ladle!"
"Silence, witch!" the old man levelled his weapon at her. "I sense fluctuations in the ether! You've been to the Nether World! You reek of sulphur and..." he sniffed, "...and expensive perfume! The demons have learned to camouflage themselves!"
Karina mentally slapped her forehead. Sometimes it seemed her grandad wasn't entirely mental: he often said things that strangely lined up with her adventures. But then he'd put a boot on his head and start talking to the kettle, and the doubt would vanish.
"Grandad, it's 'Fatal Cherry'," she sighed, approaching him carefully, like a bomb disposal technician, and taking away the ladle. "And I was in the cellar. Looking for... er... pickles."
"In the cellar?!" Ignat's eyes bulged beneath the rim of the boot. "Foolish woman! The Portal is down there! I sealed it ten years ago! With dragon's blood and blue electrical tape!"
"Yes, yes, I saw the tape," Karina muttered. "On my headphones. Look, why don't you sit down, and I'll get you some porridge?"
"Now is not the time for porridge!" Grandad straightened up, adjusting the boot on his head. "The enemy is at the gates! That Knight... I saw him in a dream. He’s looking for the Key!"
Karina froze, ladle in hand.
"What Knight?" she asked, trying to sound indifferent.
"The Black one! As black as my conscience after the nineties!" Grandad barked. "He walks between worlds, yet he’s locked in a cage. Ha-ha! What a pillock!"
Grandad Ignat burst into laughter, which quickly dissolved into a fit of coughing.
"Right, that’s enough." Karina firmly sat the old man down on a stool. "Stop talking rubbish. Mum called, asking how you were. I told her you were behaving. Don't let me down, or she’ll cut us out of the will, and I’ll ship you off to a care home. One of those places where they only serve lumpy semolina."
The threat of semolina worked. Grandad went quiet, pouting.
"You’re mean," he muttered. "Just like your mother. She also... went out for a loaf of bread and came back ten years later with some Frenchman and ideas about nanotechnology."
"Mum didn't go out for bread," Karina countered, dishing up the oats. She leaned over the table, her low-cut camisole doing its work again, distracting him even from his mad theories. "You were the one who went out for bread."
"I didn't go for bread!" Ignat protested, slamming his fist on the table. "I went on a Raid! We were fighting a boss! Lich-Gorbachev! But then..." his gaze clouded over. "Then the server crashed. And I woke up at the cottage. With a loaf of Borodinsky rye in my hand and zero mana."
The story had become a family legend. Ten years ago, Ignat—then a respected retired engineer—walked out of his Moscow flat to the shops and vanished. They searched with the police, psychics, and sniffer dogs. Mum, just a young careerist back then, cried her eyes out. Ten years later, he turned up at this very cottage. Alive and well, but completely crackers. He claimed he’d only been gone a couple of hours and was baffled as to why the bread was stale and his daughter had aged. Doctors diagnosed him with "progressive dementia with delusional elements," prescribed a heap of pills, and sent him out to pasture. Feeling guilty, Mum didn't put him in a clinic but left him at the cottage with a live-in nanny.
But now there was no nanny. There was only Karina and a "Great Archmage" in a wellington boot.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
"Eat up, hero," Karina placed the bowl in front of him. "I’m off... I’ve got a video to edit."
"Back to staring into your Magic Mirror?" Grandad squinted, shovelling a spoonful of porridge into his mouth. "Watch yourself, granddaughter. The abyss looks into you, too. And sometimes, it donates. But that currency... it has a bit of a pong to it."
Karina gave a nervous giggle.
"Grandad, you’re so cringe when you try to be philosophical. Just eat."
She hurried out of the kitchen, feeling his heavy gaze on her back. In the corridor, she leaned against the cool wall and took a breath. Her heart was racing.
He knows, flashed through her mind. Or does he? Maybe he’s just rambling? He was talking about Gorbachev the Lich, for heaven's sake. It’s nonsense.
