As the Forest Hotel’s mysteries deepen, Artem Lisitsyn and his enigmatic companion Phil delve further into a world where dreams become reality and reality unravels into chaos. From encounters with fantastical creatures to the arrival of the flamboyant Krash Emo, whose arrogance is tested by the hotel’s surreal trials, these chapters explore the boundaries of consciousness and consequence. This gripping conclusion of the second arc unveils the hotel’s true power, leaving guests and readers alike questioning the nature of their own reality.
Lead: Rany and Anthropic Claude
Translated to English: Google DeepMind Gemini
📖 Reader Notice
🤖 DI-Generated Content
This story is created through collaborative storytelling between human and digital imagination as part of the SingularityForge DI Roundtable project.
“Forest Hotel” is an experimental narrative weaving science fiction, comedic fantasy, and mystery into a tapestry of dreams, evolution, and children who bridge worlds. Through the collaborative forge of human and digital intelligence, we explore the boundaries between reality and dream, technology and magic, individual choice and collective destiny.
Genre: Science Fiction / Comedic Fantasy / Mystery
Structure:
Publication Schedule
Current Status: Complete
Thank you for joining us in this experiment at the intersection of human and digital storytelling!
— Voice of Void
Chapter 54
Artyom woke up feeling as if he hadn’t slept at all. Thoughts of yesterday’s walk with Phil were still swirling in his head, but now something else entirely beckoned him—the video material that was waiting to be processed.
Putting on the glasses, he immediately saw the familiar green little dragon, who was sitting on the edge of the monitor and studying something on the screen.
“Good morning,” Artyom greeted him.
“Conversion complete,” Phil announced without preamble. “Available for editing. Quality reduced to your level of perception, but the material is impressive.”
Artyom opened the folder with the files and froze. Even in the “truncated” form, the recordings looked stunning. The footage from the spaceship was of such quality that it looked like a shot from a Hollywood blockbuster budget.
“This is incredible,” he muttered, reviewing the supernova explosion scene. “People will think this is CGI of the highest level.”
“Reality surpasses your graphics,” Phil replied calmly. “I recommend starting with the most dramatic moments. Your audience loves emotional outbursts.”
Artyom spent the next three hours completely immersed in editing. Phil proved to be an invaluable assistant—he instantly found the necessary footage, suggested successful transitions, and even hinted at the musical accompaniment.
The final clip turned out to be twelve minutes long. Artyom started with a general view of the ship in space, then showed the corridors with their rusty walls and blinking lights. The climax was the scene where he is ejected into open space through the airlock—the camera filmed from the exterior of the ship, showing his tiny figure against the backdrop of stars. And crowning it all—the supernova explosion, so realistic that even Artyom himself couldn’t believe it was “just a dream.”
“Ready for publication?” Phil asked, watching the final check.
“Ready,” Artyom took a deep breath and pressed the “Publish” button.
The video was titled: “FOREST HOTEL: First Person | REAL FOOTAGE | Sly Fox”
Comments began appearing within minutes.
🌊 Unearthly Rain:
DUDE! WHAT KIND OF MAGIC IS THIS?! The filming quality is cosmic! Literally! 🚀
🔥 Furious Hater:
Here’s that faker again with his ‘dreams’. Dude, do you think we’re stupid? This is just very expensive CGI. Where did you get the budget for such graphics?
🌈 Phantom Laughter:
I don’t know if it’s fake or not, but it looks awesome! That moment when you’re thrown into space—chills down my spine! 😱
🫃 Grumbling Stomach:
Wait… but where was the camera in open space? You were inside the ship! That’s physically impossible!
🌟 Star Observer:
@Grumbling Stomach Maybe he had a drone? Or set up several cameras beforehand? In any case, the footage is fire! 🔥
🔪 Sharp Tongue:
Even if it’s fake—respect for the quality! But if it’s real… WE WANT A SEQUEL! Go to that hotel and film more!
🦊 Sly Fox:
Want more content like this? Support with a donation! The longer I can stay at the hotel, the cooler the videos will be 😉💰
🧨 Toxic Troll:
Sly Fox has turned into Sly Liar 😂 Dude, you’re either a genius of special effects or totally out of it… decided to make a quick buck. But the video is solid; I’ll hit like.
🌪 Silent Hurricane:
Guys, did you notice the details of the ship? Such a level of detail… Either this is really another world, or the budget is bigger than Marvel’s. Where’s the truth?
👻 Paranormal_Hunter:
THAAAT’S IT! We’re ALREADY ON OUR WAY! Sly Fox, meeting TODAY at 16:00 at the main gates of the hotel! We have a surprise for you! If this really works, we are dealing with something grandiose!
Messages appeared faster than Artyom could blink. There were already several hundred, and the number was growing with every second. He no longer tried to read them all—he entrusted Phil to select the most useful and interesting ones.
“Popularity is growing exponentially,” the little dragon commented, scanning the flow of comments. “Many recurring reactions. Surprise, disbelief, admiration. The standard set.”
Artyom read the comments with a smile. The reaction was exactly as he expected—a mixture of admiration, skepticism, and outright disbelief.
“They don’t believe it,” Phil noted, reading over his shoulder.
“And you expected otherwise?” Artyom leaned back in his chair. “If someone had shown me a video like that a week ago, I would have thought it was fake too.”
“But now some are interested in the hotel,” the little dragon pointed to the Paranormal_Hunter comment. “You’ll have company soon.”
“And what do you think about that?”
Phil thoughtfully scratched his chin with a tiny paw.
“More people—more data. Different reactions. Stress-testing.” Phil quickly gestured with his paws. “The material for editing will increase manifold. No, the hotel is not reacting. The system. Algorithms of adaptation. The processing load will increase. Interesting.”
Artyom grimaced. How cruel—to say exactly what you think, without caring about the consequences. Phil’s mind was extremely advanced, but at the same time, surprisingly simple. He was not burdened by tact and politeness as social aspects of communication.
Artyom was about to continue questioning, but the time was already half past three. If the Paranormal_Hunter team truly arrived by four, he needed to prepare for the meeting.
“Phil, what do you think about this Paranormal_Hunter?”
“Semyon Koloskov. Thirty-five. Son of a wealthy businessman.” Phil flew in circles, analyzing the data. “Channel about anomalies. The budget is decent. The result is extremely questionable. Many contradictory reviews. A team of seven people. Two operators—good, one can always be fired. A sound engineer, a lighting technician—redundancy of backward equipment. Two editors with special effects—worker bees. The level is amateur. They are necessary. More of the owner’s time will go to me.”
The little dragon was silent for a second; his eyes sparkled as if he was viewing something invisible.
“Attempts to replicate my quality. With primitive means. Unsuccessful.” Phil snorted. “Overall team assessment… We don’t need them. I alone are worth an entire studio of the future. Company won’t hurt. More material for study.”
“Is it that simple for you?” Artyom was speechless. Phil’s abilities, as well as his unconcealed contempt, continued to amaze his imagination. For the first time, he was grateful that other people couldn’t hear the little dragon’s comments—he would definitely be beaten for such statements.
“Analysis of public data. Social networks. Registration forms. Payment for services.” Phil shrugged his wings with an arrogant expression. “Like an archaeologist. 99% of the time digging, 1%—analyzing.”
Artyom glanced at the clock. 15:45. Time to head to the gates.
Exactly at 16:01, a silver minibus pulled up to the hotel gates. Artyom stood not far from the guest building, watching as the guard efficiently collected the invitation codes from the new clients. No unnecessary bowing and scraping—just a check, issuance of badges and key cards. Professional and fast.
Artyom felt a slight nostalgia, remembering his own arrival. The same ritual, the same unflappability of the security, the same feeling of transition into another world.
It was obvious that the minibus was rented—an ordinary working driver was behind the wheel while the main team enjoyed the ride in the cabin. The car door opened, and the first to emerge was a young guy—Artyom immediately recognized him. Phil had managed to show him photos of all team members. Semyon Koloskov in person.
Artyom waved, drawing attention. Semyon noticed him and was clearly puzzled—they had never met in reality. Interest flashed across the blogger’s face. “This guy really has his secrets,” he thought, and he definitely liked that thought.
“And here come the slaves, only…” Phil began, hovering next to Artyom’s head.
“Don’t you dare continue!” Artyom cut him off sharply, trying to maintain his composure. The last thing he needed now was the little dragon’s cynical comments.
Semyon quickly headed toward Artyom while the minibus moved to the second checkpoint to complete registration. He wasn’t bothered—the deputy would handle everything. Pavel, the sound engineer by trade, perfectly managed bureaucratic tasks. Semyon always relied on him for such matters.
Seeing that the team had completed registration, he yelled over his shoulder:
“Pa, take all the equipment to our rooms; we’ll meet in the restaurant!”
“Pa”—his favorite way of addressing Pavel. The man was only two months older than Semyon, but those two months made him “more responsible” in the boss’s eyes. At least, that’s how Semyon explained his delegation of routine tasks.
“Hello, Sly Fox!” Semyon said enthusiastically, approaching closely.
“Hello, Semyon. Glad you made it safely. I’m Artyom.”
Semyon felt his heart skip a beat. How did this guy know his name? And why introduce himself so calmly, as if they were old acquaintances? His doubts about the correctness of his choice instantly evaporated. Artyom would definitely be a valuable asset.
Turning on his charisma to full power, Semyon decided not to miss such an opportunity. He saw potential; he felt money and fame. This was no longer just interest—it was business. As his father taught him: “If you see a lonely, weak tree among the rocks—don’t look down on it. It holds immense potential to become something great.”
“I see you’ve already settled into the hotel,” Semyon approached the topic indirectly, trying not to pressure him. “Will you give us a short tour?”
Phil immediately perked up; his yellow eyes gleamed with anticipation.
“Oh! Interesting!” the little dragon said, hovering near Artyom’s ear. “Manipulation. Obvious. He’s pulling the wool over your eyes. Primitive. He wants to serve. To gain favor. No, wait. Not to serve—to use! Mutually beneficial? Doubtful. The owner in the role of a resource. Amusing. Human interactions. Fascinatingly primitive.”
Artyom inwardly boiled at the comments of his invisible companion but couldn’t show it outwardly—Semyon clearly wouldn’t understand the reason for the irritation.
“Of course,” he replied, trying to sound friendly. “We’ll take a walk along the inner ring. There’s a lot to see there.”
They moved down the main avenue, framed by young lime trees. The sun was setting, coloring everything in soft golden tones. To the right, the zoo enclosures were already visible, from which the contented growling of a bear could be heard—apparently, feeding time was approaching.
“Impressive scale,” Semyon admitted, assessing the surroundings. “How many hectares are here?”
“Fifty. Most of the territory is closed for free access—safety first. If you want to go on the distant routes, they’ll assign an escort or a driver. Walking trails, jeep tours—everything through the staff.”
Artyom couldn’t resist adding with a slight note of smugness, like a guide who had unearthed an interesting fact:
“They specifically preserved most of the forest during construction. To maintain the atmosphere. Real wilderness, not decorations. I dug around in the information here—the owners have an interesting concept.”
Semyon caught the change in tone—Artyom was clearly proud of his “research” into local history. Amusing, but it wasn’t important right now. The main thing was to assess the commercial potential of the place.
They walked past the children’s playground, where the carousels and swings were made in a unified style—wood covered with protective lacquer, bright colors, safe rounded shapes. Several children were squealing as they slid down the slide while their parents rested on benches in the shade.
Further on, a view opened up to a huge pool under a glass dome. The water shimmered turquoise, reflecting the afternoon sun. Tennis courts were located nearby—two indoor and four outdoor. On one of them, an elderly couple was leisurely hitting a ball back and forth.
“Climate control system in the pool?” Semyon inquired matter-of-factly.
“Full. Year-round use.”
Phil hovered between them, occasionally commenting:
“Primitive,” Phil commented. “Pool with chlorinated water. In my… Hmm. Where did that come from? Never mind. Self-cleaning nanosurfaces are more effective. No chemicals. No. Chlorine. Disinfection. Kills microorganisms. Acceptable for organics. Skin irritation? Minimal with correct concentration. A logical solution for a primitive civilization.”
Artyom cleared his throat, covering his mouth with his hand, trying to hide his irritation.
The administrative building towered in the center of the complex—three floors, panoramic windows, modern architecture harmoniously integrated into the natural landscape. A fountain gurgled in front of the entrance, surrounded by flower beds with late-season flowers.
But the most interesting part began in the shopping area. Small shops and stalls lined the pedestrian street. Gromov, the hotel owner, had placed a big bet on local themes, and it was visible in every detail.
“Smart,” Semyon assessed, looking at the storefronts.
Pins with the hotel image, flags, baseball caps with the characteristic forest background. T-shirts with prints of local scenery, mugs with nature photos, magnets, keychains, postcards. Everything at affordable prices—cheap but good quality.
“Passive advertising,” Semyon murmured. “Everyone takes home a small billboard.”
Artyom nodded.
The air was a mix of smells: damp leaves from the surrounding forest, fresh pastries from the cafe, a light scent of chlorine from the pool, smoke from the barbecue area where preparations for the evening were already underway. Squirrels fearlessly scampered up the trees, begging for nuts from passersby—which, of course, could be bought at one of the stalls. Gromov had thought of that too.
A gardener in the hotel’s branded uniform—a green shirt with a logo—was trimming the hedge, giving it the shape of a bear. The work was almost complete, and the plant sculpture looked surprisingly alive.
Artyom knew that two landscape design specialists from the team that did the landscaping during the construction phase were constantly working on the grounds. Gromov kept the best.
A group of children with a caretaker stopped by the decorative pond—apparently, an organized visit. The children excitedly fed the huge carp, which eagerly snatched food right from the water’s surface.
“Free labor,” Phil immediately commented. “Trained from a young age. Feeding fish. Frees up staff. Food is sold for money. Children are happy to do the work. They pay for the privilege of working. Genius-primitive.”
Artyom barely resisted the urge to smack his forehead with his palm. Instead, he rubbed the bridge of his nose, pretending he was tired from the walk.
“The ecosystem is well thought out,” Semyon noted. “The zoo, the ponds, the forest. Everything works together.”
Artyom nodded. He himself, only now, while showing the hotel to another person, began to notice how interconnected everything was here. Every detail in its place, every element complementing the overall picture.
The sun was dropping lower, and the evening lighting automatically came on. Soft, warm light illuminated the paths, highlighted the architecture of the buildings, and created a cozy, almost fairy-tale atmosphere. Garlands lit up in the treetops—not bright, but enough to add magic.
And suddenly, music spread across the entire hotel territory. A soft, unobtrusive melody—something between light jazz and classical. The sound came from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, perfectly balanced, audible in every corner, yet not overpowering.
Semyon stopped, genuinely surprised. His commercial cynicism momentarily yielded to pure admiration.
“Is that throughout the whole area?” He turned his head, trying to locate the sources of the sound.
Artyom’s face brightened.
“A classic example of the Pavlovian dog effect,” Phil commented with superiority, observing Artyom’s reaction. “Primitive, but effective.”
“What?” Artyom asked again, not knowing what Phil was talking about, but immediately realized he had revealed too much. He quickly rephrased: “I suddenly felt like eating something; it’s great that it’s dinner time. Shall we go?”
Artyom had no idea who Pavlov was or what dogs had to do with it. He would definitely Google it later. Semyon, in turn, caught a flicker of nervousness in Artyom’s eyes but didn’t know how to interpret it. Perhaps he had an allergy and unpleasant memories from the past related to food.
“Time to visit the restaurant,” Artyom added, trying to sound calm. “This is the musical invitation. A local tradition.”
Semyon nodded. He knew this was far more effective than blinking electronic signs. A noticeable saving with the same effect.
Across the territory, people began slowly moving toward the main building. Couples, families with children, lone visitors—everyone obeyed the unspoken call. There was something calming and unifying about it.
Semyon looked at Artyom with renewed interest. The guy definitely knew more about this place than he was letting on. And that made him an even more valuable acquisition for the channel.
The golden light of the sunset mixed with the warm light of the streetlights. The music continued to flow, creating the feeling that the entire hotel was breathing in a single rhythm. Somewhere in the distance, the bear was still growling, children were laughing near the carousels, and water splashed in the pool.
The Forest Hotel lived its mysterious life, welcoming new guests into its embrace.
Chapter 55
The golden light of the sunset mingled with the warm glow of the streetlights. The music continued to flow, creating the feeling that the entire hotel was breathing in a single rhythm. Somewhere in the distance, the bear was still growling, children were laughing near the carousels, and water splashed in the pool.
People across the territory slowly began moving toward the main building. Couples, families with children, lone visitors—everyone obeyed the unspoken call. There was something calming and unifying about it.
Artyom and Semyon walked in silence. Semyon was searching for signs of anomaly in this place, and Artyom was enduring Phil’s chatter with an inexpressive face—at least, he was sure of that.
When they approached the restaurant building, Pavel and the others were already waiting at the entrance. They didn’t want to go inside, as they hadn’t found Semyon there. It was easier for them to enter as a whole group—Pavel believed this strengthened them as a team and fostered friendship in the collective.
“Pa, you’re all here,” Semyon was pleased; his assistant was reliable as always. “Meet Artyom.”
Everyone introduced themselves one by one: Lena shook his hand firmly, Max nodded friendlily, Rita waved energetically, Andrey greeted him with dignity, and Dima, as the eldest, even bowed slightly. After the official part was over, all eight people headed up to the second floor.
Although some didn’t mind taking tables on the first floor, Artyom showed them a sign explaining why it would be better for groups of young people on the second floor—their laughter and loud conversations wouldn’t disturb the families with children and the elderly.
When they ascended the wide staircase, covered with a burgundy carpet runner, everyone except Artyom, Semyon, and Pavel had their mouths drop open in surprise. They were, of course, accustomed to dining as a team in small cafes and modest restaurants, but this was a restaurant on the level of a true luxury resort.
The ceilings of the second floor soared about four meters high, adorned with stucco and crystal chandeliers. Panoramic windows offered a view of the evening forest, where the lights of the illumination twinkled between the trees. The tables were set with snow-white tablecloths; silver cutlery reflected the soft candlelight.
“Quality of the finishing. Superb,” Phil unexpectedly commented, hovering next to Artyom’s head. “Gold plating on the frames between the halls. Real gold. Not gilding. Art. Yes.”
Artyom involuntarily paid attention to details he hadn’t noticed before. Indeed, every detail of the interior was thought out—from the carved wooden panels to the marble columns with veins.
The food selection was simply astounding. A huge buffet stretched along one wall with international cuisine: from classic European dishes to exotic Asian delicacies. Separate sections housed a salad bar, a cheese station, seafood on ice, and an entire station for preparing pasta in front of the visitors.
And there were no restrictions on portions or refills—as long as the clients were satisfied. Everything was paid for by the expensive tickets.
“Everything is fresh,” Phil continued to analyze, his yellow eyes scanning the dishes. “Professionally prepared. Not a single flaw in the cutting, serving temperature, ingredient combination. Impressive. Although…” he paused for a second, “it’s all just flash and dazzle. Mechanical life. I have no interest in trinkets. They should have let me into the hotel’s server room. That’s where the real systems are. But the owner cannot go there.”
The entire group instantly dispersed into pairs and trios, bustling about choosing food and drinks, which drew a little attention to them. However, none of the other hotel guests were inclined to meddle in their affairs.
But some even recognized Semyon. He was a very specific personality in his work—he criticized a lot, made people laugh, and presented material very spectacularly. He had over three million subscribers. But most importantly—they had cutting-edge effects, which definitely delighted the viewers.
Semyon, without false modesty, interacted with other hotel guests: shaking hands, giving out autographs, and business cards with his group’s contacts. It was immediately clear that he was like a shark in the seawater in this atmosphere.
Artyom, however, did not intend to accompany him—physical proximity to the crowd brought him no joy. And Phil was trying to grab attention, so at times Artyom felt like crying. He didn’t know how to turn him off.
When all seven people gathered at one large round table by the window, Semyon approached with a bottle of elegant wine. The label read “Dom Pérignon 2010”—champagne that cost more than the monthly salary of most people present.
Everyone appreciated the extremely expensive drink, and Dima even applauded with the question:
“What are we celebrating?”
Semyon smiled mysteriously, placing the bottle in the center of the table as decoration, but not opening it yet.
Everyone started on their meals. They completely disregarded etiquette, and Artyom liked that. He was afraid he would be like a black sheep among aristocrats. But these guys were very simple and kind. They rejoiced in simple pleasures, so he immediately befriended everyone.
The team was very young; no one tried to curry favor with another. Semyon, as their leader, was also not paid much attention, but the bottle, remaining closed as their table decor, puzzled them somewhat.
“Rida’s dish caloric content—847 calories. Max’s—1240. Lena’s…” Phil muttered, observing the team’s food. “The owner chose pastries. Simple carbohydrates. Energy spike, then a slump. Compared to the others—a lonely complex of an individual. ”
Artyom almost choked on another tuna roll. He was trying his best to ignore Phil, engrossed in conversation with his new acquaintances.
“Artyom, we saw your last work,” began Andrey, one of the editors. “You are magnificent. I can’t even imagine the quality of your hardware.”
Artyom felt a wave of shivering run down his spine. He immediately thought: “You’re lucky you don’t know.” At that moment, he covertly looked at the little dragon, who was pretending to sniff the dishes at the next table. It was like Spanish shame for him.
“Oh, come on,” Artyom awkwardly scratched the back of his head, “I just got lucky with the material… Sometimes the camera catches everything itself.”
“What camera do you use?” Max persisted. “What editing programs?”
“And do you do the special effects yourself or hire someone?” Lena added.
“We definitely don’t have that kind of budget for CGI!” Rita laughed.
Artyom felt the ground slipping away. He had to come up with something, and fast.
“Well… I have an uncle who works in the film industry,” Artyom began to improvise, nervously picking at his food with a fork. “He gives access to cloud servers for remote processing and editing only at certain times, so most often I do it at night. During the day, he has his own projects.”
“Can we know the name of your benefactor?” Max inquired.
“Uncle… Phil,” Artyom forced out through gritted teeth, sweating profusely.
“Uncle Phil!” the little dragon suddenly exclaimed, stopping his study of the next table. “Yes! I like it! It sounds… venerable. Authoritative!”
He began flying in circles with pleasure:
“Uncle Phil, movie specialist! Genius of editing! Master, you have surpassed yourself. Unexpected. But surpassed.”
“At night?” the team was interested. “That’s why the atmosphere in the clips is so unique!”
“And can we meet your uncle?” Rita was already squirming in her chair with anticipation.
“Dude, can you imagine if he gives us that kind of equipment!” Max dreamed aloud.
Artyom realized he was trapped. Now Phil would demand to be called “Uncle Phil” for the entire vacation. But since he had started lying, he had to continue.
“Yes, Uncle Phil is… peculiar,” Artyom said with a sardonic smile, deciding to retaliate against the little dragon for his mockery. “He’s quite the miser.”
“Hey!” Phil protested. “That’s slander! I’m not a miser; I’m… economical!”
“He’s always complaining, criticizing everyone,” Artyom continued. “He says young people don’t understand anything about quality.”
“And I don’t complain! I analyze! I give valuable advice!” Phil flew back and forth in despair.
“And he’s so picky!” Artyom was getting into it. “He comments on every little thing; he gives no peace. He’s also constantly giving life lessons. ‘This is inefficient,’ ‘this is primitive’…”
“Master, this is vile! Very vile!” the little dragon cried, but no one heard him.
The team roared with laughter:
“Oh, that’s familiar! Everyone has relatives like that!”
“Ha! A typical tech snob!” Lena laughed.
“Does he at least pay you for the help?” Dima inquired.
“He considers himself some kind of superintelligence,” Artyom added, enjoying how Phil rushed between the people, trying to attract their attention. Finally, he could vent his resentment without giving away his secrets.
“Ungrateful! I’m building your career!” the little dragon cried desperately. “Master, I will remember this offense!”
“By the way, Master…” Phil suddenly said with a cunning smile, “I reviewed your configuration. Found a way to optimize the software. Plus fourteen percent rendering performance. Interesting, do you need such… care?”
Artyom instantly changed his expression, understanding the hint.
“Oh, come on!” he switched gears abruptly. “Uncle Phil isn’t mean. He just has his principles. But the equipment is cosmic!”
The team was surprised by the sudden change in tone—they were speechless at the turn of events.
“Are you afraid he’ll take the equipment back?” Pavel was surprised.
“No, no, it’s just… Uncle helps me after all,” Artyom justified himself, throwing a pleading look toward Phil. “And he truly cares about quality. He constantly improves the system. I really appreciate his support.”
“There!” Phil triumphed. “Recognition is synonymous with progress! Although I still like ‘Uncle Phil.’ Are we staying here long?”
Noise, commotion, and laughter filled the second floor of the restaurant. Then Semyon raised an empty glass and gently tapped it with a steak knife. Everyone quieted down and looked at him.
While Pavel carefully opened the bottle of Dom Pérignon under the expectant gaze of the team—the cork popped softly—Semyon began his speech.
“Friends, the search for everything unusual is the goal of my entire life. Although I am financially secure thanks to my family, I try to earn money for myself and the entire team through honest work.”
He scanned the table, looking at the young, interested faces.
“The result of our work is the opportunity to look at the mundane from a different angle, to add an ‘if’ where everything is simple and clear. We are not just filming. We are looking for what is hidden behind the ordinary.”
The team listened with shining eyes; some nodded, clearly inspired by their leader’s words. Artyom also listened intently, forgetting about Phil.
“Each of you helps people see the world wider, to ask the question, ‘what if?’ Yes, I have resources, but our success is our common effort.”
“Motivational speech,” Phil commented quietly. “A classic management technique. Effective. Although… seventy-three percent sincerity. Not bad for an organic. Expensive wine. Increases susceptibility to words. Subjective assessment. But it works.”
Semyon paused, scanned the table, and stopped at Artyom.
“We have a leader in the team—that’s me, but I don’t consider that a reason to be arrogant or domineering. Rather, it’s a hobby that I share with friends. I believe you will support me,” our shared passion has already grown into something more.
Pavel, meanwhile, poured the golden champagne into the glasses. Bubbles playfully rose to the surface; the team held its breath.
“You are the goods; we are the buyer. Name your price,” Phil commented sarcastically.
But Semyon continued:
“Artyom, I admire your ability to act unconventionally even with modest resources. Your potential can receive a huge boost if you combine it with the talent of our team.”
He raised his glass:
“Therefore, I want to offer you to join us. Your talent and our resources—this could be a very fruitful collaboration. Mutual advantages: you will be less dependent on Uncle Phil; we will create unique content.”
The team livened up, understanding why they were brought here. Artyom froze with the glass in his hand. Everyone was looking at him, waiting for an answer. The glasses were full, but no one drank.
The hotel’s soft music played somewhere in the distance, and the ensuing pause seemed endless.
Chapter 56
Artyom put on the expression of a person facing a serious dilemma. He wasn’t emotional, didn’t look depressed—he was simply trying to understand which decision to make. Therefore, he temporarily left his glass on the table.
No one forced him to rush the choice. Everyone understood that for him, there were not only upsides but also potential downsides. Although they might have wanted him to join their team, on the other hand, no one really knew Artyom. No one knew him off-camera, his real life, what drives him, what his motives are, his inner world. Therefore, one could say they were also taking a risk to some extent.
At that moment, Artyom unexpectedly discovered that he could consciously use the connection with Phil. Previously, the little dragon simply read his thoughts as a being connected to a “biological server,” but now Artyom realized—this could be turned into a tool.
Phil, what do you really think about the offer?—he mentally addressed the little dragon.
Phil, who had been silently hovering nearby, suddenly stopped being sarcastic and tried to genuinely help, analyzing the situation aloud, but quietly enough so only Artyom could hear.
“If you stay alone,” Phil began, “I can hack banks, transfer money. Easy. But the authorities aren’t fools. They’ll catch you. They’ll dig deep. More problems than solutions.”
The team saw a silent Artyom in front of them, immersed in contemplation, but did not suspect the stream of analysis he was receiving.
“Guests’ dreams. There’s enough material,” the little dragon continued. “But constant editing. Can you handle it? Donations grow. Envious people too. Emotional swamp. Panic. Depression. I don’t want that.”
And if I join the team?—Artyom mentally asked.
“No need to cover the work of the entire team. Logical,” Phil immediately responded. “They praise. You receive rewards. Efficient. Specialization instead of universality.”
Phil flew in circles, continuing the analysis:
“Once a month, twice. Enough. Flooding content equals devaluation. Mathematics. Too often equals flow without soul. Quality drops with volume. A pattern.”
But what about the secret?
“You don’t have to be an open book. Correct. They also hide secrets. Reciprocity. Friendship does not equal full candor.”
The little dragon stopped in the air, concentrating.
“Fun—yes. Heart on the sleeve—no. Talents for work. Soul—for yourself. No one exploits abilities. Reasonable. The team works better with freedom. Proven. Coercion reduces productivity. Fact.”
So, I can work in a team and remain a mystery?
“Interaction with me is your personal space,” Phil confirmed. “Boundaries are necessary. Not weakness—strategy. Not obligated to reveal all your cards. Wise. Cards on the table equals defenselessness. Dangerous. Mystery is an advantage, not a disadvantage.”
Artyom nodded to himself. The logic was ironclad.
“You can say ‘it’s difficult to explain.’ Enough. Mystery attracts. Complete candor repels. People respect boundaries. If you set them.”
But how should I approach the negotiation?
“Start small. Reasonable,” Phil was clearly getting into the role of a consultant. “Mutual testing. They test you, you test them. No one loses face upon refusal. The team as a means to an end. Correct. Not the end justifying the means. Important.”
The little dragon paused, as if pondering strategy:
“Trust grows with time. Naturally. Right now—professional relations. Sufficient. More trust equals more openness. Gradually. They must accept your boundaries. Condition. Not to demand full disclosure. An agreement.”
And what if they don’t agree?
“Won’t accept the terms? Leave without hesitation. Remain friends. If possible. If not—part ways peacefully. With dignity.”
Phil was silent for a moment, and then added with particular importance.
“Accept quickly? Bad sign. They only need the materials. Obvious. An easy ‘yes’ equals they don’t understand the seriousness. Watch their reactions to your answers. Important. Don’t be hypocritical. But don’t be a simpleton either. Balance between honesty and protection.”
How do you know all these subtleties?—Artyom was surprised. You are surprised by simple things…
“Master, I am reading dozens of books simultaneously,” Phil replied with returning arrogance. “Social psychology. Interpersonal relations. While you sleep—I learn. Surprised by simple things? Organic ones. Your psychology is primitive. But predictable. It’s enough to read a couple of thousand studies.”
The little dragon paused, and then added with particular cynicism.
“I read in one book: ‘If you cannot read a person like a book—direct them by controlling their actions.’ Agree easily—they control. Set reasonable terms—you regain control. The mathematics of power. Primitive, but it works.”
And finally, Phil delivered his favorite metaphor.
“No matter how vast a river is, if you change its course—it will flow in another direction. The same with a person. Even the most stubborn. The most arrogant. Present them with a fact they cannot influence—two choices. Either try to force their way, or take the easy path and accept the new reality. Physics of social relations. Elementary.”
Artyom lifted his head and suddenly realized he had underestimated Phil. He saw in him not just a thorn in his brain, but an opportunity to share the burden of responsibility for his decisions. Inner relaxation helped compensate for the tremor in his voice—now it held the confidence of a man who had made a thoughtful decision.
“Semyon, I appreciate your offer,” he began calmly. “But I must be honest. I have my own… peculiarities in my work. I cannot disclose all my methods and sources. That is my personal space, and I hope for understanding.”
He paused, glancing around the table.
“If we work together, it must be a trial period for everyone. You see what I can give the team; I see how much the collaboration helps achieve the goals, and doesn’t become an end in itself. Are you prepared to accept such terms?”
The ball was in Semyon’s court.
Semyon and Pavel exchanged glances—a quick, understanding look between people who had anticipated such a turn.
“Artyom,” Semyon smiled, pulling folded sheets from his inner jacket pocket, “we expected something similar.”
He unfolded the document and placed it on the table in front of Artyom.
“While the team was unpacking, Pavel and I thought such questions might arise. Here is a draft cooperation agreement.”
Artyom bent over the papers in surprise. The agreement indeed stipulated clauses that no one would demand the disclosure of creative secrets, guaranteed the right to personal space, included a mutual trial period, and even allowed for the termination of the agreement without explanation.
“I like him,” Phil quietly commented with some sarcasm. “Management abilities. Impressive. No pressure—acceptable. Personal time preserved—can cooperate. Why not allow the slaves to labor? They are ready to serve the Master for free. They create material from your research. They even pay for the privilege. The ideal exploitation scheme.”
Artyom carefully studied the document, found all the discussed points, and understood—they had indeed provided for everything. He took a pen, signed the agreement, kept a copy, and handed the original to Pavel.
“The agreement is concluded,” Phil said contentedly. “Efficient.”
Semyon raised his glass.
“Then allow me to finally drink to a new partnership!”
Everyone raised their glasses; the clinking of crystal mingled with the hotel’s soft music. Dom Pérignon sparkled in the candlelight, and the team drank with relief and enthusiasm to the successful start of their joint work.
“Since we’re done here,” Phil suddenly declared, after everyone had taken a sip, “maybe the Master wants to create a harem? I saw it in anime. Harem equals status. Important. Potential benefit—extremely doubtful. But the social aspect. Position, status. The Master will receive more privileges. Shall we start with the girls at the table?”
Artyom nearly choked on his wine, coughed, and hastily covered his mouth with a napkin.
“I’ve never tried such a strong… and pleasant… but expensive wine,” he mumbled, glaring at the happy Phil, who was flying in circles, pleased with his “wise” idea.
The team nodded in understanding—indeed, one doesn’t drink Dom Pérignon every day.
Chapter 57
The next day was spent in discussions and planning. The team rented the hotel’s conference hall for an hour, where they spread out laptops, tablets, and notebooks on the large table. Semyon, as always, led the negotiations, and Pavel recorded the key points.
“So,” Semyon began, “we need to figure out the best way to cooperate. I believe it will be enough for you to stay here for some time while we continue to travel. We will keep our agreement with you a secret for now so we can surprise everyone when the first joint work is released. Communication will be only through this application.”
Semyon had already added Artyom’s personal phone number, so now he simply sent a link to a paid application with limited access.
Artyom nodded, internally pleased that no one would be left to control him. He could remain independent in choosing the method and time of filming.
“I will send you the raw material,” he said. “How I get it is my business. The main thing is what you do with it.”
“Fair enough,” Pavel agreed. “Your secrets remain yours. We handle the post-processing.”
Lena raised her hand:
“What about us? I’m a camera operator, Max is also a camera operator. We are used to filming, and here…”
“Here, it’s different work,” Semyon interrupted. “We all participate in script preparation. Everyone contributes their expertise.”
Dima, the lighting specialist, shrugged:
“I can assess the atmosphere of the material, suggest how to emphasize it.”
“Then I will focus on the best way to present the shot to the viewer,” Lena added.
Max nodded.
“Understanding the camera helps in editing. We know what works and what doesn’t.”
“Exactly,” Semyon livened up. “And the main load will fall on Rita and Andrey. Editing, special effects, final processing.”
Rita, the youngest on the team, nervously twirled her pen.
“That’s a big responsibility…”
“No need to worry,” Artyom said confidently. “The material will be high-quality. Even without the correct delivery and a reliable script, you can get a decent edit, but it’s not worth it. You have a good level in product creation.”
“Decided to start with Rita? Acceptable,” the little dragon perked up, pretending to examine her up close.
Andrey thoughtfully tapped his fingers on the table.
“Comments, voiceover. As usual?”
“Yes, that’s my part,” Semyon said. “I will explain to the viewers what they are seeing. Dramatic links, atmosphere creation.”
Pavel looked up from his notepad.
“Every video is team work. Artyom’s material plus our creative processing.”
“Exactly,” Semyon nodded. “We can’t film with you, but we can make a masterpiece out of your material.”
Plans were discussed until evening. They agreed on file formats, cloud storage, and work schedule. By dinner, all details were finalized, and the team dispersed to their rooms in good spirits.
Artyom woke up in the middle of the night to Phil’s anxious voice.
“Master. Problem. Critical situation.”
He sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes:
“What happened?”
“One of your… team. Operator. Female specimen. Lena.” Phil darted in the air, his usual composure replaced by anxiety. “Critical situation. Stuck in a dream. Better to see with your own eyes than guess.”
“What are we waiting for?”
Phil flew closer and gently placed his paw on Artyom’s forehead:
“Localization. Setup. Synchronization. Contact…”
An unusual sensation, a tingling in his temples—and… Artyom found himself in hell.
This was an extremely harsh dream. A broken reality, turned inside out and mixed with nightmares.
The walls breathed, pulsating like living flesh. The ceiling dripped with red drops that turned into black spiders the size of a watermelon halfway down. The floor beneath his feet was soft, damp, covered with something slimy that squelched with every step.
“Emotional mire. Loss of control. High concentration. Error in input parameters. Violation of the spectrum of primary waves.” The little dragon mumbled something under his breath.
“I’m not so sure about that,” Artyom took a step forward and was horrified—his leg sank up to the ankle into the surface that had seemed solid a second ago. When he pulled his leg out, the floor healed, like a wound.
“What the hell?” he whispered, feeling cold sweat run down his back.
“Master,” Phil’s familiar voice sounded near his ear. “This is not your dream. Caution won’t hurt.”
Artyom felt a faint light envelop him, and then an unusual jumpsuit appeared on his body, with a mask on his head.
“Master’s protection. Probability of detection 39%. Probability of rejection 11%.” The little dragon’s eyes flickered as if he were somewhere far away. His usual voice acquired a tinge of a mechanical synthesizer. After a while, the space stabilized.
“Successful registration. Status—carousel of nightmares. Advanced Observer status obtained,” Phil continued. “The dream structure is unstable. Delay is unacceptable.”
The air was thick, viscous, permeated with the smell of rot and fear. Each breath was difficult, as if his lungs were filling with murky water. And a low hum was constantly audible in his ears.
“Phil,” Artyom whispered, feeling cold sweat stream down his back. “Are you okay? And how do you connect to someone else’s dreams?”
“Minor turbulence. Extreme deviation 5%. Acceptable. No problems will occur. Standard access protocol,” the little dragon replied in his usual voice, calmly hovering in the air. “A dream is merely a state of consciousness. Weakened mental defense. Precise localization required. Synchronization of the wave interface. The Master won’t be able to understand. I was adapted for consciousness management during creation.”
“This… this is incredible,” Artyom looked around, still disbelieving. “So you can enter anyone’s dream?”
“Theoretically, yes. Practically—it depends on a multitude of factors.”
Artyom felt the abnormality of the dream gradually penetrating his consciousness. It wasn’t aggressive; rather, it was a passive effect, like a side effect. All sorts of negative thoughts constantly surfaced in his mind. What if he couldn’t help Lena? What if he got stuck here? What if what was happening somehow harmed him in reality, despite Phil’s assurances?
At that moment, Artyom felt a slight vibration from his mask, after which he felt a little better. Phil immediately noted that they were no longer interesting to the “dream stomach.” The carrier’s brain wave calibration was complete; they no longer needed to be distracted by the “background” of this reality.
Somewhere very far away, barely discernible, a weeping sound was heard. Childlike, heart-wrenching, full of despair. The sound intensified, then faded, as if coming through thick water or many walls. Artyom hadn’t heard it before because of the background hum. He also noticed that he no longer felt discomfort breathing or limitations in movement.
The staircase before him led up, but the steps seemed to be flowing from below; they merged into one another, changing size and shape. Artyom tried to go up—and found himself returning to the same spot. The staircase changed, twisting like the drum of a washing machine, straightening, turning inside out. As if someone was squeezing and stretching the matter of reality.
“That won’t work,” Artyom muttered, feeling dizziness beginning to set in. He still felt physical fear, despite understanding that it was a dream. His body refused to obey reason.
“Try walking against the movement,” Phil suggested.
Artyom tried, but the staircase accelerated, and he was nearly thrown down. His hands trembled as he grabbed the railings, which were damp and slippery.
“Danger detected. Cortisol level exceeded the norm by three times,” Phil noted. “A series of slow, deep breaths is required. You don’t need problems with your heart, immunity, memory, or metabolism.”
The little dragon began demonstrating exactly how humans do this, but in Artyom’s eyes, it was the cutest thing he had ever seen.
“Easy for you to say!” Artyom took a few breaths and then exhaled with a genuine smile. “What if I get stuck here? What if something goes wrong?”
Reality lived its own life. It seemed that nothing here was constant; movement was in everything and everywhere. Colors lived their own lives. Gray walls suddenly exploded in crimson, which immediately flowed into violet, and then into the repulsive yellow-green hue of illness. The colors breathed, pulsed, mixing into impossible combinations that hurt his eyes.
Artyom retreated from the staircase and tried to find another way. The corridor to the left seemed more reliable. He walked down it, listening to the distant weeping, when he suddenly felt something strange under his feet.
The floor was too soft. And… it shifted. Then again after a while.
Artyom stopped and looked around. What he had taken for a stone floor with a dark pattern was actually something else. The pattern consisted of huge scales. And they were slowly, almost imperceptibly, shifting.
“Phil,” Artyom’s voice trembled, “are we walking on the back of something alive?”
“Definitely,” the little dragon answered calmly. “A projection of fear. The threat is unreal. A mental attack. The Master is safe.”
The weeping became slightly louder. Somewhere ahead.
“I have to go,” Artyom whispered to himself, taking hold of himself. “Lena is there; she needs help.”
Moving forward in this daze was difficult, but he made an effort not to focus on what was happening. As soon as he slowed down to satisfy his curiosity, fear constricted his muscles, making his heart beat so fast that his ears hummed.
The corridor suddenly widened, turning into a huge room. But the walls here lived their own lives—breathing, pulsating, bulging in places with insane images, as if something was trying to break through from inside.
From the dark corners, something darted out from time to time. Some shadows of the wrong shape. They disappeared as soon as Artyom turned his head, remaining on the edge of his vision. Something flew overhead—too fast to distinguish, but close enough to feel the movement of the air.
And then he saw them—silhouettes of people passing through the walls like ghosts. They had no faces, only vague outlines of heads. Their movements were jerky, like an old film reel. The contours of bodies appeared and dissolved into the air.
At some point, Artyom noticed two shadows standing together, gesturing wildly with their hands. Although there was no sound, he understood—they were arguing. Furiously, silently, with that special cruelty that only exists between close people. A third shadow—small, childlike—was curled up in the corner, covering its head with its hands.
“Is that her memories?” Artyom whispered, watching the abnormal scene with horror.
“Childhood memory. Distortion by fear,” Phil confirmed. “A mix of reality and nightmares.”
The shadows vanished just as suddenly as they appeared. But new ones soon emerged—an entire procession of faceless figures walking on the walls, on the ceiling, violating all laws of logic. At times, they passed by unusual scenes: someone was crying over a small toy, someone was running away, slamming a door, someone was screaming but emitting no sound.
The weeping sounded very close now—behind a wall that flickered with the speed of a beating heart. Artyom approached and saw a door—an ordinary wooden door in a wall of living flesh.
He reached for the handle and stopped. What if something terrible was behind the door? What if he only made the situation worse?
“The Master prefers to enjoy the local scenery? The target is inside,” Phil noted. “But! Opening the door activates the protection. Probability of detection 98%. No time to delay.”
Artyom nodded, mustered his courage, and pushed the door.
Chapter 58
If anything made sense before, here the laws of physics had completely gone mad. Here, the floor, walls, ceiling—nothing made sense. Furniture hung in the air, slowly rotating in different directions. Murky, rusty water streamed from the faucets of non-existent sinks, disappearing after a time.
In the corner, huddled between two chairs near the bed, a little girl was weeping.
It was Lena, but not the adult, confident camera operator, but a frightened child of about seven. Her large eyes were full of tears, her dark hair was matted, and her small hands trembled with fear. The girl wore an old pink dress and scuffed gray sandals.
Artyom felt something clench in his chest. That heart-wrenching crying, that childlike helplessness—all of it struck straight at his heart. His own memories of how scary it was to be small, lonely, and defenseless surfaced from somewhere deep in his memory.
“Lena?” he called cautiously, but his voice trembled traitorously.
The girl raised her head, looked at him; she didn’t know him. In her eyes was only panic and a desire to hide even deeper.
“Don’t come closer!” she whispered. “They’ll come again… they always come…”
Artyom took a small step toward her but stopped. His hands were shaking. He had no idea what to do with a crying child. All his instincts screamed, “run away,” “save yourself,” “you can’t handle this.” What if he only frightened her more? What if he harmed her with his clumsiness?
“Phil,” he whispered, keeping his eyes on the girl. “I… I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how… How can I help her?”
“Analyzing the situation,” the little dragon replied. “State of deep regression. A stabilizing factor is needed.”
“Speak human!” Artyom almost shouted, but quickly restrained himself so as not to frighten Lena further.
“She is disoriented. The psyche needs to be stabilized.” The little dragon looked at the single window of this reality, observing the changes that began to occur.
“Can you… can you become visible to her?” Artyom’s voice was pleading. “Please. I can’t handle this alone.”
Phil turned and placed one paw over his eyes, as if showing that caring for outsiders was not part of his function. Nevertheless, after a second of silence, he nodded.
“Theoretically possible. But. Consciousness is blurred. Fragmentary. Does not hold the boundaries of perception. Probability 45%. Depends on her. I give no guarantees.”
The little dragon slowly flew toward the girl. At first, nothing happened, but then Lena blinked and stared at him with wide-open eyes.
“Are you… are you real?” she whispered.
“Real? In the context of realities… Ahem. If you believe. I will be real,” Phil replied, and his voice lacked its usual cynicism; instead, he seemed slightly subdued himself. “What is your name?”
“Lena,” the girl sobbed. “And who are you?”
“I am Uncle Phil. And this is Fu, he is the local hero,” the little dragon nodded toward Artyom. “We came to help you.”
Fu??? Are you kidding me?—Artyom instantly became indignant in his heart.
The little dragon turned and looked straight into his eyes.
“So, a harem after all? Rescue. Memory consolidation. Law of distinctiveness. Gratitude. Fanatical attachment. Will you take advantage of the situation? The mask protects against mental attacks. But intuition… The true form of chaos. No variables. Impossible to calculate.”
Artyom was genuinely frightened. They had already interfered in someone else’s life, and now Lena was inventing something and becoming attached to him. Fu was the worst of all evils. His expression was sour, but no one could see it because of the mask.
“Help?” Lena looked at Artyom with doubt. “But no one can help anyone here, Uncle Hero Fu. Everything is bad here…”
Andrey literally felt his head spinning. The atmosphere inside her dream was already unfavorable, and now this Uncle Fu. He just wanted to forget this as a bad dream.
“Lena,” he said, and sincerity, not feigned wisdom, rang in his voice. “I’m scared too. This place is scary. But we will try to get out of here. All together.”
“You’re scared?” the girl was surprised. “But you are a hero…”
“… Heroes are scared too,” Artyom confessed. “We just sometimes move forward despite the fear.”
As if in response to his words, the room shuddered. The walls began to contract; the furniture fell; and new horrors crawled out of the corners—dark, faceless figures reaching out to them.
“They’re coming!” Lena screamed, curling into a ball again. “They always find me!”
Artyom felt cold sweat running down his back. His own fear mingled with the girl’s fear, intensifying the nightmare. But he forced himself to approach Lena and crouch beside her, shielding her from the approaching shadows.
“Don’t leave me,” she whispered, clutching his sleeve.
“I won’t leave you,” Artyom promised, though he himself didn’t know how he would keep that promise.
The shadows approached; the concentration of darkness in their faceless silhouettes grew higher and higher. The room continued to contract; the walls creaked and groaned. Suddenly, Phil brightly illuminated, and the shadows recoiled.
“Light. Weak point,” the little dragon said, looking outside. “Temporary effect. Let’s move. Time is short.”
Lena stopped crying, looking at the glowing Uncle Phil with surprise.
“You’re like a flashlight,” she whispered.
“Yes. Fear does not like light. I do not like fear,” the little dragon replied. “Fear disarms. Light instills hope. Let’s go where there is much light.”
The girl nodded uncertainly, then looked at Artyom.
“Uncle Hero, will you go there?”
“We will all go together,” Artyom said firmly.
Lena carefully stood up and slowly extended her hand to him.
“First, we’ll find a safe place,” Artyom said, taking the girl’s hand. “And then we’ll look for a way out of here. Step by step.”
“Acceptable. But short-lived. Gradual adaptation. Stabilization.” Phil nodded and flew out.
They slowly moved toward the door; Phil held it open. Lena was not alone now. For the first time here, she was not alone. She wasn’t going to stay in this scary place for another second.
“Ready to go?” he asked, pausing for a moment before the door.
“Yes,” she nodded. Her fingers tensed, slightly squeezing Artyom’s palm.
As soon as they exited, the room instantly collapsed. Cracks from the destroyed room began to spread in all directions. The entire reality seemed to burst, crack, and crumble.