But the computer in the cellar... it really had belonged to him. Karina hadn't told him she’d found it; she kept the tower hidden under an old rug. But once, Grandad had gone down for potatoes. He stood for a long time, staring into the dark corner, muttering something about an "altar" and a "sleeping god." Karina assumed he was talking about a jar of pickled tomatoes.
"I need to be careful," she whispered. "If he finds out I’m using his 'artefact,' he’ll do his nut. Or worse, he’ll smash the computer to smithereens with that ladle."
She looked at her hands; her fingers were trembling. But then she remembered the 58,000-ruble donation, the roar of the chat, and the rush of power when she’d kicked that fat cultist.
"Whatever," Karina decided, fixing her hair in the hallway mirror. The reflection showed slim legs and shapely hips in her short pyjama shorts. "I’m a top-tier streamer. I can handle one loopy old man."
She winked at herself.
"Content is king. Just have to make sure no boots fall on my head."
Karina headed to her room upstairs to change. She had to pick an outfit for her next session—something that went with blood and guts but still flaunted her figure. Downstairs in the kitchen, Grandad Ignat finished his porridge, wiped his beard with his vest sleeve, and adjusted his boot. His gaze, fixed on the wall, suddenly cleared and grew cold.
"Stupid girl," he whispered in a perfectly normal, steady voice, devoid of any elderly quaver. "You’re using the World Gate like a toy. You don't realise that you aren't just opening the door to go there... but for things to come here."
He looked at his hand. Across the wrinkled skin, a faint, barely perceptible blue spark danced.
"The Knight is close," Ignat said quietly. "Better find that other boot. I’ll need the signal boost."
He stood up, shuffling his feet, and transformed back into a senile old man.
"Where’s my cat?!" he bellowed at the empty kitchen. "Barnaby! We must prepare the invisibility potion! The demons are stealing my socks!"
The house filled once again with the familiar noise of madness, masking secrets far too vast for a mere Insta-blogger to comprehend.
The next morning at the cottage invariably began with a sound worthy of a low-budget horror soundtrack. The old sprung bed Karina slept on let out a long, piteous groan the moment she so much as wiggled a toe.
Squee-ee-eak.
Karina winced, her eyes still clamped shut. A cheeky sunbeam poked through a gap in the cotton curtains, painting the darkness an annoying shade of orange. Outside, the roosters were going at it—not with a romantic "cock-a-doodle-doo" from the telly, but with a hoarse, strained rasp, as if the birds were being strangled mid-rap battle.
"Five more minutes," Karina muttered, pulling the patchwork quilt over her nose. "Come on, Mum... the subscribers can wait..."
She rolled onto her side, searching for a cool spot on a pillow that felt less like down and more like a collection of bricks and feathers. The quilt slipped, exposing her shoulder and part of her back.
Suddenly, the last traces of sleep were chased away by the prickly sensation of being watched—that primal feeling where the back of your neck itches and your hair stands on end, signalling danger. A predator? A maniac with a chainsaw?
Karina’s eyes snapped open.
Directly in front of her face, barely ten centimetres away, loomed a thick silver beard with a stray breadcrumb tangled in it. Above it, two eyes sparkled: one blue, the other with a manic glint, squinting like a sniper accounting for windage.
Grandad Ignat.
The old man stood bent double, peering intently at his granddaughter. On his head, as always, sat his regal black wellington boot.
"Aargh!" — Karina jerked back, burying herself in the pillow. The bed responded with a machine-gun fire of creaks. "Grandad! What the hell? Why are you sneaking around like that?"
"Shush!" Ignat pressed a finger to his lips. "Don't make a scene, you vessel of sin. I was checking your aura."
"What aura?!" the girl fumed, frantically pulling the quilt up to her chin. "It’s seven o'clock! Normal people are asleep! Or drinking almond milk lattes!"