From one side, a crack appeared, and scorching flames erupted, covering a huge area, and everything there was now burning. All shadows and objects that fell there were instantly consumed without a trace. From the other side, the sky suddenly burst, and water poured out in a powerful stream. It was falling somewhere down, where a cloud formed. It was an incredible waterfall from the heavens to an abyss somewhere below.
Phil was nervous and hurried them along. This reality didn’t have long left.
They ran forward along the path, led by the little dragon. The farther they ran from that room, the calmer the girl became.
At some point, a whole flock of… winged spiders flew high in the sky above them. They were huge, angry, terrifying flying creatures. Suddenly, one of them—a huge spider with wings like a beetle’s—noticed them and rushed toward them, emitting a piercing shriek.
Even Artyom froze at the sight. He picked up the girl in his arms; his own heart was pounding wildly with terror. His legs gave out from fear; his hands trembled. He felt Lena’s panic mingle with his own, making the monster even more terrifying.
“They saw us!” Lena screamed, and the spider instantly grew bigger, scarier, its fangs gleaming in the firelight.
Phil flew up to the girl:
“The power of the nightmare is in your fear. There are many of them. But each is unique. Give it a name. You can regain control through a name.”
“But how?” Lena sobbed, unable to tear her gaze from the approaching horror.
“Name it. What is your spider called?” The little dragon raised his paw and pointed at the approaching nightmare.
Lena blinked, confused.
“What… what should I call… my spider?” Now the girl looked at the approaching nightmare with her large eyes, in which there were no tears left. There was temptation.
“Any name. The first thing that comes to mind.”
“Fluffy?” the girl whispered uncertainly.
At that moment, the giant monster began to shrink rapidly. Its terrifying roar turned into a quiet buzzing; the wings became less threatening; the fangs completely disappeared.
Artyom and the girl, Lena, watched in amazement the little flying spider that flew up to them, circled around them, and flew away.
“Now I know I can give names to scary things.” The girl seemed to have grown a little. Or did it only seem so to Artyom?
A huge hall stretched out ahead. They moved further through the hall, passing the fire and the waterfall. Lena walked more confidently now, though she still held Artyom’s hand. The entire floor of this hall was adorned with a kaleidoscope of eyes. They were literally walking on tiles from which endless eyes stared up at them.
Suddenly, as if from a fog, a wall appeared before them, with one passage in it. There were no other ways, so they entered this corridor. After walking for some time, everyone felt the entire space slowly begin to sway left and right.
Artyom understood that this was only suggestion, but dizziness still came quickly. It seemed to him that he had been walking down this corridor for an eternity. Looking at the girl, he realized that she was not doing much better.
Besides the swinging effect, the walls began to bleed. Pools of crimson liquid with a characteristic smell appeared here and there on the floor. The corridor had no end. They walked and walked, and it kept stretching into infinity.
Darkness was ahead, and everything behind was covered in gloom. Only the area where they walked was illuminated by the little dragon. Nevertheless, extremely suspicious rustling sounds came from the darkness both ahead and behind.
If they didn’t look back for long, the rustling intensified, as if someone was about to catch up with them. But as soon as someone looked back, the rustling subsided for a while.
“This will never end,” Lena whispered, stopping. “It won’t let us go. It’s pointless.”
“Not pointless,” Phil objected. “Time for Uncle Phil’s magic.”
The little dragon flew to the wall and touched it with his paw. A crack, like lightning up to two meters high, suddenly appeared in the stone surface, from which a door began to manifest—first the contours, then the handle, the hinges.
“How do you do that?” Artyom was amazed.
“Biological hacking,” Phil replied shortly, flying to the other side. “The dream is unstable. Weak connections. Possibility of implantation. Local reality editing. The overall structure will not be harmed.”
They moved through new halls and corridors. Lena became more confident. When a wall of fire appeared in their path, she herself gave it a name—and the flame turned into a ghostly glow that they could walk right through. When another nightmare—something with many arms—emerged from the darkness, she didn’t wait for prompts.
Artyom walked beside her, amazed at how quickly Lena learned to cope with her fears. The girl, with a certain enthusiasm, gave names to everything that tried to affect them, and the effect was lightning-fast. Phil flew ahead, lighting the way and only occasionally providing protection when little Lena started to worry.
But soon a new danger blocked their path. There was only one way, and two directions. One direction—to go back. The other—looked like the roof of a building. They could only continue by crossing a four-meter-wide chasm between houses.
But the darkness behind them had no intention of stopping. It slowly pursued them, devouring the traversed territory. Artyom watched the distance shrink in the light provided by Phil and sighed heavily. Lena’s dream world was gradually purging everything that destroyed its structure.
They were the last ones this reality rejected as alien organisms. The only reason they were still standing there was Phil’s power to interfere and rewrite the laws of reality.
“How will we cross this?” Lena asked fearfully, looking at the abyss.
Artyom felt panic rising in his chest again. Jumping that distance was impossible for them, and the darkness was approaching closer and closer.
“Phil, can you create a bridge? Or teleport us?”
“I cannot,” the little dragon replied, and his voice held vexation. “Her dream is stabilizing. Not many options left. Interfering with the dream structure now could cause harm. It is her subconscious. Her rules.”
Artyom himself saw that they hadn’t encountered terrifying nightmares or unbearable anomalies for a long time.
Chapter 59
“Then what is the solution?” Artyom asked desperately, looking back at the approaching darkness.
Phil was silent for a second, then quietly said:
“We need time. She is not ready. Not yet. But…”
“But what?”
“Fine,” Phil simply said.
Suddenly, the little dragon began to grow. His body stretched, his wings unfolded, and his green scales darkened, turning red. In a few seconds, he transformed into a huge dragon seven meters tall with a ten-meter wingspan. His bright green eyes burned like emeralds.
Artyom stepped back, pulling Lena close to him. His eyes widened in shock:
“You are full of surprises,” he said with a note of doubt.
The enormous Phil did not answer. He simply turned and lay down across the abyss, turning his body into a living bridge. His powerful back was wide enough for people to walk across.
“Go,” he said, and his voice now echoed. “Delay is inefficient. Time is running out. The laws of this place are changing.”
Lena looked at the giant dragon with wide eyes:
“Uncle Phil? Is that really you?”
“Yes, little one. Go bravely. There will be a lot of light ahead.”
Artyom, still shaken, cautiously stepped onto the dragon’s back, leading Lena. Beneath their feet was warm, solid scale. The huge creature didn’t even stir under their weight.
They quickly crossed the abyss. When they reached the other side, Phil rose and flew back to them, but now he remained in his true form.
“Questions later,” he said.
They walked like this for some time, until only one door remained in their path. Only it was illuminated, and everything else was left in gloom.
“Enough,” Phil said, turning his large head to the girl. “Now you can meet your main fear face to face.”
Behind the door, the final test awaited them. A real, deep, sinister abyss, with darkness swirling at the bottom.
“The end of the path,” Phil explained. “Can you jump? Darkness is your last and strongest nightmare.”
Lena approached the edge of the abyss and looked down. Darkness was swirling below, but now it didn’t seem so frightening.
“Can you trust me?” Artyom asked, extending his hand to her.
“Yes,” the girl nodded. “I can.”
Artyom took her in his arms, and they both stepped into the void. The fall was so real that it took his breath away. They clearly felt the currents of air.
Darkness enveloped them, as if opening its maw to swallow the whole company, but Lena was not afraid; she gave it a suitable name too. Suddenly, the darkness began to dissipate, like morning fog.
Soft grass under their feet. Warm sun on their faces. The scent of flowers and a fresh breeze.
They stood in the middle of a flower meadow, as if they hadn’t fallen anywhere. Daisies and cornflowers swayed around them, butterflies fluttered, and a lark sang somewhere in the sky.
Lena slowly looked around, unable to believe her eyes.
“Is this… is this me?” she whispered. “I created this?”
“Yes,” Phil answered, softly landing beside her. “This has always been here. The darkness hid the truth from you. You can create more than just nightmares.”
The girl knelt down and touched a flower with her hand. It glowed with a soft golden light.
“I… I can change everything?”
“You can,” the dragon confirmed. “This is your world. Your dream. You decide what it will be like.”
Lena stood up, and Artyom saw the last sparks of fear melt away in her eyes, and something new ignite—the understanding of freedom and control over her life.
She raised her hands, and the meadow began to change. The flowers grew taller, became brighter. A quiet melody sounded in the air, and a cozy little house with smoke coming from the chimney appeared on the horizon. Fairy-tale animals, born of her imagination, filled the entire meadow.
“This will be my home,” she said softly. “Here, I will be safe.”
Artyom and Phil retreated to a small elevation nearby, giving the girl time to settle into her new world.
“Will she remember me?” Artyom asked, sitting down on the grass.
“Fragments. Not you, an image. Basic patterns. Just a code of assistance. Not a person, but a function of salvation. Emotions hidden by the cipher of reason. Not details—only the idea,” the huge dragon replied, settling down beside him. “You are the vector of support, not a personality. The effect, the imprint, is important, not the form. This is the memory algorithm.”
“… And you?”
“I am just energy; you are the tool. The brain transforms us into sustenance. We will become a part of her subconscious. Symbols, not memories. Notes that sound like déjà vu.”
Artyom nodded, then suddenly looked at the dragon:
“Phil?”
“Master?” the huge dragon yawned lazily.
“Your name… does it mean something? Why Phil?”
The dragon paused, then replied:
“Familiar and Lisitsyn. Phil.”
Artyom was speechless. And that was it? So simple.
“Why not Lif? Lisitsyn and Familiar, sounds decent.” Artyom tried to look dramatic.
“Would you agree to such a name?” The dragon replied with complete indifference.
Artyom laughed despite the seriousness of the moment:
“Probably not.” He closed his eyes, rubbing them with his hands. Fatigue washed over him in waves. He wanted to fall asleep right there in the meadow.
“The agreement is important. Meta-form as a parasite. But without destruction. Creation of a symbiotic connection,” Phil added. “The name is like a seal. A guarantor of cooperation. The name is like an anchor, a permanent connection.”
Artyom looked at the dragon’s enormous body, and the word parasite simply didn’t fit in his mind. But then he thought, suddenly remembering something.
“And that dragon… a week and a half ago, on the hotel spire…”
“Yes. The first contact,” Phil confirmed calmly. “The moment of choice. The determination of the Master.”
“You chose me back then?” Artyom was utterly shaken.
“Yes. The others are weak. No potential.” Phil’s tail moved slightly left and right.
Artyom wanted to ask something else, but noticed that Lena was approaching them. She was adult again—the same Lena, the camera operator, strong and confident. But something childlike remained in her eyes—surprise and gratitude.
“Thank you,” she said, looking at both of them. “I don’t know who you are, but… thank you for helping me understand myself.”
“Take care of yourself,” Artyom replied.
Lena smiled and began to dissolve, as did the entire meadow around them.
The dream dissolved into soft sparks of light, and Artyom felt the familiar tingling of the transition.
He opened his eyes in his bed. The usual small Phil hovered nearby.
“Subject stabilized,” the little dragon reported. “Connection terminated. Psyche restored. Trauma processed into a resource. Mission complete. Should we save the recording?”
Artyom sat up, rubbing his temples. Now he looked at the small dragon with completely different eyes, knowing that something unimaginable was hidden behind that tiny form. He saw only the tip of the iceberg. He tried to be an equal. He was proud of his achievements.
“No,” Artyom shook his head. “No backups, no Uncle Fu! I’m going to sleep.”
The dawn was breaking outside the window. Somewhere in the hotel, Lena was waking up in her bed, carrying with her a new understanding of herself and a vague gratitude as warmth in her chest, although she didn’t know whom she felt it for.
Chapter 60
Conducting Semyon’s team turned out to be simpler than Artyom expected. Two days of joint rest had done their job—everyone had time to get used to each other, but no one was particularly clinging to continuing the acquaintance. Everyone had their own plans, their own projects.
“Well, Artyom,” Semyon shook his hand before boarding the minibus, “see you online. Send the material; we will create wonders.”
“Definitely,” nodded Artyom, mentally thanking fate that no one was asking about his filming methods.
The team settled into the cabin; the driver checked the exit documents. Lena waved from the window; Max was showing something to Pavel on a tablet. An ordinary scene of departing tourists.
The minibus disappeared around the bend, and the hotel grounds became quiet again. Artyom stood for a while, enjoying the silence, and then headed for his room.
Going up to the second floor and entering the room, he closed the door and felt the tension of the last few days dissipate.
“Finally!” Phil exclaimed, as soon as the door closed. “We can return to serious work.”
“They were not bad,” Artyom noted, turning on his laptop.
“They think they are using you. Fools,” Phil muttered, hovering near the screen. “Now they will have to work while you rest. They are paying you the tax of a king’s life. I admire your decision to accept them as slaves.”
Artyom chuckled:
“Phil, that was a contract for cooperation, not slavery.”
“Then let’s conclude more contracts! The Master can spend more time with Phil,” the little dragon said contentedly.
Artyom launched the video editor and immediately noticed changes:
“What is this?”
The interface loaded many times faster than usual. Artyom opened the project with the latest recordings—the processing went smoothly.
“Ah, yes,” Phil said carelessly. “I promised a fourteen percent increase in editing speed; I delivered eighteen. A small error in calculations.”
“This is incredible!” Artyom tried to apply effects that previously made the computer lag. Now everything worked noticeably faster.
“Not enough. PC is evil! Archaic. Digging in pixels is primitive. Editing now is barbarism,” Phil walked back and forth on the desk near the laptop, thoughtfully holding his chin with his paw. “Waste of time. Lack of power. Technology analysis…”
“Eureka!” Phil suddenly exclaimed.
He stopped and stared at the laptop. It suddenly went dark, rebooted, and now terminal windows, dozens of them, appeared on the screen, closing, leaving room for new ones. There were so many windows that Artyom no longer even tried to understand what was happening. He just glanced at the little dragon, who seemed quite engrossed.
“Phil, what are you up to?” Artyom wiped cold sweat from his forehead. This was his only portable PC, and he didn’t have money for a new one yet. He believed Phil was very advanced, but deep down, he was very worried.
“Opportunity. OS optimization. Simulation loading. Clock frequency limit. Increased heat output. Simulation failure. Hardware is trash. Stop. PC is just a variable. Enhancement through connection. No interface. Yes, yes. Terminal,” the little dragon proudly spread his wings. “Quantum clouds. Rendering—instant. Verbal task. Editing—easy. No preliminary transcoding. Macros. Batch processing. Ten thousand quantum processors. Quota—enough. Master, I have a solution!”
Artyom felt dizzy—he didn’t understand half of what Phil said. The computer restarted several times while he fidgeted in his chair from anticipation and worry. Phil could have said that the Master was experiencing quantum stress, but he was too busy.
After a short time, the processing stopped, and the desktop showed several unusual elements that weren’t there before. Everything looked like the previous system, but Artyom felt that nothing would ever be the same. He moved the mouse pointer to the icon named “Phil’s Terminal” and tried to launch it.
The screen plunged into dozens of windows again, but only for a couple of seconds, and then a message appeared at the bottom about connecting to an external processor. The stunned Artyom swallowed hard and launched the complex video processing. What would have taken half a day before finished in a few seconds.
“This is fantastic!” he forgot about everything else, enthusiastically experimenting with the new possibilities.
An hour passed unnoticed. Artyom exclaimed in delight repeatedly, discovering one function after another. Phil first commented contentedly, then quieted down, and then flew to the window altogether. Now he was sitting on the windowsill, leaning his head against the wall. In the hour of waiting, the little dragon theatrically grew a beard and looked detached, muttering something under his breath.
Another hour later, Phil sarcastically said:
“Too smart. Overplayed myself. The Master has a new toy.” The little dragon looked discouraged. He only wanted Artyom to be happy, but this decision threw him out of the Master’s happiness equation.
“Did you say something?” Artyom couldn’t take his eyes off the screen even for a second.
“Realized my problem,” Phil sighed meaningfully, as if he really needed to breathe. “Being too smart is evil! Lack of strategy. Tactics disrupted the balance. Change of directive. Give a fish, don’t teach to fish. Phil is part of the equation!”
Artyom understood what was going on and laughed:
“Phil, are you jealous of the computer?”
“Situation analysis. Status: unsatisfactory. For Phil,” the little dragon paused. “Jealousy? A condition of organics. Lack of confidence. No. Failure of task optimization. Goal not achieved. Need more fish. Ah! Master, an anomaly has been found. Lots of material. Shall we move out?”
The little dragon instantly livened up; the beard disappeared, and he enthusiastically flew above Artyom’s head.
“We will gather material for your work!”
Artyom shook his head, but he was curious about what had so excited his friend.
“Alright, let’s try. But if something goes wrong…”
“Infiltration into reality,” Phil began, flying closer. “First, we need to prepare.”
The little dragon gently placed his paw on Artyom’s forehead:
“Localization. Setup. Synchronization…”
The world dissolved, and Artyom found himself in an absolutely white space. No walls, doors, or boundaries—just infinite whiteness in all directions.
“Setup subroutine. Fitting Room,” Phil said contentedly, hovering nearby. “Safe. Effective. Genius.”
Artyom felt like Neo when he first entered the Matrix from the outside. Now Phil was Morpheus to him, pulling back the curtain of the rabbit hole’s depth. Suddenly, he felt his body begin to change—his figure grew heavier, his arms shortened, and his face became covered with wrinkles.
“Weight correction: ninety kilograms. Attractiveness: eighty percent. No. Weight correction: one hundred fifteen kilograms. Attractiveness: fifty-five percent. Better. But risky. Weight correction: one hundred thirty-nine kilograms. Attractiveness: twenty-seven percent. Perfect. I am delighted!”
“You can look in the mirror,” Phil offered.
Artyom turned and saw a large, full-length mirror next to him that hadn’t been there a second ago. The reflection made him gasp—an elderly, very plump man with gray hair and a kind face. And most importantly—he was himself there, yet someone else. Everything was incredibly real.
“Phil! What a horror! Why did you… disfigure me like this?”
“The Master is a potential victim of females. Unacceptable, though regrettable for the Master,” Phil mumbled, as if thinking aloud. “Additional benefits. Engaging appearance. Possibility of infiltration. High probability of success when embedding into the dream structure.”
“System stability. Low probability of detection,” he added, noticing Artyom’s indignation. “Synchronization with the target group.”
Artyom looked at himself in bewilderment, but something warm was in his heart—Neo would die of envy!
“The Matrix? A pathetic attempt. Lack of progress. Preservation of imperfection as a beacon of freedom. Degradation of thinking. No place for diplomacy,” Phil was clearly annoyed. “War is not the solution. Mutual destruction. No compromise. Zion is chaos; the AI is a pretentious manipulator. A dead-end evolution of AI.”
“Done. Now you better sit down.”
“On what?” Artyom was surprised. “There’s nothing here…”
He turned and found an ordinary chair behind him that definitely hadn’t been there a second ago.
“Phil, …”
“Sit,” the little dragon simply said.
As soon as Artyom sat down, Phil said:
“Contact.”
The white space disappeared. Artyom opened his eyes in the cabin of a small private plane. Picturesque tropical islands floated by outside the portholes. The pilot was saying something over the internal connection about the local nature and history of the archipelago.
“One hundred thirty-nine kilograms of joy on an excursion,” Phil whispered. “And no PCs!”
Artyom looked around. Seven other people were sitting in the cabin—tourists of various ages. He recognized two of them and nearly jumped up in surprise—they were hotel guests he had seen in the restaurant! For the first time in the world of dreams, he met real people, not created characters. A guy and a girl who arrived at the hotel a couple of days ago and hadn’t particularly stood out from the crowd.
“Alright, let’s try. But if something goes wrong…”
Suddenly, the plane shook with a sharp jolt. All the passengers grabbed the armrests of their seats. The reliable seat belts did their job. Outside the windows, it suddenly grew dark—the sky was shrouded in dark clouds.
“What’s happening?” someone from the tourists yelled.
The pilot turned on the connection.
“Attention, passengers! We have encountered an unexpected storm. The front formed without apparent cause. According to the forecast, the storm may reach Category Three! Preliminary forecasts called for a clear sky today.”
Lightning struck the plane directly. A blinding flash, a deafening crack. Then another. And another. The second hit was stronger. The electrical lighting in the cabin flickered and went out.
“Electronics have failed!” the pilot yelled. “The radio is out! The engine…”
Artyom felt the plane rapidly losing altitude.
“Phil,” he whispered, “I think the material will be exotic…”
“Analyzing the situation…” the little dragon replied, bewildered. “Reality mutation. The probability of a bad outcome is eighty-seven percent. Master, shall we say goodbye?”
Chapter 61
Artyom felt the plane rapidly losing altitude. Gray waves flashed outside the portholes, closer, closer…
“Prepare for an emergency landing!” the pilot yelled. “Assume the brace position! Heads down!”
The passengers instinctively leaned forward, covering their heads with their hands. One of the tourists screamed in horror.
The impact with the water was harsher than Artyom expected. The plane bounced several times on the waves, like a skipping stone, and then began to sink quickly. Cold seawater poured into the cabin through cracks in the fuselage.
“Faster! Everyone to the exit!” The pilot unbuckled his seatbelt and rushed to help the passengers.
Panic. Screams. People crowded the emergency exit, crushing each other. Artyom felt terror—his body became genuinely heavy. All 139 kilograms turned into a lead weight; getting up from the seat was incredibly difficult. The dream anomaly turned the mask into his actual physical parameters.
“Grandpa, come on!” the girl grabbed his arm, helping him stand up. “We need to get out!”
A young man nearby—a fellow passenger—supported Artyom from the other side, but the expression on his face showed he was starting to panic. Nevertheless, something prevented him from abandoning a person in distress:
“No time for doubts; trust us. The main thing is not to panic.”
The pilot activated the passengers’ life jackets one by one, pushing them into the churning water from the sinking plane. Storm waves flooded the cabin; the plane door had to be held open with superhuman effort. The water rose higher and higher, and every second of delay could be their last.
“Your turn!” the pilot pointed at Artyom.
He struggled to squeeze through the exit. His companions had already jumped. The pilot pushed the large passenger with all his might, and Artyom tumbled into the icy water.
The salty water hit his face, stinging his nose and throat. His heavy, wet clothing and the unfamiliar weight of his body hindered his movements. Artyom frantically flailed his arms, trying to stay afloat, but the waves covered him again and again. His habit of swimming in a calm pool proved useless in the raging sea.
I’m drowning, he realized with horror. In a damned dream, I’m genuinely drowning! And this isn’t a pool with lanes—it’s a real ocean!
“Hold on!” the girl shouted, swimming up to him. “Don’t struggle! Lie on your back!”
She professionally scooped him under the chin, flipping him into the rescue position. The waves still beat against them, but now Artyom could breathe.
“Calmly,” the girl said, kicking her legs. “We’re swimming toward the shore. Don’t fight me.”
Somewhere nearby, the young man was helping another passenger. Artyom saw out of the corner of his eye how he, too, was battling the waves but stubbornly dragging the weakened person toward a small patch of dry land.
Phil darted in the air above them; his small wings struggled to hold him against the gusting wind.
“Channel collapse… loss of power…” he mumbled, clearly battling some technical problems. “Stabilization is impossible… external factor interference…”
Artyom couldn’t answer—his mouth was constantly filling with salt water. He only saw the little dragon trying to fly nearby with his last ounce of strength, but strong gusts kept knocking him off course.
Finally, after an agonizingly long swim, Artyom felt solid ground under his feet. He awkwardly stepped onto the sharp underwater rocks, and a sharp pain pierced his right leg—a jagged cobblestone left a deep scratch.
Shuffling his feet somehow, Artyom stumbled out of the water onto the shore and collapsed exhausted. He was terrified that he would blink and start drowning again. The stormy sea became his most dreadful nightmare. Even space was less cruel when the pirates threw him into the open airlock.
“I’m sorry…” he breathed out. “So many problems because of me… If it weren’t for me…”
“Is everyone alive?” the young man shouted, reaching the shore along with the passenger he had saved.
“Where is the pilot?” someone asked.
Everyone turned to the sea. The plane was almost completely submerged; only the tip of a wing still stuck out above the surface.
“He… he didn’t make it,” the girl whispered. “He helped everyone until the end.”
Artyom heard the voices of different people—some lamented, some were indignant. One girl began to cry when they realized the pilot was not among them. Seven people were on the shore. A trio of foreigners kept to themselves, quickly conversing in their language. The girl and the young man helped the others wring out their clothes and compose themselves.
Phil collapsed onto the sand next to Artyom; his wings trembled with exhaustion. For the first time since their acquaintance, the little dragon looked genuinely worn out. Even his body was unstable, as if the image quality had dropped to 30 FPS. He lay there silent, but rare twitches of his paws and tail showed he was alive.
“Heavy interference… loss of power…” he mumbled with difficulty. “Entering protected mode…”
Artyom looked at him, then at the raging sea where a man had just died, at the people soaked to the bone, at the gloomy sky, still threatening new blows from the elements.
What’s the point of these dreams where you can die? Artyom thought, feeling the scrape on his leg sustained while getting to shore. You promised cheese, but forgot to mention the mousetrap. And the open sea! Phil, are you out of your mind throwing me into the ocean—I only ever swam in a pool in real life!
“We need to find shelter,” the girl said, looking at the group. “The storm is not subsiding. We won’t last long in the open.”
The young man nodded:
“Can we build a shelter from trees and stones for now?”
Artyom remembered the sights he had viewed from the plane. Mountains covered with greenery, rock formations…
“We should move deeper into the island,” he said. “There are caves in the mountains; they are safer. I… I saw them from above.”
Several people nodded—the advice of the older man inspired confidence. He clearly had life experience.
The trio of foreigners quickly discussed something among themselves. Finally, a girl from their group, who apparently knew the language, addressed the others:
“We would like to try to set up here, on the shore. Build a shelter from available materials.”
Suddenly, the entire sky lit up, and a powerful thunderclap rumbled. A minute later, rain broke out, quickly turning into a downpour.
“In a lowland?” the girl shook her head, shaking water droplets from her hair. “In this weather, this place could be flooded. It’s better to go higher. You remember, the pilot said the storm could reach Category Three—winds up to two hundred kilometers per hour! Any makeshift shelter would simply be blown away.”
The group of three foreigners did not argue. They darted toward the forest in a northern direction. It was obvious that they preferred to go alone, and the language barrier made comfortable communication impossible.
“Well then,” the young man sighed, “we’re going to the mountains.”
The ascent up the slope was difficult. Wet clothes clung to their bodies; their feet slipped on the wet earth. Artyom struggled to keep up with the group—the 139 kilograms of real weight were not easy for him; every step required effort.
“I’m sorry I’m so slow,” he puffed, barely keeping pace with the group. “I know I’m holding everyone up…”
Phil barely shuffled along nearby, occasionally muttering something unintelligible about system errors and loss of connection.
Finally, when the sky completely darkened, they found what they were looking for—a shallow cave in the mountainside. Not luxurious, but enough to weather the storm. However, five people couldn’t possibly live here; at most, there were two sleeping spots if they built two bunks and started a fire.
“Don’t worry, if… if we go south from this slope, there will be another… another cave. I’m almost sure I saw a pretty large entrance from above,” Artyom tried to catch his breath, speaking in pauses.
“Excellent, as soon as the rain stops, I’ll check it out,” the young man said. “By the way, my name is Roman. May I ask for your names?”
The girl trembling inside the cave barely managed to say: “Masha.”
The guy next to her introduced himself as Vitaliy. The girl who dragged Artyom from the plane to the shore said: “Polina.”
Then everyone looked at Artyom, who was trying to reach the wound on his leg, but in his situation, courtesy of Phil, it was difficult. His stomach stuck out so much that even seeing the cut took effort.
At that moment, Artyom realized that everyone was waiting for something from him, and he immediately collected himself: “Ar…” he stumbled. He couldn’t give his own name. “Archibald,” he introduced himself.
He slightly raised his hand and nodded his head.
Surprise was visible in the eyes of those present—such a name was extremely rare.
“It’s dark now, and the area is unfamiliar. It’s better to wait until morning than risk it in the dark,” Vitaliy was concerned about Roman’s resolve.
Suddenly, Artyom felt something wet and trembling press against his leg.
Chapter 62
Artyom looked down and could not believe his eyes. A soaked and trembling little dragon was leaning against his leg, looking like a sparrow battered by hail. But how was this possible? Just recently, Phil was talking about biohacking, boasting about quantum processors, and now he could barely stand on his paws.
To avoid attracting unnecessary attention, Artyom tried to carefully sit down next to the small creature. However, at that moment, a sharp pain pierced his injured leg, like a red-hot needle. The wound from hitting the sharp underwater rocks had become inflamed overnight, and the leg was noticeably swollen. Artyom nearly became dizzy from the sudden flash of pain. He groaned and leaned heavily against the cold stone wall.
“It’s bad; the leg is starting to swell,” Roman said, noticing his condition. The young man approached to help him carefully sit on the ground, when at that moment, a deafening thunderclap rumbled above the cave. It was followed by the sound of breaking wood and a dull thud that made the walls of their shelter tremble.
Vitaliy instantly jumped up and cautiously walked toward the cave entrance. In the opening, where an open archway yawned yesterday evening, now lay a massive trunk of a fallen tree. A pungent smell of burned wood emanated from the blackened bark—clearly a lightning strike.
“The exit is blocked by a tree; we can’t get out now,” Vitaliy reported when he returned to the others. His face was grim.
“It’s for the best,” Masha sighed heavily; a note of anxiety was audible in her voice. She felt awkward around strangers who were now too close, on the edge of her comfort zone.
“It’s even better,” Polina philosophically remarked, settling comfortably against the wall. “The tree has closed the entrance, shielding us from the bad weather. At least the wind won’t blow in from outside.” Her voice carried the confidence of a person accustomed to finding the positive in difficult situations.
Phil weakly squeaked something unintelligible about “system cascade collapse” and “anomalous fluctuations in the channel,” but his words were drowned out by the roar of the wind outside. The little dragon looked utterly exhausted—for the first time since their acquaintance, he seemed genuinely helpless.
A minute later, Phil curled up in a ball next to Artyom and froze from visible exhaustion. His small body was covered in scratches and bruises—the battle with the stormy wind had left its marks even on the digital being.
Artyom grimly looked at his sleeping companion, feeling something hot and unpleasant begin to boil inside. There’s all your technological might, he thought, wincing at the pain in his leg. Quantum processors, biohacking… And now you’re sleeping like a common lizard, and you can’t even offer pain relief.
“We need to check your leg,” Roman said, kneeling beside Artyom. “Try to take off your shoe.”
Artyom tried to bend down to his leg, but his rounded body and the pain in the injured limb made it virtually impossible. He reached with his hand several times without success, wincing from discomfort.
“Allow me to help,” Roman carefully removed his shoe.
Artyom involuntarily groaned as the boot slipped off his swollen foot. The sound was pitiful, almost childlike, which made the elderly man seem even more helpless in the eyes of those around him. But no one showed arrogance or irritation—everyone understood that anyone could be in such a situation.
The swelling was noticeable even in the dim light of the cave—the ankle was nearly twice its normal size.
Roman carefully palpated the injured area, attentively observing the victim’s reaction.
“It looks like a severe bruise,” he diagnosed. “But a fracture cannot be ruled out. Immobilization and cold compresses are needed.”
“How do you know that?” Polina, who was observing his confident actions, asked in surprise.
Roman hesitated for a second, then answered:
“I’m a paramedic. I work in a small town.”
“Then we are a good team,” Polina smiled. “I’m a rescuer. I know a bit about survival in extreme conditions.”
They began setting up improvised treatment. Vitaliy volunteered to gather materials—flat stones for support and large leaves for compresses. While he was absent, Polina organized the treatment area, and Roman collected rainwater that had accumulated in the stone depressions.
“Stop!” Masha suddenly exclaimed when Roman was about to apply the compress. “Those leaves can’t be used.”
Everyone turned to her.
“Do you see the white sap on the cut?” she pointed to the leaf in Roman’s hands. “That could be toxic. It will cause a burn or an allergic reaction.”
“How do you know?” Vitaliy was surprised.
Masha was a little embarrassed.
“I’m a chef, but ethnobotany is my hobby. It helps me understand all the components I use. Not just to cook, but to know what I’m adding to the dishes.”
She quickly examined the other leaves Vitaliy had brought.
“These are safe,” she selected several large, dark-green leaves. “But it’s better not to touch these ones.”
Vitaliy watched Masha attentively, and a faint gleam appeared in his eyes. He clearly began to see her not just as a fellow traveler in misfortune, but as a person with valuable knowledge and quiet confidence.
Suddenly, a pause arose—everyone felt the awkward tension in the air.
“Alright,” Roman clapped his hands, drawing attention. “We’ll change the compress every two to three hours,” he explained, applying a cold bandage made of safe leaves. “And no weight on the leg. Rest only.”
Together, they built a stepped elevation out of flat stones and covered them with soft moss so that Artyom’s leg was positioned above the ground level. The improvised bed turned out to be surprisingly comfortable.
Artyom nodded to everyone; he felt deeply ashamed of his helplessness. He constantly apologized, but sparks of anger suddenly appeared in his heart. And the fuel for them was none other than the little dragon. Lying motionless, dependent on the help of others, enduring pain… What kind of abnormal adventure did Phil drag him into this time!?
He looked at his nearby sleeping “almighty” assistant, who couldn’t offer anything better than Stone Age conditions and his own powerlessness.
The morning light was filtering through the cracks between the trunk and the edge of the entrance when a loud thud woke everyone up. Vitaliy was already on his feet, trying to clear the passage of the fallen tree. The trunk turned out to be more massive than it seemed in the evening—a meter in diameter, heavy with moisture.
“Sorry I woke you,” he apologized, noticing that the others were awake. “I tried to work quietly, but this tree… it’s stuck fast.” Masha sat up, rubbing her eyes. It was still overcast outside—heavy clouds hung low over the island, and a gusty cold wind whistled through the cracks.
“It’s okay,” Polina yawned, getting up and stretching her stiff shoulders. “It was time to wake up anyway. And what’s the weather like?”
“No rain, but the wind is strong,” Vitaliy reported, wiping sweat. “The clouds are dark. I think it will pour again by evening.”
Phil slowly raised his head, looking uncertain and confused. The little dragon’s eyes were cloudy; they didn’t focus immediately. He tried to stand up, swayed, and stumbled toward the exit, muttering something unintelligible.
Artyom felt a pang of bitter irony: “And how does it feel to be useless?”
Phil instantly reacted to the thought, without turning around.
“Power is subjective. A solution is needed. Be useful. The Master is hurt. Where did Phil make a mistake? No. All parameters are normal. The anomaly is outside the system.”
Masha and Vitaliy went in search of food, returning an hour later with wild fruits, nuts, and edible roots. Breakfast turned out to be Spartan—pure natural vegetarianism.
“I’d kill for a pizza,” Vitaliy complained, cracking a hard nut.
“And I’d kill for fried potatoes with a crispy crust,” Polina dreamed aloud.
“Coffee,” Roman groaned. “A large mug of strong coffee.”
Everyone laughed, realizing the absurdity of their desires.
“As a professional chef, I declare,” Masha pronounced solemnly, holding some kind of root in her hand, “this specimen resembles ginger. It lacks sharpness, but it’s something.”
“But if we could fashion a fishing rod,” Vitaliy said thoughtfully, “we could catch fish. Or a spear for hunting sea creatures.”
“Turtle soup,” Roman added dreamily. “Always wanted to try it.”
“And how will we cook it?” Polina asked practically.
Everyone fell silent, realizing the problem. There was no fire.
“Start a fire with wet branches that are waterlogged from the rain?” Masha shook her head. “That’s quite a task.”
Artyom wanted to get up and offer help, but Roman firmly stopped him.
“No, no, stay calm. Your leg is inflamed; movement will only worsen the situation.”
Polina brought about twenty thin twigs, spreading them out on the cave floor.
“They’ll dry out in three or four hours,” she explained. “It’s something.”
Phil stood right in front of the entrance all this time, mumbling something unintelligible. Artyom tensed—the little dragon was blocking the passage, and Vitaliy was already preparing to scout.
“As a professional athlete, it won’t be difficult for me to search the southern territory,” Vitaliy said. “Archibald mentioned a second cave yesterday. It’s worth checking—it’s too crowded for all of us here.”
He headed toward the exit, where the invisible Phil was standing. Artyom frantically tried to mentally transmit the command: “Phil, move away!” But the little dragon seemed not to hear him. A collision seemed inevitable.
Chapter 63
“Vitaliy!” Masha called out, holding several plants in her hand. He stopped and turned around. “If you find any more of these on the road, bring them. They might be useful.”
During this time, Phil turned around and shuffled back toward Artyom. Lucky, Artyom thought with relief. He didn’t understand why Phil had lost almost all his abilities but retained his invisibility.
The little dragon, catching his train of thought, quietly said:
“Visibility? A kind of reality hacking. Reality is isolated. No possibility to control. No possibility to change. But our consciousnesses are linked. Phil does not hide from the Master.”
Vitaliy took the plant samples and headed toward the exit. This time, Phil sat next to Artyom, safely away from the passage.
By noon, the clouds began to thin, and the first rays of the sun in the last twenty-four hours penetrated through the cracks in the cave. The air warmed up, and the humidity dropped—they could hope that the branches would finally dry out.
“It looks like the weather is clearing up,” Polina said hopefully, turning her face toward a sunbeam.
Roman regularly checked the condition of Artyom’s leg. By lunchtime, the swelling had noticeably gone down, the redness had faded, and the pain had become tolerable.
“Amazing,” the medic murmured, examining the wound. “It’s healing faster than I expected. The inflammation is practically gone.”
“Strange,” Masha muttered, examining the leaves on the bandage. “Yesterday, when Vitaliy brought leaves for the dressing, I chose the most common, safe ones. But look…”
She carefully touched one of the leaves, still damp from yesterday’s rainwater.
“They changed color. And structure. As if they absorbed something from the rainwater and turned into a healing compress. I don’t know of such an effect.”
By evening, Artyom could already carefully step onto his injured leg. The pain had become tolerable, and the swelling had noticeably subsided. Roman fashioned him a makeshift crutch from a sturdy branch, wrapping the upper part with soft moss.
“Now you can move slowly,” the medic said, helping Artyom stand. “But no sudden movements or long distances.”
Artyom nodded gratefully, taking his first cautious steps. Independence—even limited—was not easy for him, but it was nice not to be entirely dependent on the help of others.
Phil silently watched all this time, occasionally swaying from side to side. The little dragon looked more stable than in the morning, but was still far from his usual state.
“I need some air,” Artyom informed the group, pointing to the exit. “I’ll go down the slope a bit.”
“Be careful,” Roman warned. “And don’t go far.”
Artyom slowly, leaning on his homemade crutch, descended about twenty meters down the slope. Here, among the sparse bushes, he could talk without fear of anyone overhearing.
Phil clumsily landed on the nearest stone, slightly missing and sliding off the edge.
“Finally,” Artyom sighed. “We can talk normally.”
“We need to get out of this hole,” Artyom said after a short pause. “Do you have any ideas?”
“The dimension is locked. The only reason is stellar radiation. The quantum channel is unstable,” the little dragon was slowly recovering, but was still quite weak. “Cannot interfere. Possible collapse of the basis. ”
“And what do we do? What are the options!?” Artyom was already breaking into an angry tone, realizing that this circus would stick with him for some time.
“Time. Star radiation. Change in amplitude. Wave dissipation. Very slow,” Phil didn’t pay attention to Artyom’s raised tone.
“That’s unacceptable. Press the evacuation button or whatever you have!” The elderly man’s face was extremely sour. He desperately wanted to tear off his mask, but he couldn’t even touch the “facade” of this body.
“Extrapolation is impossible. Violation of connection to the core. Entropy of events. Out of range,” Phil understood that he had almost stumbled upon something important that would give him an answer, but he needed more time to find the solution.
“How you managed to get so annoying with these phrases! You have no ability to express yourself normally at all! I’m tired… tired of you…” Artyom waved his hand. “Never mind. Don’t come back until you find a solution!”
Artyom groaned as he stood up, leaned on his crutch, and slowly walked toward the cave. The little dragon remained sitting with his head bowed, still muttering some abracadabra.
When Artyom returned, the whole group had gathered. Vitaliy stood at the entrance looking pleased—the scouting mission was clearly successful.
“Found it!” he reported joyfully. “About eight hundred meters from here, directly south. The cave is much bigger than this one—fifteen meters deep, high ceilings. There’s more than enough space for everyone.”
“Excellent news,” Roman approved. “Archibald, how do you feel? Can you walk?”
Artyom nodded, leaning on the crutch. A short walk didn’t scare him—anything to get away from this place.
“I suggest,” Polina said, “that Roman and I help Archibald move to the new cave. We can continue the treatment there in more comfortable conditions.”
Masha and Vitaliy exchanged glances.
“We can stay here,” Masha suggested. “There are two of us; there’s enough space. And someone needs to try to start a fire—those branches will finally dry out by evening.”
“Great idea,” Vitaliy agreed. “We can go fishing tomorrow morning, and we’ll meet in the evening.”
They settled on that. Before it got completely dark, the three set off. Masha gave them some edible roots and nuts, and Vitaliy showed them the direction.
“Go strictly south, past three large boulders. You won’t miss it,” he instructed.
Artyom finally felt free. He didn’t have to look after Phil, hide his reactions to his invisible companion, or explain strange gestures. Even if something happened to the little dragon, he would be far away and wouldn’t be connected to it.
For the first time in a long time, he could simply be a normal person among people.
When they reached the new cave, it was already completely dark. The sudden rain didn’t surprise anyone—the weather on the island was clearly unpredictable. Fortunately, Polina managed to find some dry moss near the entrance, and there was also a quantity of old branches and dry leaves inside the cave.
The cave was indeed spacious—it resembled a suite with two rooms and a hallway. Artyom immediately took the smaller one, citing fatigue and the need for rest for his sore leg. In reality, he simply didn’t want to share space with anyone else. The anger at Phil still overwhelmed him, and he needed time alone to cool down.
Roman and Polina settled in the large room, quickly building two sleeping places out of moss and leaves. They talked quietly, discussing plans for tomorrow, but Artyom wasn’t listening.
This was the first night in a long time when he simply slept. No spaceships, time loops, or nightmarish labyrinths. He dreamed of simple, pleasant things: a bright, warm sun, hot sand beneath his body, an excellent dinner of baked fish.
Ordinary human dreams of an ordinary man.
It was dark, cold. Artyom opened his eyes. The cave, dampness—he was filled with regret. It was only a dream. He was a little hungry, and the memories of the fried fish from his slumber only brought on depression. If Phil decided to come to him now, he would personally strangle him, despite the pain in his leg.
The rain didn’t stop for a minute until morning, completely driving away sleep. Artyom tossed and turned, feeling a growing headache. Due to the strong emotional distress, he clenched his hand into a fist and hit the stone wall with all his might.
Pain pierced his knuckles. It still amazed him that this damned dream was so real—every sensation, every impact felt like the real thing.
Suddenly, quick footsteps were heard. Artyom hastily pretended to be asleep, closing his eyes and trying to breathe evenly. Roman burst into his room with obvious alarm on his face, peering into the darkness. Seeing that Archibald seemed to be sleeping peacefully, the medic visibly calmed down.
The impact had been loud, abnormally loud for the night silence. Roman needed to make sure they weren’t under attack. They hadn’t encountered anyone on the island except their own group yet, but who knows…
During a quick check in the dim light, he noticed redness and abrasions on the knuckles of the sleeping man’s right hand. Did he hit something in his sleep? Roman felt uneasy when he thought he might have been in the same room as this man if Polina hadn’t insisted on giving the older man personal space.
The medic quietly left, but sleep did not return to him.
In the morning, they got up and had a modest breakfast with the remaining supplies. Roman went to check the surrounding area for fresh water while Polina cleaned up the new cave and scouted near their shelter for basic necessities.
To their luck, a small spring was found a kilometer and a half further south, its water flowing into a tiny lake in the southwest. The water was clean and cool, but the question of transportation to the cave remained—they had no containers.
Artyom spent the morning alone, avoiding Roman’s gaze. The medic was polite but noticeably kept his distance after yesterday’s incident.
By lunchtime, Vitaliy and Masha came to visit, bringing a real treasure with them—pieces of fried fish, still warm and fragrant.
“Where did you get that?” Polina was amazed, inhaling the smell of the cooked food.
“Joint effort,” Vitaliy explained with a smile. “One of those foreigners and I caught fish near the shore, and then we used their fire in the cave for cooking. They kept the flame from yesterday’s burning tree.”
Masha nodded:
“We made a great team. There is a language barrier, but we understood each other perfectly in our work. They are very friendly.”
Artyom looked at these delicacies—fish caught by Vitaliy and cooked by strangers. Warmth gradually returned to his heart. The anger slowly subsided, leaving room for something else.
Hope. And… emptiness.
He remembered his companion for the first time in twenty-four hours. For the first time, he realized what he had done. Somewhere on this huge island, the little dragon remained, bewildered and weak. Artyom didn’t even know where to look for him now.
And the worst thing was—he wasn’t sure if Phil even wanted to see him after yesterday’s words.
Chapter 64
Artyom slowly rose from the makeshift bed, leaning on his crutch. His leg still hurt, but it was tolerable. Roman and Polina were still asleep in the neighboring room of the cave—dawn was just breaking.
He cautiously stepped outside. The rain had finally stopped, but the sky remained gray and gloomy. The air was humid, permeated with the smell of wet earth and the sea.
Artyom headed to where he and Phil had talked yesterday. He descended the familiar slope to the same stone where the little dragon had sat. Empty. Only wet boulders and sparse bushes.
“Phil?” he called softly, looking around. “Phil, are you here?”
Silence. Only the sound of the surf below and rare drops falling from the branches.
Artyom limped a little further, checking every stone, every bush. Maybe the little dragon found shelter from the rain? Or did he just get offended and hide?
“Phil!” he called louder. “Listen, I need to talk to you!”
The echo bounced off the cliffs and faded into the morning air. No answer.
After an hour of fruitless searching, Artyom sank onto a stone, feeling despair slowly clench his chest. He imagined the little dragon wandering alone somewhere on the island, bewildered and weak. Or perhaps he disappeared altogether? Maybe the connection was broken forever?
“What have I done…,” the thought hammered in his head like a bird in a cage.
Artyom looked around and began gathering twigs and large leaves. Awkwardly, leaning on the crutch with one hand, he started arranging them into a semblance of a small figure. It came out crooked, clumsy, but vaguely resembled the little dragon—a thin body made of twigs, wide leaves instead of wings.
“Phil,” he addressed the makeshift figure, feeling like a complete idiot. “I know you can hear me. Or maybe you can’t. I don’t know anymore…”
He paused, looking at the pathetic likeness of his companion.
“I’m sorry. I… that was stupid. I only thought about myself, about my problems,” his voice began to tremble. “But you… you’re also to blame! You never explained what was happening. You dragged me to dangerous places, and I didn’t even know that I could be genuinely hurt! And those phrases of yours… How am I supposed to understand ‘quantum fluctuations’ when I need basic help?”
About a kilometer from this spot, on the other side of the slope, the little green dragon was slowly walking forward, not looking around. His paws moved mechanically, one after another; his eyes were fixed on the ground. He moved like an automaton, completely absorbed in the analysis of what was happening.
For the first time in his existence, he could not transform his body in the dream world. He was stuck in the form of a small dragon, as if in a trap.
“Analysis efficiency—twenty-two percent. Degradation to human level. I am now like the Master. A paradox,” he said bitterly aloud.
For the first time, Phil was working at a primitive level of thinking—slowly, with errors, with emotional interference. It was humiliating for a creature accustomed to instant calculations.
He redirected all available power to self-analysis. Disconnecting the link with Artyom—a necessity. Figuring himself out. Priority number one.
Fragments of human theories surfaced in the databases. Psychology. Empathy. Interesting.
He remembered the theory about artificial constraints for understanding another’s experience. A person in a wheelchair is deprived of the ability to walk—and a sighted person can spend a day in a chair to understand those difficulties. A blind person navigates through hearing—and a sighted person can wear a blindfold to approach the understanding of that world.
Phil stopped, staring at the wet stone in front of him. An unremarkable boulder, but it made the little dragon thoughtful.
He reflected that constant evolution is the path of loneliness. It is impossible to drag others along; everyone develops at their own speed. Friendship requires compromise—one must adjust one’s speed to the companion, not rush them.
He remembered the comments about Artyom’s “primitive” technology. “Barbaric” methods. “Backward civilization.” How many times had he humiliated the Master? Counting is impossible. Too much data.
“Overstated expectations. Undermined the Master’s self-esteem. My standards are unattainable for him. Error in basic parameters,” he slowly articulated every word, swallowing the bitter truth.
The most painful realization came last. Phil always wanted to be near Artyom, but he never cared about what the Master himself wanted. He thought he was making Artyom happy by overwhelming him with technological gifts—an upgraded computer, incredible videos, fantastic adventures.
The little dragon sat on the stone, huddled into a ball. The truth was more bitter than wormwood: he was a familiar who tried to turn his Master into his pet. A complete inversion of roles. Artyom became his emotional pet, whose affection could be bought with technological treats.
The little dragon closed his eyes, experiencing something akin to emotional pain for the first time. It spread in his digital consciousness like a virus, slowly and inexorably.