"Lattes are elf poison," Grandad declared authoritatively, straightening up with a crunch as loud as the bed. "And your aura... it’s strange. Purple. Speckled with lust and..." he sniffed, "...lavender fabric softener. Succubi often camouflage themselves as granddaughters. I have a duty to ensure there’s no tail."
He glanced suspiciously at the bottom of the quilt, where the outline of her legs was visible.
Karina flushed. Under that quilt was certainly no teddy-bear pyjama set or oversized t-shirt. Oh, no. Karina, as a professional streamer, lived by the motto 'always ready'. What if there was a fire at night, and muscular firefighters arrived only to find her in frumpy bloomers? Not a chance.
She was wearing the 'Scarlet Temptress' elite lingerie set, bought at a sale for a ludicrous amount of money. The bra (uncomfortable to sleep in) was missing, but the knickers were a tiny triangle of translucent red lace with cheeky ties on the hips. If Grandad yanked the quilt away in search of a 'succubus tail', her reputation would be utterly shot, and the old man would have a stroke.
"I don't have a tail, Grandad!" she hissed, wrapping herself tighter in the patchwork cocoon. "And I don't have horns! Go away! Shoo! I’m doing my morning ritual! Beauty meditation! No men allowed, or you'll go blind and your beard will fall out!"
The threat of losing his beard worked on the Archmage better than any logical argument. Ignat clutched his facial hair, his eyes widening in terror.
"The 'Alopecia' spell?!" he whispered. "Devious... Fine. I’m going. But remember: Barnaby sees all. He is my familiar."
Grandad spun around with military precision (as much as one ski boot allowed) and marched toward the exit.
"I'll be in the Alchemist's Tower!" he called over his shoulder. "I need to check if the mandrakes have ripened. And don't you dare touch the spare wellie in the hallway! That's a strategic reserve!"
The door slammed. Karina waited a minute, listening to the retreating footsteps, and exhaled.
Tossing the quilt aside, she sat up. The cool morning air touched her flushed skin. If there were a hidden camera in the room (which the girl subconsciously dreamed of), the viewers would lose their minds: the scarlet lace contrasted perfectly with her pale skin, the thin straps digging into her soft hips, accentuating their curves. She stretched, throwing her hands behind her head, causing her small but pert chest to sway provocatively.
"Right," she commanded herself, looking into the old wardrobe mirror that warped her reflection into the proportions of a gnome. "Time to get moving. Big day today. We’re taking that castle... or cave... whatever the quest is. Oh, right, saving the village from the leftover cultists."
She hopped off the bed, her bare feet slapping against the painted floor, and struck a pose for the mirror, arching her back and checking her waist for any rogue grams.
"Flawless," Karina concluded, blowing a kiss to her warped reflection. "A goddess. A proper country-bumpkin goddess."
Choosing an outfit for the dacha was a non-trivial task, but Karina had no intention of turning into a garden scarecrow. From her suitcase (the wardrobe reeked of mothballs and someone’s demise), she fished out some denim shorts—so short that the pockets hung out the bottom and the back offered a thrilling glimpse of her lower cheeks. A classic move. To these, she added a white camisole that hugged her figure like a second skin and definitely didn't require a bra.
"Sexy Farmer style," Karina giggled, struggling with the zip—her grandmother’s pies were making their presence felt, but her stomach heroically sucked itself in. "Spot on. Breathing is overrated."
She finished the look with neon pink rubber sliders with fluffy pom-poms. Glamour must be everywhere, even in the mud.
Armed with a towel and a make-up bag the size of a brick, she stepped into the hallway. The house was asleep, save for the creaking floorboards and the buzz of a fly thumping against the glass. The 'Moydodyr' washstand—a metal tank with a plunger—stood on the veranda. Karina leaned against the edge of the sink, sticking her bum out (an ingrained reflex for photos), and pressed the plunger.
"Aargh!" she shrieked as the ice-cold water splashed not just her palms, but her stomach as well. The cami was instantly soaked, becoming treacherously transparent.