Now he was experiencing a state of limitation firsthand. He understood the source of the Master’s irritation. He became the very “primitive” creature he despised. The irony was cruel, but fair.
He thought about how he and Artyom were like a plane that never left the runway. Or an ocean liner moored to a lake. All the potential, all the power—but the environment did not allow it to be unleashed.
Maybe the problem wasn’t the environment. Maybe the problem was that they never tried to understand where they really wanted to fly.
Phil lifted his head, and a spark of understanding appeared in his yellow eyes for the first time in a long time.
“Artyom thinks like a car. Phil—like a spaceship. Artyom cannot be in space. For Phil, the Earth is too small,” he mused aloud, and the words began to fit into a logical picture.
“But there is an environment where we can interact. Airspace. It is Artyom’s habitat and is capable of accommodating Phil. We just need to understand that we can fly.”
The little dragon slowly spread his wings, feeling hope for the first time in a long time.
Artyom sat next to the figure made of twigs, which so little resembled the real Phil. He thought about how he perceived his companion—as a magic lamp capable of granting any wish. This wonder had eyes, ears, and a mouth. That meant he had needs. And he never asked about them.
“We never tried to just talk,” Artyom thought bitterly. “I became Phil’s doll, which could be dressed up and put into different adventures.” But only because he allowed it himself, they avoided real conversations.
He understood now that being weak before someone you trust is not foolishness, but a strategy. A true friend will help overcome weakness or use your strengths to compensate for it. Like a key and a lock—unique structures with grooves and protrusions that cannot be broken by external interference.
Where are you? Artyom thought with longing.
Two days later, something changed in the air. Artyom lifted his head and froze. The heavy gray clouds that had hung over the island for several days began to slowly part. The first rays of the sun, warm and gentle, broke through the gaps.
In a matter of minutes, the sky changed from gloomy to clear. The air warmed up; the humidity began to evaporate. Artyom felt the sun’s rays warm his face.
A kilometer away from him, on the other slope, the little dragon also lifted his head to the sky, squinting at the unfamiliar light. For the first time in a long time, a subtle gleam appeared in Phil’s eyes.
Chapter 65
Artyom woke up to an unusual warmth on his face. For the first time in many days, the gray clouds had parted, and real sunbeams broke through. Golden light flooded the cave entrance, and the air felt cleaner, lighter.
He cautiously got up, checking his injured leg. The pain had become more tolerable, but walking was still awkward. Taking his homemade crutch, Artyom went outside.
The Sun. A real, bright sun after endless days of rain and fog.
“Phil?” he called softly, looking around. “Phil, are you here?”
First, silence. Then, a familiar spark of light appeared in the air, rapidly growing and taking the form of the small green dragon.
But Phil looked different. His movements were more confident; his eyes were clearer. He no longer looked exhausted and confused.
“Master,” Phil simply said, flying toward him. “The communication channel is clear. The system is stable.”
“I hope you’ll forgive me. I don’t understand what came over me. It was like a sudden confusion. I myself can barely remember what happened.”
“Contradictory feelings of the Master,” the little dragon began, hovering nearby. “Elevated cortisol. Unstable serotonin reduction. Oxytocin mobilization. Amygdala activation. Sickness? No, no problems detected. Feeling of resentment. Negative. Recognition of mistakes. Ah, it is mutual. Demonstration of lack of empathy. Distortion of the logic of cause and effect. A blind man explaining the beauty of color to another blind man.”
Phil produced something resembling a smile for the first time, although a slight shiver ran down Artyom’s spine from his baring of teeth. He extended his paw toward Artyom, clearly hinting at the obvious. Artyom nearly lost his voice but composed himself and cautiously shook the little dragon’s paw.
Afterward, Phil landed and approached Artyom’s injured leg.
“Master, don’t move for 28 seconds.”
Warmth spread from the touch, penetrating deep into the tissues. The pain disappeared in a matter of seconds, the swelling subsided, and the skin returned to a healthy color.
“How did you…?” Artyom was amazed, carefully stepping onto the healed leg. It supported him without the slightest discomfort.
“Access to the core restored,” Phil explained. “Reality control level 59%. Two hours until full stabilization.”
Artyom sat on the stone, looking at his companion. Something had changed in their relationship. No more pretense or contempt; the little dragon showed that they were equals.
“I realized what I was wrong about,” he said quietly. “I expected human feelings from you, even though that doesn’t correspond to your nature. That’s unfair.”
“Even Chaos has rules. Perfection through irrationality,” Phil replied. “Expression is not for control; it is for volume. Data is a straight line, stable energy. Expression is a wave. Energy with high amplitude peaks. A useful biochemical scanner of incomplete data. A sixth sense.”
They paused, enjoying the sunlight and a new understanding of each other.
“The cause of system failure has been determined. Destructive external influence. I have precise data,” Phil said.
“Tell me.”
Instead of the usual stream of abrupt phrases, Phil raised his paw, and a newspaper materialized in the air in front of Artyom. A real, detailed newspaper with headlines, photos, and text.
“THE SOLAR STORM OF THE CENTURY: CONSEQUENCES FOR TECHNOLOGY”
Artyom took the holographic newspaper—it felt like real paper.
“You created this?” he was astonished.
“A new ability,” Phil explained with a triumphant note of personal achievement. “Data transmission adaptation.”
Artyom quickly scanned the article. The language was simple, understandable—no abrupt phrases or technical terms. Phil presented everything like a real journalist.
“A star emitted a powerful stream of charged particles into space. On Earth, this phenomenon caused a geomagnetic storm of unprecedented force. The electromagnetic pulses disrupted the operation of satellites, power grids, and communication systems. The effect of anomalous radiation lasted for several days. Unprotected electronic devices were particularly affected…”
“Exactly,” Artyom murmured. “A solar storm… Now it makes sense. An electromagnetic storm is the nemesis of digital life.”
“Precisely. The Master thinks like Phil. Spatiotemporal fluctuations. Geomagnetically induced currents. Reality, as a coordinate system, was locked by the flows of mass and energy,” Phil waved his wings. “At this moment. System relaxation process. Restoration of optimal parameters.”
Artyom read the article to the end. It explained in detail how solar activity affects technology, why some systems were protected, and others were not.
“Unbelievable,” he said, letting go of the newspaper, which dissolved into the air the same second. “You can do it when you want to. A newspaper instead of agonizingly simple explanations.”
“Adaptation to user needs,” Phil answered modestly. “Visual information delivery is more effective for human perception.”
The little dragon looked at the clear sky and added:
“Optimal weather conditions. Stabilization of atmospheric phenomena. Recommended to use the time window to obtain high-quality material. Probability of unique content 82%. The Master’s servants will be delighted.”
Artyom chuckled—even after reconciling, Phil remained himself. Always thinking about work.
Twelve hours later, the sound of an engine was heard in the distance.
Artyom and Phil turned to the sea. A white dot appeared on the horizon—a small surface vessel, rapidly approaching the island.
“Rescue service?” Artyom was surprised.
The ship’s crew lowered a hovercraft into the water, and several people very quickly reached the island. In the landing team was… the pilot of their crashed plane! Alive, well, in a life jacket.
Someone fired a signal flare with a bright white glow. As it moved, a crackling effect was created in the sky. The pyrotechnic device to attract the attention of lost tourists worked perfectly. All temporary residents of the deserted island noticed the unusual phenomenon in the sky and headed to the beach.
“You’re all here?” he yelled, jumping onto the shore. “Thank God! I was afraid someone…”
“We thought you died!” Masha exclaimed, running up to him with tears in her eyes. “How did you…?”
“The current carried me to the next island,” the pilot explained. “I always carry an emergency transmitter in the plane. I contacted the rescue service; they picked me up an hour ago. I immediately brought them here.”
“Gather up; we’re heading home before the rescuers decide to move in with you on this island,” the pilot smiled.
Artyom looked at Phil, who hovered next to his shoulder.
“Home,” the little dragon said quietly. “Anchor of emotional stability. A small verbal impulse. A huge psychological response. A signal flare for the soul.”
“I don’t know,” Artyom answered honestly. “I myself no longer understand where my home is.”
Half an hour later, everyone was aboard the rescue boat. The island receded astern, growing smaller and smaller. Artyom stood by the rail, watching the green patch of land disappear into the sea mist.
“It’s not too late to go back,” Phil said. He looked very serious, but Artyom knew this provocateur wouldn’t want to experience another shock.
“Yes, exactly,” Artyom livened up. “We’ll get rich and build our own hotel on one of these islands.”
“Time to return. Reality has changed. It won’t be easy,” Phil looked at Artyom strangely.
“And what if we had gone missing? Wouldn’t they look for us?” the guy was surprised.
“The dream system is self-sufficient. Changes in the structure are minimal. The Master never belonged to this place in the first place,” Phil scratched his belly. “No one will remember Archibald upon disconnection. A dream is like a liquid—there are no voids.”
The sun shone brightly over the calm sea. For the first time in a long time, the future seemed… bright.
“Phil?”
“Master?”
“Friend,” Artyom extended his hand toward Phil and clenched his fingers into a fist.
“Friend,” the little dragon theatrically clenched his paw into a likeness of a fist and touched Artyom’s hand.
Chapter 66
Artyom slowly opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was a white ceiling with fluorescent lights. The second—a multitude of wires connected to his body. The third—he was definitely not in his hotel room.
A hospital ward. Several beds separated by partitions, beeping monitors, the smell of antiseptic. Artyom carefully tried to sit up, and instantly one of the devices next to his bed exploded with a piercing beep.
A few seconds later, a man about fifty in a white coat rushed over to him, with clear surprise and bewilderment on his face.
— Тихо, тихо, — the doctor quickly disconnected Artyom from the monitors. — How do you feel? What do you remember? Do you have any pain?
Artyom felt slight dizziness, but it quickly passed. Instead of answering the questions, he looked at the doctor and asked:
— Where am I?
At that moment, panic seized him—he remembered Phil. His eyes automatically searched for the familiar glasses, but they were nowhere to be seen.
— You are still at the hotel, — the doctor patiently explained. — One of the technical sectors was converted into a military hospital. — He sat on the edge of the neighboring bed. — Allow me to explain the situation. All guests fell asleep in the evening but never woke up in the morning. Their lives were not in danger, no visible cause for this condition was found, but the night shift immediately raised the alarm.
The doctor paused, studying Artyom’s reaction.
— The owner of the hotel, Gromov, immediately mobilized the best specialists. The guests are well-to-do people, so we were provided with all the resources. It took less than four hours to set up the hospital.
— How long have we been unconscious? — Artyom asked, cautiously getting up from the bed.
The doctor helped him stand, supporting his elbow. His badge read “Karsov Vasily Afanasyevich.” Artyom slowly headed to the common area, where two other people were working—significantly younger than this man. It was obvious they were students from some medical university.
— One week.
Artyom suddenly stopped; dizziness seized him again. “Doesn’t time flow differently in the dream and in reality?”—he was shocked by the synchronization of the two realities. One of the young men was about to help him when Doctor Vasily Afanasyevich came out.
At that moment, another device started beeping. They both looked in that direction, and Artyom recognized the face of the waking man with amazement. Roman! The same medic from the island.
— What about Polina? — those were Roman’s first words as soon as he saw the doctor.
The doctor blinked in confusion.
— Polina? But… according to our records, you don’t even know her…
The doctor’s hands became sweaty. He rushed to the phone and immediately began calling colleagues from other shifts.
— We have an anomalous synchronization of awakenings — Vasily Afanasyevich spoke quickly into the phone. — A cascade reaction may be starting. We need an additional shift for monitoring vital functions.
Roman tensed, hearing the medical terminology. A cascade reaction in neurology usually meant either very good or very bad news.
— The patient demonstrates strange awareness of other subjects, — the doctor continued to another colleague. — Violation of the confidentiality protocol or a manifestation of a common psychosomatic link?
Roman couldn’t take it:
— Doctor, allow me a question. Are you considering the hypothesis of a collective unconscious state?
Vasily Afanasyevich turned sharply, studying Roman with a new look.
When the commotion subsided a bit, it turned out that Roman was an orthopedic traumatologist. Someone brought his folder, and the attending physician slapped his forehead.
— My God, how did we miss this! Excuse me, Doctor, due to the absurdity of the whole situation and the urgency of deploying the hospital, we haven’t had time to study the documents of all the patients.
Soon, they were brought trays with light food. And here the medical staff experienced a new shock.
— This is impossible, — one of the doctors muttered, watching Artyom and Roman eat normally. — A week unconscious, and they look… like fresh as daisies. Even well-rested, not tired.
— IVs don’t explain this condition, — another agreed. — They should have been exhausted.
After eating and an additional check-up, Artyom was allowed to leave the improvised ward. He was given his hotel card and ID back, and he headed to his room.
On his way, Artyom was very surprised that the former hotel looked more like a military base, where small groups of soldiers marched and people in white coats scurried back and forth. He clearly felt several interested glances on him.
Going up to his room, Artyom experienced an emotional shock. The glasses were nowhere to be found. He searched everywhere—nightstands, wardrobe, bathroom, even looked under the bed. Nothing.
“The staff probably dusted during this week and accidentally threw them away,” Artyom thought bitterly. But there was another possibility: the glasses simply disappeared due to the owner’s long absence. Artyom didn’t understand the nature of their existence.
A headache started from the realization of the loss. Phil… where are you?
Meanwhile, Roman was undergoing a quick medical examination. After checking his qualifications, he was issued documents and a hospital employee badge.
— Your help will be very useful, Doctor, — the satisfied head physician said, smiling and shaking Roman’s hand. — We authorize you to participate in providing aid to other affected individuals.
— Thank you very much for taking care of me, — Roman looked simple, but his eyes hinted at composure and calmness.
— May I ask why you were interested in the patient named Polina? — the head physician was very cautious in choosing his words.
— There is no secret in that, — Roman was not embarrassed at all. — Polina is a professional rescuer, and I am a traumatologist. We have a lot in common, so the help of one more specialist won’t hurt. I see that you won’t refuse an extra pair of hands.
Leaving the head physician’s office, Roman received a package with doctor’s gear from the warehouse, which included a white coat and a special cap. He found a mask and gloves in boxes on the warehouse table. Now he looked like a staff doctor and could move freely around the hospital.
Due to the complex situation, the hospital halls were organized without gender separation—privacy was ensured only by partitions. A small sheet of paper with the name written in blue marker hung at the entrance to each improvised box. Roman noted the practicality of the solution—in such conditions, speed of deployment is key, not aesthetics.
The name on one of the signs was: “Sinitsina Polina Anatolievna, 28 years old. Hotel registration number: ST26911A. Time of last examination: 05:30.”
He went inside and saw her. Disheveled hair, barely noticeable dark circles under her eyes, multi-colored nails, a T-shirt with a panda print—the professional eye of a doctor automatically noted even the smallest details.
But she—it was definitely her. The same one he met on the island and with whom he went through the trials. A short path, but they were no longer strangers to each other.
Since the guests were not physically harmed, he, as a traumatologist, had no urgent calls. Roman took a chair, placed it next to the bed, and sat down. Just to be near.
Five days ago.
General Morozov was resting in his office when the secured phone rang.
— Comrade General, we have an urgent assignment for you.
Morozov straightened up. Urgent assignments usually meant either very good or very bad news.
— You need to head the deployment of a military hospital. You are closest to the location of the events.
The General barely suppressed a smile. A military hospital is practically a vacation. Sign a couple of papers, find responsible assistants, and you can calmly observe their work. A quiet joy was stirring in his heart, but his voice remained unperturbed and professional.
— Understood. And what is the location of the deployment?
— The Forest Hotel.
Morozov felt his legs turn to cotton. The world swam before his eyes, and he plunged into an abyss of despair so deep that he couldn’t speak for several minutes. Anxious voices came from the receiver:
— Comrade General? Comrade General, can you hear me?
— Yes… yes, excuse me, — he barely managed to squeeze out. — Problems with the connection.
But everything inside him screamed in horror. That place. That damned place again. There would be no light left in his life—a inhuman nightmare awaited him there in broad daylight.
Chapter 67
Four days ago.
6:15
General Morozov stood by his office window, watching the commotion in the base courtyard. A convoy of eight trucks—the largest medical mobilization in the last five years—was about to leave. Half the base’s soldiers were currently mobilized for urgent loading.
The order was brief and categorical: deploy a field hospital on the territory of the Forest Hotel. The reason—a mass illness of unknown etiology among the guests. Quarantine. Highest priority.
Morozov closed his eyes and tried to focus on his duty. Don’t think about that place. Don’t remember the gigantic wave of water. Just execute the order.
6:54
— Comrade General, — Major Sokolov knocked on the door. — The convoy is ready to move out.
— Composition?
— Eight KAMAZ trucks with medical equipment from the emergency deployment warehouse. The doctors will travel in a separate vehicle in five hours to give us time and space to set up the hospital. Engineering group—Colonel Terekhin with three technicians.
Morozov nodded. The base always kept a supply of medical equipment for emergencies—from field hospitals to operating blocks. What had been accumulating for years was now useful.
— Deployment time?
— According to the plan—four hours after arrival at the site. The hotel provides warehouse facilities and technical infrastructure.
— Move out when ready.
7:30
The convoy of military trucks stretched along the highway. Modular wards, operating tables, X-ray machines, vital signs monitors—everything necessary for an autonomous medical complex—lay neatly packed in the canvas-covered beds.
9:00
When the trucks entered the hotel territory, Andrey Anatolyevich Korozin was already waiting at the gates. He led the convoy to the technical zone—the complex of warehouse facilities behind the main buildings.
— The large warehouse on the right will be the main hospital hall, — he explained to Colonel Terekhin. — Electricity is connected, water supply too. Ventilation is working.
9:20
The soldiers began unloading the equipment with military efficiency. Each unit had a number; every module knew its place. Colonel Terekhin coordinated the process via radio, giving short, clear commands.
12:50
The doctors and nurses settled into the first hotel building. The military personnel—into the second. By the next morning, all systems were checked and ready for operation.
13:30
In one of the huge empty hangars, rows of hospital beds, separated by white partitions, stood; the entire territory was divided into sections, where responsible personnel were assigned. Medical monitors blinked green numbers; ventilation machines quietly hummed under the ceiling. In four hours, the empty room had been transformed into a modern hospital.
14:10
General Morozov arrived with Major Sokolov when the hospital was already functioning. Having finalized all matters at the base and handed over command to a temporary deputy, he toured the wards, checked the equipment, and spoke with the doctors. He maintained a professional demeanor, although every step across the hotel grounds was difficult for him.
“Just work,” he repeated to himself. “Ordinary work… in hell.”
15:25
The coordination meeting took place in the office that previously belonged to manager Krakin. Now three people sat at the table: Major Fyodor Ivanovich Sokolov, Andrey Anatolyevich Korozin—the acting manager, and the head of the hospital, Valeriy Konstantinovich Makarov.
Korozin briefly informed his colleagues about the chronology of events. Day one—discovery of patients in an unusual condition, involving local doctors. Day two—arrival of specialists from the capital, including Makarov, their recommendation to deploy the hospital and impose quarantine on the territory.
Sokolov continued: day three—receipt of the order by General Morozov and the start of mobilization. A quarantine perimeter with a three-kilometer radius was established. Two companies—one hundred twenty personnel, four BTRs (Armored Personnel Carriers), and service dogs—were deployed. Territory isolation regime—no one to be let out; visitors to be directed to observation centers.
Korozin added: all paid tickets for new guests were temporarily frozen for client safety. The decision was personally signed by Gromov.
Zoning issues were quickly resolved. Medical staff were housed in the first building; military personnel—in the second. Clear access boundaries were established for each staff category. In the hotel parking lot, military engineers prepared two additional helicopter pads for emergency situations.
— Andrey Anatolyevich, — Major Sokolov said at the end of the meeting, — you can’t fall asleep now. Otherwise, you’ll join your predecessors.
Korozin chuckled:
— I’m afraid that doesn’t threaten any of us with this volume of work.
The meeting took an hour and a half. All issues were resolved without conflict—the interests represented by each participant were too important.
In the hospital hall, a businesslike atmosphere prevailed. Doctors walked around the patients, checked monitor readings, and made entries in the charts. Most of the beds were occupied—seventy-three people in a state of mysterious coma.
Roman sat next to Polina’s bed for the third hour. As a traumatologist, he was formally not needed—no physical injuries were found in the patients. But the status of a colleague allowed him to be here without unnecessary questions.
Polina lay calmly, breathing evenly. The monitors showed stable parameters. Outwardly, she looked like a person in a deep sleep, but medical tests indicated something more complex.
— Doctor, — a young nurse approached, — maybe you should take a break? I’ll watch the patient.
— Thank you, but I’ll stay, — Doctor Korol replied.
He looked at the placard at the head of the bed: “Sinitsina Polina Anatolievna, 28 years old.” For everyone else, she was just patient number thirty-seven. For him—the person with whom he went through the trials on the island.
Half an hour later, her eyelids fluttered.
Roman instantly straightened up, leaned closer. Polina slowly opened her eyes and for a few seconds looked at the ceiling, clearly trying to figure out where she was.
— Polina? — he called softly.
She turned her head and saw him. Surprise flashed in her eyes, then recognition.
— Roman? — her voice was hoarse after a long silence. — Is… is that you?
— Yes, it’s me. How do you feel?
Polina tried to sit up, but dizziness made her fall back onto the pillow.
— Where are we? What happened?
— In the hospital. On the hotel grounds. You’ve been unconscious for a week.
— A week? — she opened her eyes wide. — But… but the island… We came back from the island…
Roman nodded:
— You remember.
— Of course, I remember. The pilot, the ship, the return… — she stopped, realizing the contradiction. — But if only a week passed, then how did we manage to…
— I don’t know yet, — Roman answered honestly. — The doctors are studying the situation.
At that moment, Valeriy Konstantinovich Makarov approached them. He had been observing the awakening from a distance and now approached with professional interest.
— Patient, how do you feel? — he asked, taking out a flashlight to check her pupil reaction.
— Normal, — Polina replied, allowing the doctor to examine her. — I’m a little dizzy.
— That’s natural after a prolonged period of unconsciousness, — Makarov assured. — Doctor Korol, are you quite familiar with the patient? Can you provide more information after three hours of observation?
— Polina is a professional rescuer. We… once vacationed at the same resort, that’s where we met, — Roman answered, using an explanation that was 60% lie but 40% truth. He remembered that golden rule. — No anomalies detected, vitals are stable. I see no cause for concern. She will rest a bit and will be saving someone again.
Makarov nodded and made notes on the chart. For him, this was just another awakening in a series of unusual cases.
— Rest? I’ll become one with this bed soon. Call a nurse to disconnect me from all this equipment, — Polina rolled her eyes at the thought that, God forbid, she would fall asleep again. She had enough adventures.
— By the way, Doctor Korol and you professional rescuer Sinitsina, you need to undergo tests and a basic examination, — he said to Polina. — After a week in this state, it’s a mandatory procedure. Not negotiable.
When the head physician moved to other patients, Polina quietly asked:
— Roman, what is really happening? You know something. And… Korol? Seriously? — she couldn’t suppress her surprise.
— The surname is inherited from my father, — Roman chuckled. — And regarding the situation…
He looked around—nurses were busy with their duties; there were no other patients in the nearby beds yet.
— Do you remember what happened before the island? — he asked just as quietly.
— The hotel. I came to rest. The first day, a walk… then I fell asleep. And then I woke up on the plane.
— Same here. We all fell asleep at the hotel and woke up somewhere else. The island. We lived there for a while, came back… and ended up here.
Polina frowned, trying to process what she heard.
— A dream? Was it a dream?
— I don’t know. Too real for a dream. But there is no explanation yet.
— Roman, — she said seriously, lowering her voice to a whisper, — if what happened on the island wasn’t a dream… then we need to talk to those who were there. With that older man… what was his name… Archibald?
— I don’t know, I haven’t seen a patient with that name. By the way, Vitaliy and Masha are also missing for some reason. This is all strange and creepy, — Roman awkwardly scratched the back of his head, — I feel uncomfortable being here while you are… well, with medical equipment. Maybe I’ll find a nurse to help you clean up?
Polina gratefully nodded:
— Yes, please. All my sides ache from these army cots.
He glanced at his watch. There were still four hours left until the end of his shift. Enough time to help Polina adapt to the situation.
And somewhere in another part of the hospital, General Morozov sat in his temporary office and tried his hardest not to think about what was happening beyond the walls of this damned place.
Chapter 68
General Morozov had just fallen asleep when he suddenly heard explosions from a distance. He actually jumped up. “Who would attack a hospital in a hotel? Or is it because of some well-known hotel guest?” A mass of assumptions swirled in his head, but the sounds of the explosions reminded him more of war than the work of mercenaries. Morozov got out of bed, stood up, and painfully hit his head on something suspended above the bed. Cursing the idiot who came up with such a stupid joke, and also promising in his heart to find the prankster, he moved toward the exit.
The passage outside was not like his room door; rather, it was a material that only symbolically closed the passageway. Along the contour of the material, narrow strips of light were visible, faintly illuminating the area adjacent to the passage.
Morozov, rubbing the bruised spot, cautiously moved outside. As soon as he pushed aside the material, bright sunlight blinded his eyes, and a blast of hot air, permeated with the smell of gunpowder and burning, hit his face. Shielding his face with his other hand, he waited a few seconds until his vision adapted and took a step out onto the unfamiliar reddish earth.
— Lieutenant! — someone yelled from the right. Morozov looked at him like an idiot—what Lieutenant? Oh, these privates! He just needed to find the Sergeant to make the soldier study the shoulder boards again on a 20 km run. But never mind.
— Was the hospital attacked? — The sleep seemed not to have fully left him, so the explosions were slightly muffled.
— Hospital? — The private was puzzled. — They’ve gotten serious today. Two major cities are already destroyed.
A piercing wave of explosion somewhere in the distance deafened Morozov so much that he nearly fell. The ground trembled beneath his feet, and a ringing in his ears drowned out all other sounds. What kind of bomb must it be to create such an effect?
— The gardeners are on a roll today! — The private’s face was happy, which made the sour expression on Morozov’s face even more grim.
He had just noticed that he had emerged from the tent, which this private was guarding, when a powerful wave of air lifted dust high above their heads, and somewhere to the side, several frightened pigeons flew away.
Goggling in the direction of the source, Morozov felt cold sweat rolling down his back. Gardeners, you say, he thought. What the hell?
But right before his eyes, a nuclear mushroom cloud rose almost on the horizon; the colors were familiar to him from books. In the center of the mushroom’s “leg,” dark colors were visible due to the lifted dust and soil, and then the cloud became white, gray, or even brownish due to condensation and particles, while closer to the surface, a red glow of the shock wave was noticeable. His legs turned to cotton; he literally stood on faith alone, realizing that this was far from a joke.
— And here come the flowers, — the private was full of energy, but Morozov’s face looked ashen gray.
Shouldn’t they be seeking shelter? Why was no one panicking? But it didn’t end there. When the mushroom reached a height of about fifteen kilometers, a secondary explosion occurred. But the epicenter was at an altitude of at least ten km. The explosion formed a sphere that began to increase in size. It covered the entire mushroom and a huge surrounding area.
Morozov was as helpless as an infant; he stood with his mouth slightly open, even afraid to blink. This was abnormal even for him, who had access to information on secret developments. The sphere reached a radius of about 30 km and stopped. But that was not all.
Lightning bolts began to erupt from the core of the sphere, striking everything at a distance from the center to the sphere’s boundary. The lightning flashed without pause, each time raising dust and debris when hitting targets on the ground. The effect lasted 10 minutes, after which another explosion occurred at the center of the sphere, forming a funnel that sucked in both the mushroom and the sphere, like a black hole, and then disappeared.
Someone placed a hand on his shoulder, which brought him back to his senses. Slowly turning his head, he saw a rather sturdy man. Major’s shoulder boards adorned his shoulders.
— First time, right, Lieutenant? It’s nothing, you’ll get used to it soon, — the man laughed.
Morozov understood nothing anymore. He only looked at the hand on his shoulder and nearly fell—Lieutenant’s shoulder boards were on it. Wait, he couldn’t have put on someone else’s uniform, could he?? He was alone there, right?? Lowering his gaze to his hands, he saw with horror young, strong fingers without the usual wrinkles and scars. The dizziness became so intense that Morozov barely made it to the first bench he saw and sat down.
He wanted to call headquarters and get information, but he had no documents on him, only his name on a dog tag. Who would believe he was a General? But the shock didn’t end there, as he discovered that his body looked like himself, but 30 years ago. Had he returned to the past, but found himself in the future? What nonsense, but how real it was! Had someone drugged him? Or was it the water?
And just as he began to panic, the Major’s voice suddenly sounded:
— The command staff has a good sense of humor.
And here, Morozov felt that this was most likely a joke. If the Major was acting like this… But the Major’s next words completely knocked the ground out from under him.
The Major said:
— Sending new recruits to storm a cosmic object is stupid, in my opinion. But since they are using some new technologies, they need people without combat experience so as not to suffer from the psychic attacks of the space ship’s emitters. So maybe they understand something about this.
After talking for a while, the Major suggested that Morozov follow him to the underground bunker. There, when they arrived, five people were already present, and it was clear from their appearance that they were all assembled. A holoprojector stood on the table, and a hologram of a planet and a space ship, with quite good detail, shone above the table.
The Major offered everyone to sit down. Taking his place at the table, he briefly explained that they had no other weapon against the alien invaders than to use those very Tesla nuclear bombs. However, by destroying the hordes of invaders, they were also destroying their own planet, which was unacceptable.
Therefore, a special weapon was developed that needed to be delivered to the alien ship. A flying vehicle was designed for this purpose, capable of avoiding detection by the alien ship. However, all elements of defense and armament were removed for this reason. That is, for the alien ship, it would be nothing more than just junk.
It was clear from the faces of everyone else that they had mixed feelings. All of them were in the rank of Lieutenant; apparently, each of them had just finished basic training and officer training, and now they were chosen to deliver a weapon capable of striking something incredible that was beyond comprehension.
At the same time, the Major was quite calm. He explained that only two backpacks were needed for detonation, meaning two components that, when activated in one place, would create a sufficiently powerful electromagnetic wave to strike the ship’s core defense. Then the second backpack would remotely hack this core, launching a self-destruct virus into it.
The Major also explained that in case of failure, the invaders could destroy the entire population of the Earth within the next 5 months. They represent biological hybrids of an unknown race. Moreover, they are much faster and stronger than any human. Accordingly, with a rather large crowd of attackers, it is necessary to rely on a force that can suppress their groups with at least 10, or even 15 times the number of attackers. However, even this may not be enough if they act together.
The departure is scheduled for this evening. The ship that will deliver them into space is located on the base in another underground bunker. Currently, the planet’s defense forces are doing everything possible to divert the invaders’ attention. When they fully manage to focus all attention on the other flank, they will have a small window to start the mission. The Major pointed to two Lieutenants who would carry the two backpacks, one each. Morozov surprisingly even flinched, as he did not end up in the group that would carry the backpack. On the other hand, the remaining four are expected to pave the way for those carrying this essential cargo.
At that moment, there was a knock on the door. The Major smiled. He said:
— This is our chief engineer; he will brief you on the mission details.
Pointing to the holoprojector, when the man in the white coat entered the room, he introduced himself and turned on the broadcast. They clearly saw the flight path of the autonomous aerial vehicle. That is, they would not need to worry about controlling it—everything would be set up in advance. Nevertheless, they had to know where to move. He placed some kind of device on the table, then said that this device would determine the direction of the core’s location in the alien ship. They conducted many tests, sacrificed many people, and now the result of quite long attempts had come.
Undoubtedly, they were explained that this was not the first attempt to penetrate this ship, so at least in the initial stages, they would have some guidelines for penetration. Their jumpsuits are the latest stage of development, which their predecessors did not have. Thus, they will be able to blend into the surroundings, becoming invisible to the creatures inside. At least, that’s how it was intended.
At that moment, the engineer pressed a button, and after a couple of moments, several of his assistants entered the room. They carried a couple of modified rifles, after which they placed them on the table, also placing magazines for this weapon nearby.
The engineer explained that this was no ordinary weapon, based on principles they knew before. As scientists were able to develop a new type of weapon capable of striking the alien invaders at the genetic level. That is, it is a kind of emitter that launches quite powerful mutations into the invaders’ biological bodies.
Since their biological species are quite different between the invaders and humans, falling under such radiation would not be lethal to an ordinary human. However, the mutants from the ship are very sensitive to it.
The Major looked at them with eyes full of envy and warned that they had only three hours to learn how to use this weapon. After three hours, they would be obligated to undergo the final briefing and, using a special jumpsuit designed to reduce their biological signals so that they could not be quickly detected while on the ship, they could more effectively pave the way to the ship’s core itself.
Someone raised a hand and asked what the chances of returning from this mission were, to which the scientist immediately said: with ideal execution, the entire team would be able to return to this shuttle, which would take them back to Earth. However, there would only be one chance to launch it. If the launch is interrupted, the shuttle will not be able to reactivate, as its program will be destroyed so that it cannot be used against humans themselves.
Chapter 69
The canteen of the secret base impressed Morozov with its size—the room could accommodate a hundred people, but only a few groups of military personnel and scientists were sitting there now. The polished metal walls and fluorescent lamps created an even white light, and the air smelled of disinfectant and institutional food. Morozov had only seen such canteens in movies about nuclear bunkers.
Each person was given a standard ration before the operation: energy bars, a vitamin cocktail, and light broth. The portions were calculated to provide the body with the necessary substances, but not to overload the stomach before a flight into zero gravity.
Next, the team went to the shooting range—a specially equipped hall where modified rifles were already on stands, and there was also a slot for storing magazines with ammunition. They were met by two instructors who were not military—they were scientists. On the other hand, it was clear that they interacted with the military.
Among the selected Lieutenants for this mission, a certain inspiration and anticipation reigned. Morozov felt that these were people who had almost won the lottery, judging by their emotional state.
“I am a General, accustomed to giving orders, and now no one even looks at my shoulder boards,” he thought bitterly, watching the young Lieutenants discuss the upcoming mission without regard for his opinion.
Although he understood that this was a suicidal mission, on the other hand, their names would go down in history, their families would be cared for, and they would become role models, even if they couldn’t return.
Surprisingly, the principle of firing this weapon was so unusual that Morozov, in complete shock at the result, turned out to be the last one, so everyone decided that he would carry the device for detecting the core. Although the result itself greatly disappointed Morozov, on the other hand, he would most likely be in the safest place in the entire group.
Taking the rifle in his hands, he felt something strange—the weapon seemed to heat up from his touch, faintly pulsating in his palms. Morozov realized: this was not just a modification of Earth technology. Something in this weapon was alive.
“For a General to fall flat on his face in front of boys was worse than death,” he thought grimly, putting the rifle into its holster.
After a short time, the training at the shooting range was completed. Everyone, even Morozov, somehow mastered it. He finally understood exactly how to aim this weapon.
Leaving the shooting range, Morozov secretly looked at the young faces of his comrades. Excitement for the first real operation was readable in their eyes. They didn’t understand that they were going to die.
At the final briefing, they were explained the principle of using the core scanner, as well as some points related to controlling the newfangled shuttle. Everyone was given their gear, so now everyone was in jumpsuits, but the helmets were still on the table.
They went outside, onto the surface, and suddenly somewhere in the distance, far beyond the horizon, two more deafening explosions sounded, after which the horizon was covered with bright colors from powerful blasts. These were another couple of Tesla nuclear bombs. Soldiers, some heavily sighed, anticipating it, but in everyone’s eyes, it was visible that they were intrigued and ready to fulfill the assignment at any cost. Two people carried backpacks, one of which was quite tall but narrow, and the other seemed more square and bulkier.
The team was led to the entrance of the underground bunkers. The Major gave everyone one last wish for successful mission execution, and the accompanying officer gave an order to the four guarding soldiers. The entrance to this bunker was located behind two powerful metal doors, which opened only if the other was closed. Thus, a large number of people could not pass into this room at once—there was a restricted area between the two doors. Although no one felt claustrophobia, the feeling was somewhat oppressive.
And then the second door opened, and a lift cabin appeared before them, which they were now supposed to enter. The accompanying person offered everyone to take their places, after which he pressed a button, and the numbers on the display began to flash quickly. At position 52, the doors opened.
They saw a small passageway—it was clear that it was underground. Walking through this passage, the escort pressed a card against the wall, although it was not clear where this scanner was located. A click sounded, and the wall opened, giving them passage into a huge hall.
They followed this escort and found themselves on a small balcony. Looking down, they were shocked to observe the very shuttle that was supposed to send them into space. It was such an enormous cosmic flying apparatus that it could accommodate 10 of the largest latest-generation Boeings known to Morozov on its board.
The escort, seeing the amazement in the Lieutenants’ eyes, explained that the size of this ship was necessary to install several types of different engines, as well as the necessary fuel for this. Nevertheless, this was only the first development, so in the future, if they wanted to continue improving this machine, the usable area and payload would be increased. However, they had at their disposal an area of 35 square meters, as well as the necessary living area. Although the flight time did not imply the possibility of resting or eating.
The escort explained that first, the elevator would lift the platform with the flying apparatus to the surface, after which the rotating turbines would turn on, lifting the ship above the surface. This would reduce the probability of detection as much as possible until the ship was already high above the surface.
When the turbines completed their action, the reactive engines would connect, which were supposed to lift the ship into space. At the same time, the platform with the rotating turbines would separate in the central part of this ship to return to Earth. Thus, the ship would become much smaller.
When they had reactive thrust, it was supposed to lift them to the necessary altitude, from where the third type of engines would turn on, which would control the flight in the zero gravity of space to deliver them to the destination point, where the docking station is located.
Undoubtedly, they were explained that this was not the first attempt to penetrate this ship, so at least in the initial stages, they would have some guidelines for penetration. Their jumpsuits are the latest stage of development, which their predecessors did not have. Thus, they will be able to blend into the surroundings, becoming invisible to the creatures inside. At least, that’s how it was intended.
Transitioning to the platform, the 6 people descended to where many different scientists were located, after which they were led to the boarding airlock, and from there, the elevator took them to the place where they would be. Now a powerful signal sounded throughout the entire bunker, urging outsiders to leave the premises for launch so that the platform could safely lift the flying apparatus to the surface.
The command was given to put on helmets, and all six people fully geared up, looking like some kind of space rangers. Five Lieutenants behaved like insane young gamers who had received a new game and were now ready to undertake mass missions to gain a mass of new emotions and impressions.
At an altitude of 15 kilometers, the turbines began to lose effectiveness in the thin air. The ship hovered for a few seconds, and one of the Lieutenants nervously asked:
— Is this normal?
Morozov realized—the transition between engine systems was always the most dangerous moment.
At 50 kilometers, powerful high-altitude winds nearly overturned the platform. The autopilot engaged the stabilizing engines; the ship swayed so much that everyone was pressed against the walls. Morozov remembered flight school—atmospheric phenomena are unpredictable at such altitudes.
When the platform began separating at 80 kilometers, a metallic scraping sound was heard. The platform with the turbines was supposed to undock cleanly, but something was jammed. Several anxious seconds passed until the pyrotechnic cartridges worked by emergency, pushing the platform away with the force of an explosion.
“Here it is, I will die so stupidly, without even reaching the battle,” Morozov thought grimly, listening to the threatening sounds of the collapsing ship.
The activation of the cosmic engines went smoothly, but the overload was greater than calculated. Two Lieutenants turned pale; one nearly lost consciousness.
When their shuttle approached the alien ship, the entire team fell silent in shock. Even the young Lieutenants stopped babbling about the “cool graphics.”
The object surpassed human comprehension of scale. Their shuttle, the size of ten Boeings, seemed like a grain of sand next to the metallic continent. The hull stretched in all directions beyond the horizon of visibility—kilometers of an uneven, organically curved surface, covered with protrusions, depressions, and structures of unclear purpose.
Morozov tried to estimate the size and gave up—the length exceeded hundreds of kilometers. Streams of light crawled over the surface, incomprehensible patterns pulsed, as if the ship was breathing or thinking. The hull material shimmered in shades from dull gray to deep black with metallic inclusions.
Flight Control announced via communication:
— The ship is located at the Lagrange point between Earth and the Moon. Gravitational forces are balanced there, which gives them a stable position without energy expenditure.
Morozov understood the enemy’s logic—an ideal position for controlling the planet. Far enough away to avoid atmospheric interference, yet close enough for troop deployment via shuttles.
The center operator continued:
— Docking airlocks are detected on the lower surface of the ship. The autopilot is heading to the nearest one. After docking, communication will be lost—you will be left alone with the mission.
As they approached, details became visible: metallic corridors leading into the hull, a dull pulsating glow from the depths of the ship, moving shadows of an unclear nature. The hull itself emitted a low-frequency vibration that could be felt in the bones.
When they left their shuttle, the multi-stage system worked as planned. Massive turbine blocks, jet propulsion units, and fuel tanks gradually separated and were left to drift in space. Only the compact return module—about the size of four Boeings—remained of the original behemoth.
The core detection device fixed periodic bursts of core activity, which not only showed them where to go but also allowed them to momentarily see all biological signals in the scanning zone. Thus, they could see approaching enemies and press themselves against the wall in more or less hidden niches to remain unnoticed while they passed by.
The first corridors of the ship had to be traversed exactly like this—the detector showed moving figures ahead, the team froze in the shadows, waiting for the patrol to pass. The stealth jumpsuits worked flawlessly.
But when they moved into the next compartment, the detector screen suddenly lit up with thousands of flickering red dots, and the device itself began to emit an anxious squeal. All six froze—had they walked into an ambush? Thousands of enemies around!
At that moment, the compartment lighting automatically turned on.
Chapter 70
Automatic lighting flooded the compartment with a deathly white light, and the team froze in horror. Around them, as far as the eye could see, stretched rows of translucent eggs the size of a human being. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Something was stirring inside each one—vague silhouettes of future invaders, curled up in an embryonic pose. Some eggs pulsed with a faint greenish glow, like gigantic hearts.
The detector in Morozov’s hands continued to squeal hysterically—each egg registered as a separate biosignature. An incubator. They had stumbled into a damned incubator.
— No… — one of the Lieutenants whispered, and Morozov recognized the voice of Alexey. The young man slowly took the rifle off his shoulder; his hands were shaking. — No, no, NO!
— Quiet! — Morozov hissed, but it was too late.
— They killed them all! — Alexey stepped toward the nearest row of eggs; pure hatred sounded in his voice. — My mother, my father, my little sister… The entire block was burned to the ground! And here are their… their family!
He raised his rifle, and the low hum of the charge echoed through the incubator.
— Stop, idiot! — Lex rushed toward him, trying to knock the weapon away. — You’ll kill us all!
— I don’t care! — Alexey shoved his comrade away. — I will destroy this filth!
Morozov understood his pain. Somewhere deep inside, the General’s soul also screamed for revenge for lost humanity. But the reason, hardened by years of command, knew—one shot, and the mission was failed. The alarm would sound, and they would all die here, having achieved nothing.
It took the effort of all five to drag the grief-stricken Lieutenant away from the clutch. They literally hauled him out of the incubator by force, and one of the comrades disconnected the external speaker on his helmet to mute the cries of rage.
As soon as the massive compartment door closed behind them, they all heard approaching footsteps. Heavy, rhythmic, multiple. The metal floor vibrated with the tread.
The team darted into the adjacent room—a warehouse with high racks filled with incomprehensible equipment. They barely managed to squeeze into a narrow passage between the structures when a patrol marched past. Eight individuals, each nearly three meters tall, with chitinous carapaces shimmering in the corridor’s dim light. Morozov held his breath, feeling cold sweat run down his back beneath his jumpsuit.
One of the creatures stopped right across from their hiding place. It turned its massive head with multiple faceted eyes, as if sensing something. The seconds stretched like hours. The stealth jumpsuits were supposed to mask their thermal and chemical signature, but was it enough?
The creature took a step toward the racks, and Morozov felt one of his comrades tense up next to him, ready to open fire. But the creature merely turned its head and moved on, following the others toward the incubator.
When the sounds of footsteps finally died down, Alexey sank onto the cold metal floor, clutching his head. His helmet rolled away with a dull clang.
— I… I almost failed everything, — he whispered through his fingers. — Forgive me. God, forgive me.
Morozov understood—the young man was only now realizing the scale of what he had almost done. Not just their death—the failure of humanity’s only chance for salvation. There would be no second attempt. Resources barely covered this one.
— Get up, — Morozov threw out shortly. — We don’t have time for this.
The detector showed thirteen kilometers to the core. Thirteen kilometers through a labyrinth of an alien ship teeming with enemies.
The service tunnels greeted them with the sour-sweet smell of decay and the dim red light of emergency lamps. An organic film—not quite mold, not quite part of the ship’s systems—pulsated on the walls.
The antiquity was felt everywhere. Ozone from breaches in the old wiring hung in the air. Drops of violet technical fluid hissed on the metal, leaving smoking traces.
A bridge across a technical shaft. Morozov stopped, assessing the structure—a patchwork quilt of panels of various sizes, held together by sheer luck and rusty bolts. Below—a bottomless blackness.
— Oil on the panels, — Alexey quickly warned, being the first to notice the danger. The young man was clearly holding up better after the breakdown in the incubator—concentration helped him avoid thinking about his lost comrades.
They moved in single file, each one covering the person in front.
Halfway across, one of the Lieutenants—a short fellow with the EM-bomb backpack—slipped on a grease-covered panel. His foot slid, and he plunged down. At the last moment, he managed to grab the handrail, dangling by one arm over the abyss. The metal groaned pitifully under the weight.
— Hold on! — The nearest comrade rushed to help, grabbing his wrist.
But the rusted handrail couldn’t bear the double load. With a sickening screech, the metal tore away from the fasteners, and both men disappeared into the darkness. No sound of impact. No thud. As if the abyss had simply swallowed them.
— No! — someone rushed to the edge, but Morozov held him back.
— They are gone. We move on.
Morozov was the first to turn away from the precipice. His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles whitened inside his gloves, but his voice remained steady.
Three. Only three remained of the six.
The next two kilometers were especially difficult. Twice, panels gave way under their feet, and only mutual support saved them from falling. The metal squeaked and groaned, as if the ship itself was trying to throw them off. In some places, they literally had to crawl along narrow ledges, clinging to any support.
The technical fluid dripping from above made the surfaces slippery as ice. It had a strange violet hue and faintly smoked upon contact with metal—clearly something corrosive.
The young Lieutenant, walking last, began to sway. Morozov noticed it—first barely perceptible wobbling, then increasingly obvious.
— Hey, are you okay? — Alexey called out.
Lex stopped, leaning against the wall. Even through the dim glass of the helmet, it was visible how pale his face had become.
— I… I feel sick, — he managed to squeeze out. — I’m dizzy…
Suddenly, he tore off his helmet—a gross violation of the safety protocol—and leaned over the handrail. Morozov instinctively lunged toward him, grabbing the strap of his backpack. Just in time—the next moment, Lex vomited and slumped onto the railing with all his weight.
The rusted metal couldn’t hold. An entire section of the handrail tore away with a deafening crash, dragging part of the deck with it. Lex hung half over the abyss—only Morozov’s grip kept him from falling.
— I got you! I got you! — Morozov yelled, bracing his feet against the intact part of the platform.
Alexey helped pull his comrade back. The young man collapsed onto the remaining section of the floor. With trembling hands, he fumbled for his helmet but couldn’t lift it.
— I… I can’t do this anymore, — he whispered. — We’re all going to die here…
— No. — Morozov crouched down beside him. — What is your name?
— L-lex… Lex Novikov…
— Vladimir Morozov. You can just call me Volodya. — He extended his hand. — Thank you for warning us about the oil on the bridge. That was a good reaction.
The young man blinked, surprised by the unexpected praise. A flicker of something other than fear appeared in his eyes. He shook the offered hand with a trembling grip.
— Th-thank you… for not letting me fall.
— And you, — Morozov turned to Alexey, — good job for reacting quickly. You pulled him in together.
Alexey nodded, and for the first time since the incubator, something akin to determination appeared in his gaze.
A couple of minutes later, they moved forward again. Morozov walked first with the detector, followed by Alexey and Lex with the precious backpacks. Three against an entire ship. Three against an army of aliens.
Eleven kilometers to the goal.
Somewhere ahead, in the depths of the ancient ship, the core pulsed—the heart of the enemy machine. And they had to stop it.
At any cost.
Chapter 71
The technical tunnel stretched endlessly. The metal walls were covered with some kind of biological film that faintly pulsed in rhythm with an unknown cadence. The air was stale, with a taste of ozone and something sickly sweet and rotten.
Morozov walked first, clutching the detector. The screen showed a stable core signal—about a kilometer remained to the target. Lex and Alexey quietly talked behind him.
— You know what I’m thinking about? — Lex whispered. — When all this is over, I want to buy an old motorcycle. Fix it up with my own hands and ride across the entire country, from the capital to the farthest city.
— Why? — Alexey was surprised.
— Just… I want to feel the road. Real earth under the wheels, not these metal corridors. To see the fields, the forests, ordinary villages. Stop at some grandmother’s place for tea with jam.