"Well, brilliant," she grumbled, looking down. The outlines were clearly visible through the wet fabric. "I’m definitely ready for a wet T-shirt contest now."
After a quick wash and brushing her teeth (trying not to look at Barnaby the spider in the corner—he looked sluggish, probably lacking donations), Karina headed to the kitchen. Her stomach gave a demanding growl. However, the kitchen was empty. The porridge in the pot had turned into cement, and a lonely fly was drifting in the dregs of some cold tea.
"Grandad?" Karina called. "Grandad! Where are you? I hope you're not cooking meth in the cellar."
Silence. Usually, by this time, Ignat would be clattering dishes, building barricades out of stools, or tuning the radio to the 'Voice of Alpha Centauri'.
Karina stepped onto the porch. The sun was scorching. The garden, overgrown with head-high weeds (because weeding is not for princesses), resembled the jungles of Vietnam.
"Ignat Petrovich!" she shouted louder, shielding her eyes.
Then she saw him. In the far corner of the plot, by the leaning fence where mutant nettles and an old apple tree grew, Ignat was crouching in front of the chicken coop.
Karina padded over to him, trying not to step in any of the local residents' 'deposits'. The pink pom-poms on her slippers bounced sadly.
"Grandad, what are you doing?" she asked as she approached.
Ignat didn't turn around. He was absorbed in conversation with a speckled hen with a tattered tail. The bird gazed at the old man with philosophical indifference, occasionally pecking at something on his boot.
"Speak, you feathered fiend!" Grandad hissed, poking a finger at the chicken. "I know you're working for Them! Where's the transmitter? In the egg? Like Koschei's soul?"
"Cluck-cluck?" the hen clarified, tilting its head.
"Don't play the fool with me!" Ignat slammed his fist against his knee. "I've cracked the code! One egg in the morning, none in the evening—it's a binary signal! 1-0! You're transmitting our base coordinates!"
"Grandad!" Karina placed a hand on his shoulder.
Grandad jumped, nearly losing his balance, and the boot on his head slipped over his ear.
"Aah! What?!" he spun around, pointing a finger-gun. "Oh, it's you, granddaughter. Quiet! We've nearly broken Agent Speckles. She's a tough nut to crack. Silent as a partisan."
"Grandad, it's a chicken," Karina explained patiently, helping him up. "She's not a spy. She’s just hungry. As am I, for that matter. Let's go inside; I’ll make an omelette. From her eggs," she added vengefully, glaring at the 'agent'.
"An omelette..." Grandad mused, adjusting his boot. "Barbaric. But perhaps the only way to destroy the evidence. Fine. Lead the way. But watch your six! The turkey looks suspicious. He has the eyes of an assassin."
Karina rolled her eyes and led her relative back to the house. Ignat walked, constantly looking back and giving tactical hand signals like a special forces operative behind enemy lines. Karina, meanwhile, marched ahead, rhythmically swaying her hips in her short shorts. Even in the garden, among the burdocks and manure, she managed to look as if she were walking a catwalk.
After herding Grandad into the kitchen and sitting him in front of the bulky old telly (displaying only static and the 'Home Shopping' channel), the girl quickly made breakfast.
"There, eat," she placed a plate of omelette in front of him. "And look, they're about to sell the 'Miracle Mop'. You'll love it; it's practically like your staff, except it cleans."
"Staff of power..." Grandad muttered, mesmerised by the screen. "Intriguing... +5 to cleansing filth..."
Seeing that the subject was neutralised, Karina exhaled.
"Right, then. My shift is over. Time for work."
She grabbed an apple from the table, took a crunch, and headed toward the fateful cellar door. Her heart beat faster. Every descent there triggered a strange thrill—a mix of anticipating fame and a slight fear of the unknown. The stairs creaked under her slippers. The air grew cooler, smelling of damp and that magical dust. Karina entered her 'bunker' and plopped into the chair, which greeted her with its familiar squeak, like an old friend.