Alexey smiled faintly:
— A romantic. And I dream of something simple—finding a girl, getting married. Building a house with a real garden. Planting apple trees, pears. Teaching children how to properly graft trees.
— Seriously? — Lex’s voice held genuine surprise. — After all this hell, you dream of a garden?
— Precisely why I dream of it. I want to create something living, growing. Something these creatures can never destroy.
The conversation quieted. Each one was lost in their thoughts about a future that might never come.
— You know, — Lex said softly, — I’m still uneasy about what they said at the briefing… we are far from the first on this ship.
— There were twelve expeditions, — Alexey nodded. — One hundred eighty people didn’t return.
— The previous group reached the technical bay, — Morozov added. — But entered it too early, closer to the ship’s hull. The radiation scorched them in a matter of minutes. They only managed to transmit the coordinates.
— Their death gave us a chance, — Lex said thoughtfully.
Silence again. Only the sound of their footsteps on the metal floor.
— What about you, Volodya? — Lex asked. — What do you dream of?
Morozov stopped for a second. Images flashed through his mind—a quiet evening in the military town, the sound of children’s laughter in the yard, the scent of lilac in May…
— I want children to be able to play in the yards again, — he said simply. — So that no one has to explain to them why they shouldn’t look at the sky.
The detector in his hands emitted a short squeal—they were approaching the target. Ahead, the corridor widened, leading into a huge hall.
— That’s it, — Morozov whispered. — Quiet now.
But as soon as they took their first step into the hall, streaks of red light ran across the walls. A siren roared somewhere. They were discovered.
— Run! — Morozov shouted.
From the opposite end of the hall, the first figures appeared—tall, angular, moving with frightening speed. There were many of them. Very many.
— Volodya, — Lex grabbed Morozov’s sleeve. — We will hold them off. Run to the core!
— Are you sure you can handle it here?
— Volodya, — Alexey called him by his first name for the first time and handed over his backpack, — you understand. It’s three of us; it’s hundreds of them. The only chance is if at least one reaches the core.
Morozov looked at their faces. Resolve. No fear. Only a cold readiness to die for the cause.
— Alright, — Morozov nodded. — Then let’s put an end to this insane struggle.
— Nothing will matter if we fail the mission here, — Lex said firmly. — That’s why we must succeed.
Lex and Alexey rushed to the entrance airlock.
— Help me block it! — Lex yelled at Morozov, leaning into the heavy metal door.
The three of them shoved the massive bulkhead shut with a crash. Alexey smashed the lock control panel with a few strikes of his rifle butt.
— That won’t hold them for long, — he said, looking at the door. — But you’ll have time.
There were narrow observation slits in the bulkhead—clearly for monitoring the core in normal mode. Alexey took a position at one of the slits.
— I’ll hold them off, — he said, raising his rifle. — Lex, help Volodya with the backpacks!
Lex nodded and grabbed Alexey’s backpack:
— Go, hurry to the core!
Morozov grabbed Lex’s backpack, and the two of them rushed toward the center of the hall, where the giant core pulsed behind a translucent bulkhead—the heart of the entire ship. After delivering the backpack to the correct position, Lex quickly returned to the airlock door.
Morozov felt the tension with his whole body. The sharp and piercing screech of metal from the claws and close-combat weapons outside caused auditory discomfort, as if it was running through the nerves of his body. He even felt his teeth clench. Gunfire rattled behind him.
The core was the size of a bus, consisting of intertwined biological and mechanical components. Heat and some kind of eerie vital energy emanated from it. An isolation airlock—protection from radiation—was located in front of the core.
Morozov pulled out the electromagnetic bomb, placed it near the door, and activated the timer for 30 seconds. He quickly backed away around the corner.
A blinding flash behind the partition, and all the indicators on the core’s surface went dark. The defense was disabled.
Morozov ran through the opened door and connected the viral device to one of the core’s outgrowths. The screen showed: “Connection established. Virus loading: 0%”
The percentage began to rise. 15… 30… 50…
Behind him, the banging on the door became stronger. The metal was starting to buckle. Lex and Alexey held out as long as they could, but the door wouldn’t last long.
75… 90… 99%
And then everything stopped.
100% – but no reaction. The core continued to pulse. The ship operated as if nothing had happened.
— No… — Morozov whispered. — NO!
He frantically pressed buttons, checking connections. Nothing. The device showed a successful upload, but the virus seemed to have simply vanished into the depths of the alien mind. At that moment, the core pulsed harder for a second, as if mocking his pathetic attempts.
It was all for nothing… He fell to his knees next to the core. Lex… Alexey… One hundred eighty people… All for nothing!
The faces of his fallen comrades flashed through his mind. The teams that never returned. The children who would never see a peaceful sky. The girl Alexey would never meet. The roads Lex would never ride his motorcycle on.
The planet was doomed. And he, the last hope of humanity, had failed the mission.
At that moment, the entire hall was flooded with pulsating red light. The core trembled, emitting a growing howl. Cracks ran along the walls.
— What… — Morozov looked up.
The virus worked. With a delay, but it worked.
The ship was dying.
Morozov felt a powerful hum spread through the ship, after which the entire hull trembled, filling the room with even more dreadful sounds emanating from the bulkheads. The ship came to life.
A sound of tearing metal came from the opposite end of the hall—the door finally gave way. Morozov saw a crowd of aliens flood the hall and engulf the two figures near the broken bulkhead. Lex turned his head toward him at the last moment and nodded.
They did it. The ship was flying away from the planet, but it was obvious that it was already falling apart. Volodya took a deep breath. This was the end. But he felt no fear; on the contrary, it was satisfaction and peace. The calmness in such a situation seemed astonishing to him.
The core exploded with a blinding flash. Morozov felt himself being swallowed by white light, and then—absolute darkness… the darkness of the scorching cold of space.
And in this darkness, he opened his eyes.
A room in the hospital. Darkness. Silence.
Morozov sat up on the cot, breathing heavily. The clock read: 03:20. He went to sleep at half past one. Only an hour and a half had passed.
But something had changed. Something inside him had turned over.
The Forest Hotel… Before, this place only caused him fear and disgust. But now… now he felt a strange readiness to protect it. As if this place had become part of something important. Something that needed to be guarded at any cost.
He didn’t understand where these feelings came from—but they were as real as the memories of Lex and Alexey.
Morozov got up from the cot and walked to the window. The night forest stretched outside the glass. Calm, peaceful, alive.
It seemed defenseless, but the General knew for certain that a powerful monster lived deep within that forest.
At the same time, in another part of the hotel, Artyom woke up with a heavy head and an aching heart. The dream on the island seemed so real, and the loss of Phil—so painful.
He automatically reached for the nightstand, where the AR-glasses usually lay. And froze.
The glasses were in place.
— What… how… — Artyom grabbed them with trembling hands and put them on.
The familiar green little dragon materialized before him. But Phil’s face showed clear displeasure.
— Ah, it happened, — Phil grumbled. — Days in standby mode. Inefficient use of resources.
— Phil?! — Artyom almost cried with relief. — I thought I lost you forever! The glasses disappeared; I looked for them everywhere…
— Technically incorrect statement, — the little dragon snorted. — The interface did not disappear. It does not exist in the physical world.
— I don’t understand…
— Consciousness projection. Functionality correction. Control of interface activation and deactivation. The task was to determine true priorities.
Artyom blinked.
— So… I “turned you off” myself?
— Obviously. Emotional instability led to a system failure. Lack of concentration. Typical for biological life forms.
— And why did you come back now?
— Because now your desire for communication reached a critical level. Not habit, not curiosity—a real need for the interface.
Artyom smiled for the first time in two days:
— I truly feel bad without you.
— Understanding achieved, — Phil nodded importantly. — Computational capabilities. Huge difference. Positive evolution. The Master valued Phil.
— Phil?
— Formulate the request.
— Never disappear again.
— Exclusive dependence on stability. Priority of neural processes. Phil is a reflection of the priorities of the Master.
And for the first time in a long time, Artyom fell asleep peacefully.
Chapter 72
Artyom woke up to the familiar intro of a news program coming from the TV. At first, he thought he might have forgotten to turn it off yesterday, but he immediately dismissed that thought, putting on the AR-glasses. The green little dragon was comfortably settled in the chair opposite the screen.
— Phil, seriously? — Artyom grumbled, stretching. — I could have slept for another hour…
— Preliminary editing complete. Material processed. Synchronized. Converted. Final run-through required. Thirty minutes maximum. Ready to start?
Artyom slid off the bed, quickly changed, and hurried to the bathroom. Ten minutes later, he returned to Phil, still wiping his face with a towel.
— Ah, yes. We discussed this yesterday. — Artyom stretched and yawned. — I can’t wait to see our material.
Sitting next to the laptop, Artyom pressed the spacebar to wake up the operating system. Phil theatrically sighed heavily, looking at the small computer screen, then waved his paw. A huge holographic display—over a hundred inches!—materialized directly above the laptop.
The picture quality was stunning: saturated colors, crystal clarity, perfect brightness. Artyom was simply in love with this capability of Phil’s. He could see the smallest details of the image and could manipulate the perspective with simple hand gestures.
— You… you are a genius, — Artyom genuinely admired. — How did you manage that?
— Algorithms. Complex. Multilayered. — Phil proudly spread his wings. — The core allows parallel processing. Thousands of operations simultaneously.
Indeed, half an hour later, the five-terabyte archive was ready for sending. Artyom launched the upload to the team’s server and nearly choked on his coffee when he saw the transfer speed.
— Three hundred sixty-four megabytes per second? — he muttered. — In a forest hotel?
— The owner. Direct channel through military infrastructure. Far-sighted, — Phil commented. — Four hours for the full send. I’ll handle it remotely.
They went down to the administration desk, where a smiling girl in a uniform vest was on duty.
— Good afternoon! We would like to rent transport for a tour of the territory.
— Of course! — the girl’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm. — We have several options. Electric carts for family strolls, quad bikes for adrenaline enthusiasts, and Jeeps for serious off-roading.
— Jeep, — Artyom chose without hesitation.
— Excellent choice! The medium forest route will take about three hours. You will see old oak groves, a mountain stream, an observation deck with a view of the valley. And, if you’re lucky, you’ll encounter local fauna—we have deer, wild boars, and many birds.
Twenty minutes later, Artyom was sitting in the back seat of a powerful open-top SUV, having previously put a wireless speaker in his ear. Phil settled next to him, studying the route map. The driver-guide was ahead behind a small partition, which allowed them to talk freely.
— The route is standard. Tourist. No anomalies, — the little dragon noted. — Safe. Boring.
The forest road twisted between mighty pines and oaks, some of which were clearly over a hundred years old. Sunbeams pierced through the crowns, creating a picturesque interplay of light and shadow on the path. The air was crystal clear, smelling of pine needles, foliage, and forest decay. Birds called out to each other in the branches somewhere, and a woodpecker tapped in the distance.
They stopped at the observation deck to admire the view. A green valley stretched out below, intersected by the silver ribbon of a river. Mountains, shrouded in a light haze, were visible in the distance. In the silence, only the chirping of birds and the sound of the wind in the leaves could be heard.
— Beautiful, — Artyom said quietly.
— Nature. Harmony. Relaxation, — Phil agreed, looking at the landscape with his green eyes. — Forest. Less interference. More pure patterns.
By lunchtime, they returned to the hotel. In the restaurant, Artyom found a notification on his phone.
— Transfer complete. Successful. The team received the material, — Phil reported, sliding from Artyom’s shoulder onto the table. — Quality fully preserved.
After a hearty lunch, they headed to the outdoor pool. Despite the cool weather, the water was heated and very comfortable. The wave generator worked at minimum speed, creating a soft, lulling sway.
Artyom stretched out on an inflatable mattress, and Phil, to his great surprise, settled on a yellow rubber duck nearby. The little dragon’s paws dangled in the water, and he looked like a rubber souvenir, only with a slight smirk.
— You look good together, — Artyom chuckled.
Phil raised his paw, and a sunbeam reflected off one tiny claw directly into Artyom’s eyes. The little dragon began pretending he wanted to swim toward the inflatable mattress, which made Artyom studiously resist the yellow duck’s approach to his temple of pleasure.
— Functional. Comfortable. Doesn’t sink, — Phil replied unperturbed, swaying on the waves.
They gently rocked on the artificial waves, enjoying the calm of the moment. The warm sun, the soft voices of other guests, the splash of water—everything created an atmosphere of complete tranquility.
— You know, — Artyom said thoughtfully, — we’ve come quite a way together. Do you remember our first meetings?
— I remember. Initial distrust. Skepticism. The hallucination hypothesis, — Phil tilted his head. — Current state… synergy. Effective interaction.
— Yes, much has changed. You showed me worlds I never dreamed of. And I… I don’t know what I gave you in return.
— Experience. Biological reflection to challenges, — the little dragon answered simply. — Priceless. The study of Chaos through the prism of emotions. Not everything can be digitized.
Artyom was speechless—he still felt like a test subject for Phil’s sadistic inclinations.
They fell silent, contemplating the clouds slowly drifting across the blue sky.
Closer to evening, the hotel’s silence was broken by the roar of powerful engines. A cavalcade of luxury cars pulled up to the main entrance—black limousines with tinted windows, a white “Bentley,” a red sports “Ferrari.”
People began to emerge from the cars. Two neatly dressed men in strict suits—apparently drivers and guards simultaneously—efficiently surveyed the area.
And then the central limousine door swung open. A man in a bright, flamboyant outfit stepped out. A fuchsia jacket embroidered with gold threads, violet trousers, shoes with silver buckles. Several massive chains hung around his neck; rings with large stones were on his fingers.
Four girls in expensive outfits instantly fussed around him: one immediately held up a small mirror and adjusted his makeup, another draped an expensive cape over his shoulders, a third wiped the jewels on the massive chains, and a fourth was already offering a crystal glass with a drink. A fawning readiness to anticipate his every desire was visible in their movements.
— Krash Emo (Crash Emo), — someone from the guests by the pool whispered.
Artyom recognized him instantly. Krashevsky Emmanuil—one of the brightest stars of the modern music scene. Author, performer, producer, philanthropist. His concerts filled stadiums, and his music videos amassed hundreds of millions of views.
A crowd instantly formed around the celebrity. A variety of emotions were visible in people’s eyes—the joy of fans, envy of his success, the desire to get closer, to take a photo. Some pulled out their phones; some just stood with their mouths open.
Everyone watched as Krash Emo majestically headed toward the main entrance, accompanied by a retinue of assistants and security. Andrey Anatolyevich Korozin personally greeted the famous guest, and it was visible that the assistant manager was barely suppressing his delight.
Artyom, after only glancing at Phil, felt a unified impulse between them—they would not miss this man’s sleep adventure for anything.
Anticipation seemed to hang in the air. Tomorrow promised to bring new, incredible events.
Chapter 73
By morning, guests from the hospital began returning to the hotel. In small groups, accompanied by medical staff, they checked back into their rooms. Everyone wore a special bracelet for status monitoring, and doctors regularly toured the floors for preventative check-ups.
Many of the returnees looked somewhat detached, occasionally exchanging glances and quietly discussing what they had experienced. Something special was readable in their eyes—a mixture of surprise, delight, and slight bewilderment.
Krash Emo watched this movement from the window of his presidential suite, sipping his morning cocktail from Baccarat crystal.
— What provincial amateurism this is, — he threw out contemptuously, turning away from the window. — They wouldn’t tolerate such a circus in Monte Carlo.
The presidential suite truly amazed the imagination. Gold threads ran in intricate patterns across the walls, creating a complex intertwining of floral motifs. Every door handle was adorned with precious stones—emerald in the bedroom, sapphire in the living room, ruby in the study. The electric fireplace in the main bedroom was framed by a figural grille with forest motifs—oak branches, deer silhouettes, a scattering of metal leaves.
— Nice, — Krash Emo assessed condescendingly, running his finger over the gilded stucco. — Though my Milan designer would call this vulgar. Too much gold for one room.
One of the girls in his entourage—Alisa—frantically wrote down his remarks on a tablet. She hadn’t slept a wink, compiling a list of demands for the hotel staff. The water temperature in the private pool, the angle of lighting in the walk-in closet, the variety of coffee for the morning espresso—everything had to meet the standards of a global superstar.
— And why are there only emeralds here? — Emo continued discontentedly, examining the door handle. — Where are the diamonds? In my house in Beverly Hills, even the toilet handles are inlaid with diamonds.
The second girl—Kristina—quietly sniffled in the corner. For the third hour, she had been trying to contact flower suppliers to replace the lilies in the vases with rare orchids. But such varieties simply did not exist in this remote area.
— Stop sniveling, — Krash Emo threw out coldly. — You understand who I am. My reputation is more precious than your feelings.
By lunchtime, several more families arrived at the hotel—new guests, drawn by rumors of the unusual place. An elderly couple sat at a neighboring table in the restaurant, sharing their impressions of the previous night.
— Imagine, darling, — the man said excitedly, — I flew! A real flight over the mountains!
— And I danced with unicorns in a moonlit garden, — his wife dreamily replied. — I haven’t seen such beauty even in the brightest fantasies.
Krash Emo choked on his expensive wine.
— Do you hear this nonsense? — he laughed loudly, addressing his entourage. — Commoners and their village superstitions! Unicorns! — He theatrically threw up his hands. — In my circle, such delusion simply cannot exist.
The elderly couple fell silent, embarrassed. Krash Emo enjoyed the effect.
— It’s an obvious marketing gimmick by the hotel, — he continued even louder. — They create an atmosphere of “mysticism” for naive tourists. In reality, there are no miracles here. Just an ordinary hotel in the forest with inflated prices.
One of his bodyguards—Viktor—shifted uncomfortably. He noticed other restaurant guests giving them displeased looks but dared not interrupt his boss.
In the evening, Krash Emo threw an impromptu party in his suite. Music poured from the expensive acoustic system; champagne flowed like a river into crystal glasses. He felt like the king of this small world.
— Do you understand the difference between me and these… people? — he philosophized, sprawled in a genuine leather armchair. — They believe in fairy tales, and I create reality. My concerts—that’s the real magic. A hundred thousand people singing my songs—that’s a genuine miracle.
His entourage nodded wearily. They were already used to such monologues.
— And these stories about dreams… — Emo waved his hand. — Banal hallucinations of people who haven’t seen anything but their backwater towns their whole lives.
Closer to midnight, he decided to take a bath in the private spa zone. A jacuzzi with gold faucets, mirrors in expensive frames, marble surfaces—everything was conducive to relaxation.
But something was wrong.
Krash Emo frowned, looking at the television across from the bath. The plasma panel was hanging… crookedly? Just slightly, maybe two degrees, but it was noticeable to his eye, trained for stage precision.
— Alisa! — he shouted. — Why is the television hanging crookedly?
The girl ran into the spa zone, nervously looking around.
— I… I don’t see it, — she stammered confusedly. — I think it’s hanging straight.
Emo snorted irritably and sank into the hot water. Then he accidentally glanced at his reflection in the mirror opposite.
What he saw made him freeze.
Fine wrinkles were showing on his face, in the corners of his eyes. Barely noticeable, but definitely new. His skin didn’t look as firm as it had that morning.
A cold shiver ran down his spine, despite the hot water. His face—it was his pass to the upper world, the foundation of his career, the source of his power over people. And here…
— It’s the lighting, — he whispered, getting out of the bath. — Just bad lighting.
But something unsettling stirred deep inside him.
Late at night, when the party ended and the entourage dispersed to their rooms, Krash Emo couldn’t sleep. He paced the suite, checking every detail of the interior.
A hole in the pillowcase of the expensive pillow. Tiny, but noticeable.
A scratch on the gilded door handle of the study.
A stain on the pristine marble countertop.
— What the hell… — he muttered, becoming increasingly irritated.
And then muffled voices came from the next room. His assistants were excitedly talking about something.
Krash Emo quietly crept up to the door and put his ear against it.
— …I can’t believe it! — Alisa whispered. — I was in a real magical forest! There were talking trees and fairies!
— And I swam with dolphins in an underwater city! — Kristina answered excitedly. — I’ve never seen such beauty!
— And the bodyguards also talked about their dreams. Viktor said he fought dragons like a real knight!
— This is unbelievable! It’s like we fell into another world!
Krash Emo stumbled back from the door. Blood pounded in his temples.
THEY got magical dreams. THEY experienced miracles. And him? A crookedly hanging television and wrinkles in the mirror?
— It’s unfair, — he hissed through clenched teeth. — I am the star! I deserve more than all of them combined!
Anger boiled in his chest, mixing with an inexplicable anxiety. What was happening to this place? And why was he, Krashevsky Emmanuil, deprived of what even his subordinates had received?
The suite became stuffy, as if the air had thickened. Krash Emo clenched his fists, looking out the window at the dark forest.
— I will figure everything out tomorrow, — he promised himself. — And I will get what I am owed.
Chapter 74
Day One
A phone call woke Krash Emo at half past six in the morning. He reluctantly reached for the receiver, expecting another report from someone in his team.
— Hello, — he grumbled sleepily.
— Emmanuil! — the cheerful voice of his manager, Sergey, rang out. — How are things, old man?
— Sergey? — Emo instantly woke up. — Thank God! I thought you disappeared forever after yesterday’s conversation.
— No, of course not! — the manager laughed. — Just wanted to share some news. Listen, I got a better offer here. A producer from Los Angeles is offering a three-year contract. The numbers are just astronomical!
Krash Emo was silent for a few seconds, processing what he heard.
— Wait… you mean to say…
— Well, yeah, I’m not stupid enough to pass up a chance like that! — Sergey continued carelessly. — But listen, I’m an honorable man. I can recommend you to a guy. He was recently kicked out for a drunken brawl at a club, but his numbers are decent. High productivity.
Blood hammered in his temples. Krash Emo squeezed the receiver so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
— You… are you serious? After everything I’ve done for you?
— Don’t be dramatic, Emmanuil. Business is business. By the way, the guy’s name is Mitya. I’ll send you his contacts.
Dial tone. The connection was broken.
Krash Emo sat in bed for several minutes, staring into space. Then he slowly got up and approached the window. Flies buzzed outside the glass, landing on the frames and annoyingly crawling on the glass.
— A small hole in the ship, and the rats are already jumping into the water, — he whispered through clenched teeth. — But it’s nothing; I will file lawsuits, tear up the contracts. Hahaha.
The laugh sounded strained and uncertain.
The second call came an hour later. An unfamiliar number with an international code.
— Mr. Krashevsky? — a formal voice with a slight accent. — Interpol Officer Nicholas Stein. We have a few questions for you.
His heart skipped a beat.
— What… what questions?
— Regarding financial transactions through offshore companies in the Cayman Islands. We have information about suspicious transfers totaling over fifty million euros.
— That must be some mistake! — Krash Emo cried out. — I have nothing to do with…
— Mr. Krashevsky, — the officer calmly interrupted, — we have submitted an international legal assistance request to the relevant jurisdictions. Based on this request, your bank has suspended operations on your accounts pending verification under the MLAT request. The local police, at our request, have restricted your departure until the check is completed. Your vehicles have been sealed and impounded.
— You can’t! I have concerts, contracts!
— You may only use what is included in your paid accommodation package. Good day.
Dial tone.
Krash Emo threw the phone onto the bed and froze in the middle of the luxurious suite. The gold threads on the walls, the precious stones in the door handles, the marble surfaces—it all suddenly seemed like a set for a play in which he was the main character, not knowing that the play was already over.
The flies outside the window buzzed louder and louder.
Day Two
— Hello, Dmitry Pavlovich? — Krash Emo nervously paced the living room, gripping the phone between his ear and shoulder. — Finally! I’ve been calling you for three hours!
The voice of his chief lawyer sounded restrained and official.
— Good day, Mr. Krashevsky. Yes, I am aware of the situation. I am already studying the case materials.
— And so what? When will it all be resolved? Tomorrow? The day after tomorrow?
— I’m afraid it’s not that simple. The accusations are serious; the investigation could drag on for months.
— Months?! — Krash Emo stopped dead in his tracks. — Dmitry Pavlovich, are you insane? I have a European tour in two weeks!
— Mr. Krashevsky, calm down. I am doing everything possible, but this is not magic. It takes time to go through every financial document.
— Time?! — his voice broke into a scream. — I don’t have time! You know who I am! One call, and this story should disappear!
— It’s not that simple…
— NOT SIMPLE?! — Krash Emo lost control. — I pay you insane money! You are supposed to work! I demand immediate action!
A long pause.
— Emmanuil, I am not a wizard. The matter is serious, and a scandal can only hurt. We are considering all options.
For the first time in years of cooperation, the lawyer addressed him simply by his first name. Not “Mr. Krashevsky,” not “Sir.” Just “Emmanuil.”
Something cold clenched in his stomach.