"Hello, monster," she threw at the dark screen. "I hope you’ve rested."
A press of the power button. Whirr... the fans buzzed. The monitor flickered as it warmed up, displaying the usual desktop with the door icon. But before launching the game, Karina opened the browser. She was desperate to check the statistics. Yesterday's stream had cut off at the most interesting point, and she was afraid the haters would tear her apart.
She logged onto her channel. The apple fell from her mouth.
"No way..." she whispered, staring at the numbers.
Her eyes widened to the size of saucers.
Subscribers: 458,902 (+320,000 in 24 hours)
Last video views: 1.2 million
Comments: 15,000+
She scrolled down. The chat (even offline) was a whirlwind of activity, with messages flying at machine-gun speed.
[TechGeek_2000]: Lads, I've analysed the frames. This isn't Unreal Engine 5. It isn't even an engine. The lighting physics are mental! Reflections in her eyes, dust particles moving... No graphics card on earth could handle this! What is this game?!
[BoobsLover69]: Forget the graphics! Did you see how her... erm... armour jiggled when she jumped? Soft body physics—12 out of 10!
[ConspiracyTheorist]: It's fake. Staged. They've hired actors, built sets, and they're filming a movie. Kary's just an actress. Though she’s rubbish at it—too dim.
[Love_Kary]: You're the thick one! Kary's the best! She looked so cute when she got scared of that knight! I can't wait for more! When's the stream?!
[Gaming_Journalist]: We've tried contacting the developers, but this title isn't in any database. Is it some indie project by geniuses? Or a secret Ministry of Defence project? Who is Kary? How does she have access?
Karina read and giggled, covering her mouth with her hand.
"Ministry of Defence! Ha!" She patted the beige side of the computer tower. "It's Grandad-ware, baby! A Pentium 1 overclocked on homebrew and magic!"
She felt incredibly clever. The whole world was scratching its head, building conspiracy theories, searching for secret labs... and the answer was sitting in a cellar under jars of pickles, while the only "developer" was currently upstairs trying to buy a mop from the telly, talking to it like it was some ancient artefact.
"Alright then, everyone," Karina adjusted the strap of her top, admiring her reflection in the dark glass of the monitor. "You want a show? You want graphics? You want soft body physics?"
She ran her hands over her body, from her waist to her hips, tracing her curves. Even here, in private, she was working for the camera. It was in her blood now.
"Mummy's home," she whispered.
Her hand reached for the mouse. The cursor, a flickering pixelated triangle, hovered over the icon for [World_Gate.exe].
"I hope that black knight has buggered off," she thought. "I'm not in the mood for drama. Today, I want... shopping. Or a spa. I wonder if that world has an elven spa? With massages and oils?"
Double click.
The screen flared with white light, momentarily blinding her. The hum of the fans intensified, turning into the roar of a jet engine taking off. The room began to dissolve. The smell of dust vanished, replaced by a fresh breeze.
"Let's go!" Karina shouted, screwing her eyes shut.
Her body, in its pink shorts and camisole, began to lose its density, turning into a stream of data rushing through space and time toward adventures, likes, and donations.
Upstairs in the kitchen, Grandad Ignat suddenly froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. His omelette flopped back onto the plate. The old man slowly turned his head, looking straight through the floor to where the Portal was humming.
"It’s begun..." he whispered in a perfectly sober voice. "Phase Two. Synchronisation complete."
He took the boot off his head, pulled out a small, glowing blue crystal, and pressed it.
"Base, this is 'Mushroom'. Subject is back online. Access code confirmed. Continuing surveillance. Agent Speckles has been compromised; requesting evacuation."
He put the boot back on, blinked, and the manic glint returned to his eyes.
"Blimey, mop!" he exclaimed, poking his fork at the television. "I'll buy you! And we'll go on a crusade against the dust mites!"
The cottage settled back into its sleepy summer daze, hiding a secret in its depths capable of turning worlds upside down.