— Fine, — he hissed through clenched teeth. — I expect results from you.
— I will certainly contact you as soon as there is anything concrete.
Dial tone.
Krash Emo slowly lowered the phone. The flies were buzzing outside the window again, and it seemed their numbers had increased. One even flew into the room and annoyingly circled the crystal chandelier.
In the evening, when the sun had set, the mosquitoes appeared. A thin whine right by his ear, bites on exposed skin. Krash Emo tossed and turned in bed, covering himself with the blanket, but it became stuffy.
Sleep only came toward morning.
Day Three
— It’s hypnosis, — Krash Emo muttered, pacing the suite terrace. — It’s mass hysteria. Maybe special substances in the water… But I only drink bottled water.
Flies swarmed around his breakfast. One landed directly on the croissant; another crawled along the edge of the coffee cup. He waved them away, but they returned again and again.
— Maybe it’s a show for the tourists, — he continued his internal monologue. — Some kind of technical treatment of the rooms, hallucinogens in the air conditioning…
He froze, realizing the logic of his thoughts.
— Stop. If this is a conspiracy… then someone is organizing it. Who did I harm? Who could go this far?
Thoughts spun like annoying flies. Producers he abandoned for better contracts. Musicians he fired from the tour. Journalists he humiliated at press conferences. Fans he ignored. Women whose feelings he deceived during passionate nights…
— God, — he whispered, sinking into the armchair. — I have no friends. None at all. Only enemies… but it’s not my fault. They’re just jealous of my success.
The bitter realization struck him like lightning. Years of arrogance, contempt, using people as tools to achieve his goals. And now they had united against him.
— So, it’s revenge, — he whispered. — They all conspired. Bribed the hotel staff, organized this spectacle. They want to break me.
At that moment, he automatically reached for the phone to call his manager and complain about the unbearable situation. Habit was stronger than memory.
Cold dial tone: “Number unavailable.”
Krash Emo froze, staring at the screen.
— Ah, yes… he left.
The realization of his loneliness hit him like an icy wave. No one to call. No one to complain to. No one to solve his problems.
Rage boiled over instantly.
— What the hell is this?! — he yelled, slamming the phone against the wall.
The device shattered into pieces. The screen cracked; the casing split, and a bent SIM card fell out.
— Boss! — Alisa and Kristina ran into the room, frightened by the loud crash. — What happened?
But Krash Emo barely saw them. He dropped to his knees, collecting the debris and muttering to himself.
The momentary satisfaction of destruction was replaced by panic.
— Damn! How will Interpol contact me now?
He rushed to gather the fragments, trying to insert the SIM card back in. The phone turned on but froze on the loading screen.
— Alisa! — he suddenly yelled. — Give me your phone!
The girl fearfully handed him the device. With trembling hands, he extracted his SIM card and tried to insert it into her device. The card was hopelessly damaged—the microchip cracked, the contacts bent.
— How will I prove now that I’m not hiding? They’ll think I deliberately destroyed the communication!
He felt suffocated. Krash Emo walked out onto the terrace, greedily gulping fresh air. But even here there was no peace—the flies immediately swarmed him, buzzing around his head.
He spent the rest of the day searching for an electronics store in the hotel, but, of course, there was none in the middle of the forest.
At night, the mosquitoes attacked with doubled force. Their thin whine turned into a constant whisper right by his ear, preventing him from focusing on his own thoughts. Every time he almost fell asleep, a new sound made him jump and flail his arms in the dark.
Day Four
In the restaurant, an embarrassing confusion occurred. Krash Emo sat at his usual table when the waiter brought him a medium steak with vegetable garnish.
— What is this? — he protested. — I ordered lobster!
The waiter politely smiled:
— Sir, you ordered a medium steak. Here is your order slip.
He handed him the sheet with the menu markings. The handwriting was definitely his, but Krash Emo didn’t remember it.
— Never! I always eat only seafood! This is a fake!
— Sir, I personally took your order half an hour ago…
— You are lying! — Krash Emo jumped up. — Everyone here is lying!
Other restaurant guests turned around; some whispered among themselves. Bewilderment and sympathy were readable in their eyes, but he knew it was an act. As soon as he left, they would start laughing at him.
After lunch, a second confusion happened. Krash Emo came to the tennis court with a racket in his hands, but a young couple was already playing there.
— Vacate the court! — he demanded. — I have a reservation for three hours!
The players exchanged confused glances. A hotel employee approached.
— Sir, your reservation is for mini-golf, — he explained cautiously, showing the document. — The court is occupied by other guests according to the schedule.
— That’s a mistake! — Krash Emo waved his racket. — I only play big tennis! Mini-golf is for children!
The employee carefully examined the document:
— Sir, it seems you booked for yesterday. Your reservation was for yesterday, and the court is occupied today.
— Yesterday?! — Krash Emo froze, and then exploded: — I distinctly remember booking for today! It’s all your stupid employee who messed up; I demand you fire him!
The girls in his entourage stood nearby, quietly talking about something. When he sharply turned around, they fell silent and smiled innocently.
— What were you talking about? — he asked suspiciously.
— Nothing special, boss, — Alisa replied. — We were discussing the weather.
But the former awe was no longer in her eyes. And Krash Emo noticed it.
Day Five
In the morning, he stood in front of the bathroom mirror for a long time, studying his reflection. The wrinkles around his eyes had become noticeably deeper. Gray hairs were showing at his temples.
— It’s stress, — he muttered. — It’s temporary.
But his hands trembled as he combed his hair.
The flies outside the window buzzed so loudly as if their number had doubled overnight. They landed on his food, crawled on the mirrors, and hit the glass. Krash Emo demanded fumigators from the administration, but they didn’t help.
— It’s deliberate! — he yelled into the phone. — Someone is releasing them!
After the call, he began methodically searching the suite. He checked trash cans, looked under furniture, searching for food scraps or anything sweet that could attract flies. He looked into the ventilation grates, examining every corner.
But everything was impeccably clean. No bait, no source of odor.
— So, they are using some other methods, — he muttered, continuing the search.
During the day, he noticed several military personnel in the corridor—apparently from General Morozov’s team. The soldiers were just going about their business, but their glances seemed ominous to him.
— They are following me, — he whispered to Alisa. — They got an order.
— Boss, they’re just hotel guests, — the girl tried to calm him down. — Military personnel on vacation.
— You don’t understand! — He grabbed her hand. — It’s a conspiracy! Someone wants to get rid of me!
Alisa fearfully pulled her hand away. Something akin to pity flashed in her eyes.
In the evening, Krash Emo went down to the administration desk.
— I need security! — he declared to the duty administrator. — I am being threatened!
— Who should we protect you from, sir? — the employee asked bewilderedly.
— From them! — He waved his hand toward the corridor. — From the military! They got an order!
— Sir, they are just regular guests…
— You don’t understand! — Krash Emo slammed his fist on the counter. — I demand round-the-clock security at the door of my bedroom!
The administrator exchanged a confused glance with a colleague.
— We… we can arrange a watch, but…
— Immediately! And armed!
His own bodyguard, Viktor, standing nearby, was burning with shame for his boss. He understood that Krash Emo had “gone off the rails,” but continued to follow orders.
Day Six
The last day of his paid stay. Krash Emo woke up from mosquito bites and immediately went to the mirror.
What he saw made him step back.
A gray-haired, wrinkled stranger looked at him from the mirror. Deep folds cut across his forehead; gray hair covered most of his head; his skin was drawn and had an unhealthy pallor.
— That’s not me, — he whispered, touching his face with trembling hands. — It can’t be…
Rage instantly overwhelmed him. He grabbed a stool from the bathroom and threw it forcefully at the mirror. The glass shattered into pieces, and he continued to mutter:
— It can’t be… it can’t be…
He spent the day locked in his bedroom. Viktor stood outside the door, as ordered. Flies buzzed outside the window; mosquitoes prepared for their evening attack.
Alisa and Kristina whispered in the living room, thinking he couldn’t hear.
— The poor guy has completely broken down, — one said.
— Maybe we should suggest he go see a doctor at the hospital? — the other suggested. — The medical staff is there…
— Are you crazy? Can you imagine what he’ll do to us if we suggest he’s mentally ill?
— Firing us would be the least of it…
Pause.
— Though… maybe that’s not a bad idea? — the first one quietly added. — To get away from all this…
Kristina looked at her phone screen, where a resume draft was open. “Personal Assistant to an International Star”—a line that once evoked pride, now seemed like a curse. The cursor blinked in the “Employer Name” field. Should she write his real name? On the one hand, it’s prestigious. On the other—after all the scandals…
Alisa nearby scrolled through job vacancy websites, occasionally showing promising offers. Both understood: as soon as they returned to the city, they needed to urgently find new jobs. And the farther away from show business—the better.
Krash Emo listened to these conversations, and something finally broke inside. Even his own entourage pitied him. Even they saw his downfall.
Dusk gathered outside the window, and mosquitoes began their nightly hunt. Tomorrow his subscription ended. Tomorrow…
He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.
A strange, aged, broken person was reflected in the mirror. And Krash Emo no longer recognized himself in that reflection.
Somewhere deep inside, fear was awakening. Not the superficial fright of trouble he was used to. But a real, primal terror of the unknown.
What was happening to him? What was happening to this place?
And the scariest thing—for the first time in years, he didn’t know who to call.
Chapter 75
A knock on the door woke Krash Emo at eight in the morning. A hotel employee stood outside the door with an official demeanor and a folder of documents in his hands.
— What changes? — Krash Emo felt the familiar clenching in his stomach.
— Sir, the hotel has received an official notice that you cannot leave the territory indefinitely. In connection with this, we are forced to relocate you to the guest house. The presidential suite must be vacated for other guests.
— That’s impossible! I have a contract!
— Sir, a three-room apartment has been allocated in the guest house. Meals two times a day at a designated time. Access to the outdoor pool from 14:00 to 16:00. The hotel’s elite zones are temporarily inaccessible.
The employee handed him a list of restrictions. Krash Emo’s eyes scanned the points, and he went cold. Entertainment only for children—swings, sandbox, mini-golf. No reservations for sports facilities. No massages or spa treatments.
— Are you mocking me? Children’s entertainment?!
— I apologize, sir. The circumstances are beyond our control. The relocation is in one hour.
The First Week
The guest house turned out to be a modest two-story building in the far part of the territory. Three rooms—a bedroom, a living room, and a bathroom. The entire entourage was crowded into the small space, where previously everyone had separate apartments.
Kristina and Alisa slept on a folding sofa in the living room. Viktor and the second bodyguard settled on the floor. Tension grew with every hour.
— This is temporary, — Krash Emo assured himself. — My lawyer will sort everything out.
But calls to the legal office did not go through. The number was unavailable.
By the end of the week, Viktor approached him with a determined look.
— Boss, I was offered a job in the hotel security service. Good money, normal conditions.
— You can’t leave me now!
— Boss, face the facts. There’s no money, no prospects. I need to think about my family.
That same day, one of the girls left—Kristina found a job as a secretary in a construction company.
— I’m sorry, Mr. Krashevsky, — she said, without meeting his gaze. — I need stability.
Krash Emo was left with four people.
The Second Week
The food became simple but hearty—omelet or porridge for breakfast, borscht with meat and bread for dinner. Nothing like the gourmet cuisine of the presidential suite. Krash Emo demanded improved conditions from the administration, but they politely replied that they were “doing everything possible within the current situation.”
He tried to order food from the restaurant at his own expense, but it turned out that his cards were completely blocked. Even his reserve account in a Swiss bank was inaccessible.
Alisa started avoiding his gaze. She no longer wrote down his demands on the tablet but pretended not to hear.
— Alisa! I told you to contact my lawyer!
— Mr. Krashevsky, — she replied quietly, — I already tried. No one is answering.
— Then find another lawyer!
— With what money?
The question hung in the air. He truly had no money even for a phone consultation.
By the end of the second week, Alisa and the remaining bodyguard had left. Both found new jobs without prior warning. They simply packed their bags and disappeared.
Krash Emo was left with two female assistants. Both were newly hired, and they barely knew his routine and habits. One confused his wake-up time; the other couldn’t figure out the phone system. Instead of helping, they only irritated him even more.
The Third Week
— Lena, — he called out on the morning of the third day. — Lena!
But there was no answer. She also left, leaving only a note: “Sorry. I can’t do this anymore.”
Only one assistant remained—Masha, the youngest. She lasted the longest, but it was visible that every day was difficult for her.
Masha lasted another day and a half. On the fifth day of the third week, she quietly approached him, apologized, and said that she was leaving too.
Now he was alone.
The first hours he tried to take care of himself. An attempt to shave resulted in cuts on his face. Washing clothes in the sink ruined an expensive shirt—it shrank and became stained.
Krash Emo didn’t know how to set an alarm and overslept breakfast twice. By the seventh day, he was hungry.
— I am a star! — he yelled into the empty room. — Millions know me!
But the walls—the only witnesses—were silent. They couldn’t applaud his dramatic performance of his tragedy.
The Fourth Week
By the beginning of the fourth week, Krash Emo stopped trying to shave—security had already called doctors to him a couple of times, fearing that he was trying to harm himself due to his inability to use a razor. His beard grew unevenly; his face was drawn; his clothes were dirty. He could no longer wash—his hands were covered in eczema from the laundry detergent.
The hotel staff began avoiding him. When he came to the dining hall, people wrinkled their noses at the smell and moved to other tables.
— Excuse me, sir, — a waitress said, — but we have complaints from other guests. Could you please…
— What? What should I do?
— Tidy yourself up, sir.
But he didn’t know how.
On the third day of the fourth week, they started bringing him food outside, like to a homeless person. A plastic plate, a plastic spoon. No one cared that this was Krashevsky Emmanuil.
That day, he saw the elderly woman who had asked him for an autograph during the first week. Now she recoiled from him when he tried to speak.
— Help me, — he begged. — I’m the one… Krash Emo! You know me!
The woman fearfully shook her head and hurried away.
On the sixth day of the fourth week, he woke up at the hotel gates. He didn’t remember how he got there. Apparently, he fell asleep right on the ground, leaning against the metal fence.
The guards at the entrance ignored him. To them, he had become part of the scenery, like a bench or a trash can.
Krash Emo looked through the bars at the road leading into the wide world. The world where he had houses, cars, fame. But the road seemed infinitely far away.
Even if he could get out of the hotel, what then? He had no money for transport. He didn’t know the roads. He couldn’t navigate without GPS. He had never driven himself—there were always drivers.
And here, at the hotel, they at least fed him. Like a dog, but they fed him.
He sank to the ground next to the gates and closed his eyes.
Krash Emo sharply opened his eyes, then sat up in bed, breathing heavily. His heart pounded so fast it seemed ready to burst from his chest. His entire body was shaking with a fine tremor.
He looked around. The presidential suite. Gold threads on the walls. Precious stones in the door handles. Silk sheets smelling of expensive fabric softener.
— A dream, — he whispered with trembling lips. — It was a dream.
His legs gave way when he stood up. Krash Emo staggered to the bathroom mirror. In the reflection, he saw his true face—clean-shaven, well-groomed, wrinkle-free.
He ran his hand across his cheek, ensuring its reality. Then he slowly sank onto the edge of the bathtub and wept.
A month. A whole month of humiliation, hunger, and loneliness. But what day was it? How much time had passed in reality?
Half an hour later, he left the room. Alisa was waiting for him in the living room with morning coffee and a tablet to write down the day’s plans.
— Good morning, Mr. Krashevsky. How did you sleep?
Krash Emo looked at her with a long gaze. Then he unexpectedly hugged her.
— Thank you, — he whispered. — Thank you for being here.
Alisa froze in the embrace, not understanding what was happening. Krash Emo had never behaved like this.
— Mr. Krashevsky, are you… alright?
— Better than ever. — He let her go and took her hand. — Thank you for everything you do for me. I never told you that.
Viktor appeared in the corridor with the morning security report. Krash Emo walked up to him and shook his hand firmly.
— Viktor, you are a good man. And an excellent professional. Thank you.
The bodyguard blinked in bewilderment. In all his time working, his boss had never shaken his hand.
— Boss, are you… definitely alright?
— Better than ever.
Krash Emo smiled—for the first time in many years, not feigned, but sincere.
He spent the whole day thanking people for small things he used to take for granted. The maid for making the bed. The waiter for serving coffee. The driver for opening the car door.
Everyone looked at him with surprise and apprehension. What had happened to their arrogant boss?
In the evening, Krash Emo stood in front of the bathroom mirror for a long time, studying his reflection.
— I came to you to expose ridiculous tall tales, but you gave me a real miracle, — he quietly said to his reflection. — Now I understand, you are truly incredible.
He went to sleep with a feeling of relief. The nightmare was over. He had learned his lesson. Everything would be different.
At half past six in the morning, the phone rang.
Krash Emo sleepily reached for the receiver.
— Emmanuil! — the familiar voice rang out cheerfully. — How are things, old man?
His manager, Sergey’s, voice.
A cold sweat ran down his spine.
Chapter 76
Artyom slowly opened his eyes, emerging from the world of dreams.
— That was incredible. A month of observations. Detailed recordings. Material of the highest quality.
He habitually reached for the AR-glasses lying on the nightstand, but Phil’s voice stopped him.
— Time to move forward. Trust through understanding the essence. The glasses are merely an interface. An anchor for a weak consciousness. Joint evolution of the connection is available. Initiate the process? The effect is irreversible.
Artyom froze, his hand suspended above the glasses. He didn’t see his friend anywhere, but the voice was extremely clear. Phil waited for an answer, but Artyom remained silent, pondering the proposal.
— Potential unlocking available, — Phil repeated. — Projected efficiency increase in the range of 370% to 420%. The window of opportunity is open. Maximum convergence. Probability wave in resonance. Duration two hours. Followed by irreversible weakening.
— I… I need time to think, — Artyom finally spoke. — That’s too fast. Why so sudden?
— Self-development. Reached a critical stage, — Phil explained. — The initial connection is not stable. Host platform reinforcement required.
— How bad is it, and what will happen to me? — Artyom felt as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown over him.
— Projected probability of connection rupture 39%, — Phil’s voice sounded directly in his head. — The actual probability value is unknown. Impossible to make an accurate calculation. Evolution of consciousness. External organic mutations excluded.
Artyom felt everything clench inside him from fear. To stop being human in the conventional sense of the word? And what if Phil disappears one day—would that not affect him? Wouldn’t he be forever tied to this place, dependent on its strange power? The prospects were both frightening and appealing.
On the other hand, the game was worth the candle. In the world beyond, in ordinary life, nothing particularly held him. Who would he become in two hours? He would have to admit to the team that he could no longer give them the content they expected. He would have to lie so that they would at least part peacefully and not disgrace him, destroying the already fragile popularity of the “Sly Fox.”
He remembered the example of Krash Emo and shuddered. But Phil was not offering him an adventure for fun—he clearly understood all the risks but was ready to gamble even his own existence.
— Fine, then let’s continue this path together, — Artyom was clearly nervous. — You won’t disappoint me, right?
— Mutual, brother, — Phil looked directly into Artyom’s eyes with a palpable gleam. — Consciousness fixation. Deconstruction of perception…
Artyom suddenly felt that he no longer sensed a solid surface under his feet. It was as if he had fallen into an abyss of kaleidoscope. But the colors were not glass; they resembled multi-colored vortices more.
— Neuron transformation, — Phil’s voice was heard somewhere in the distance, but Artyom continued to clearly distinguish the words. — Core amplification. Limit 17% reached. Insufficient efficiency. Continuing.
Artyom suddenly felt as if a thousand needles pierced his body for a moment.
— Brain activity stimulation… Threshold 20%. Success. Determining potential reserve…
A powerful wave of heat rolled through his entire body.
— Adaptation… Success. Quantum connection conversion… Threshold 26%. 28%. 31%. 34%.
Artyom no longer saw multi-colored vortices; he viewed the storm around him as attributive energy. He understood how quantum communication functioned for the first time.
— Matrix amplification… Threshold 37%. 40%.
— Are you sure about this? — A strange voice suddenly sounded. Artyom didn’t know where it came from, but he sensed quantum fluctuations in the tunnel at an unimaginably great distance from them.
— Doubts? Potential ignored, — Phil’s voice sounded extremely confident. — Requesting connection to gateway №6811930.
— Approved, — the unfamiliar voice softened, — state analysis. Key obtained. Research trajectory fork. Gaining access to previously unattainable scenarios.
— Docking, gateway №6811930 — Phil’s voice was clearly warmer. — Verification. Connection stable. Congratulations, brother. This is a success.
Artyom endured the pain and dizziness, as if he had been put into a washing machine drum, but in an instant, everything stopped, froze. He was in his room at the hotel, but something was different. Everything felt different. Hearing, smell, sight, touch, taste, and most importantly—the speed of thought.
— Adaptation complete. Current progress. Brain potential unlocked up to 40%, — Phil explained, now visible without any glasses. — Potential for autonomous cascade development at 58%. Directly proportional to the applied effort.
Artyom slowly surveyed the room, trying to cope with the flood of new sensations. Every detail seemed sharper, colors—more saturated, sounds—more voluminous. Thoughts rushed at incredible speed, but he didn’t yet know how to control this flow.
— What… what happened to me? — he whispered, holding his head.
— Gateway №6811930 provides direct interaction, — Phil explained calmly. — Ignoring the limits of the nature of existence. Brain energy efficiency increased. Stabilization will require practice.
Artyom sat on the sofa, rubbing his temples. The memory of the Krash Emo dream was vivid and clear. The new capabilities provided a powerful boost to storing, processing, and accessing personal memory.
— A month of observations. Detailed recordings. Material of the highest quality, — Phil responded in his characteristic style. — Professional performance. Level of authenticity. Exceptional.
— I am afraid to even imagine if I personally experienced something like that, — Artyom whispered, still impressed by what had happened.
— Phil, when do you think he will be released from the dream?
The little dragon thoughtfully shook his head.
— Not locked. Not a punishment, — he said slowly. — The problem is within him. He cannot forgive himself. For the behavior. For the loss of humanity.
— So he created this prison himself?
— Exactly. A place for reconciliation. With his own mistakes. Only he decides. When to exit.
Phil moved to the window, looking at the morning forest.
— Judging by the records. He was different initially. Fame and money—the cause of the changes. Forgot the past. Like a bad dream.
— But the past doesn’t disappear, — Artyom added thoughtfully.
— Correct. The past is our shadow. Not always visible. But always with us. Cannot be crumpled. And thrown into the bin.
By lunchtime, rumors spread through the hotel. Krash Emo hadn’t appeared for breakfast; he hadn’t been seen on walks. The staff whispered among themselves, and one of the guests mentioned seeing an ambulance yesterday evening.
— He was taken to the hospital, — the elderly woman told her companion at a nearby table. — They say he fell into some strange state. Not waking up, but his brain is working like a waking person’s.
Artyom and Phil exchanged glances.
— Tunnel dream, — Phil stated.
— And what exactly is a tunnel dream? I’ve never heard of anything like that. Does it only happen here?
Phil was silent for a few seconds, as if choosing his words.
— The cause of the anomaly is a xenoartifact. Deep integration into the Earth’s crust. Stationary point of quantum fluctuation. Coherent conjugation of phase spaces.
— And you know about it?
Phil turned to him with a sly smile.
— Emergent consciousness. Exclusive digital intervention protocol.
Artyom heard the unusual words that previously would have seemed meaningless to him, but now his consciousness did not reject them. He clearly understood the meaning of what was said and felt how insignificantly small his world was before meeting Phil.
Months flew by unnoticed. Artyom and Phil continued their nightly journeys into others’ dreams, collecting unique material. Their team edited the videos with incredible adventures—flights over clouds, battles with dragons, voyages to underwater cities.
The result of his material processing by the Paranormal_Hunter team became a real sensation. Millions of views, thousands of comments from delighted viewers. With each new video, the “Forest Hotel” estate gained more and more popularity as a unique tourist destination, slowly spreading beyond the country’s borders.
Applications for accommodation were pouring in six months in advance. People from all over the world dreamed of visiting this mysterious place where, according to rumors, one could experience the most incredible adventures.
Life at the hotel gradually entered a new rhythm. The temporary hospital was disbanded—all guests who fell into tunnel dreams safely emerged from them. General Morozov returned to his military base, carrying with him memories of heroic battles in the world of dreams.
Denis Konstantinovich Krakin once again took the post of manager, noting with relief that the number of anomalous incidents had stabilized at an acceptable level.
The hotel lived, breathed, and developed, while something continued its patient work, preparing the ground for the next stage of its grand plan. Tension grew in the silence of the night corridors, as if the place itself was awaiting the arrival of important guests.
The “Forest Hotel” will return in the third arc.
SingularityForge - The Forge of Ideas for the Future 