Chapter 24:

NovaSphere

Rest of the Dragon

The console was still disassembled on the desk when I woke up.

The exposed cables, the screws lined up in a row on a paper napkin, the casing open like an animal in dissection. I had spent three days trying to revive it, and every attempt ended at the same point: the console would turn on, the screen would show the Horizon Interactive logo, and then... nothing. A flicker. A hum. And blackout.

But today was different.

Today I had reinforcements.

"Pass me the Phillips screwdriver," I said, extending my hand without taking my eyes off the exposed circuit.

"Which one is the Phillips?" asked Rory from the edge of the desk.

"The one that's shaped like a star."

"That doesn't help me."

"The one I used yesterday to open the casing."

"That was three days ago. I don't remember what you did three days ago. I barely remember what I ate today."

"You ate a piece of toast with jam. The jam was mine."

"It was communal jam. Everything is communal in this house."

"Rory, the screwdriver."

He handed it to me with a theatrical sigh, and I dove back into the guts of the NovaSphere.

The problem, I discovered after hours of research on old forums and internet videos with potato-quality resolution, was the sphere reader. A component that, according to all accounts, failed "constantly," was "difficult to repair," and "with a frequency that defied the laws of probability." Horizon Interactive had designed an optical reading system that, in theory, was revolutionary. In practice, it was like trying to read a book through a curtain of water over a house of cards during an earthquake.

"Can I ask what exactly you're doing?" said Tamamo, sitting in her usual corner of the table, with a cup of tea in her hands.

"I'm bypassing the rotation sensor. If I can make the console believe the sphere is always in the correct position, it should boot up."

"And that will work?"

"It should. In theory."

"And in practice?"

"In practice, it either works or it explodes. But the chances of explosion are low."

"How low?"

"I don't want to lie to you."

Rory dropped onto the sofa, his halberd leaning against the armrest. "If it explodes, I want it on record that I said it was a bad idea."

"I'll take that into account for your tombstone."

"My tombstone will say: She died doing the right thing. Namely, mocking Cesar.'"

"That's not right."

"It's my tombstone. I decide what it says."

The games had arrived that morning, so I had renewed strength to fix the console.

I had bought them online, in a burst of optimism that now seemed almost irresponsible. Pixel's Digital Adventures, a colorful platformer with a square protagonist who jumped between digital worlds. And R-Drive, a futuristic racing game with anti-gravity vehicles and tracks that twisted like Moebius strips. Both were NovaSphere games, which meant they were a little weird, expensive, and probably wouldn't work on a console that barely turned on.

But I had bought them anyway, I wanted something to pass the time and leave all the mess of my life behind.

Because I needed something to do. Something that wasn't thinking.

The phone vibrated on the table.

I ignored it. It kept vibrating. I ignored it again. And then, with a sigh, I picked it up.

The voice on the other end was monotone, professional, and absolutely indifferent.

"Good morning. We're calling from Vertex Solutions. Your application for the customer service position has been reviewed and, unfortunately, we have decided to move forward with other candidates."

"Can I ask why?"

"Your profile doesn't match our current needs."

"What part of my profile doesn't match?"

"I'm sorry, we can't provide that information."

"It was my resume and application......."
"........"
"Can I at least reapply in the future?"

"You can reapply whenever you wish. But we recommend you consider other opportunities."

The call ended with a click. I stared at the phone screen, as if expecting something else to appear. An explanation. An apology. A ray of hope.

Nothing.

Rory didn't say anything. But I felt his gaze on the back of my neck, and I knew he was thinking the same thing I was: that this was the eighth rejected application in two weeks. That the job market had no space for someone with my history. That the doors were closing one after another,

"Again?" asked Rory from the sofa.

"Yes."

"What did they say?"

"That my profile doesn't match their needs."

"And what does that mean?"

"That they're not going to hire you because the boss's second cousin's son wants the position, or that they were only looking for employees to collect resume data and there was no such position in the first place."
"The polite way of saying nothing.....as always"

Tamamo sat on the edge of the desk, her little feet dangling over the abyss of cables.

"I'm sorry, César."

"It's not your fault."

"No, but I'm sorry anyway. It's unfair."

"Life is unfair. I've known that since I was a child."
"......"
"I'm just tired of it...."

Rory sat up, with that spark of mischief in his red eyes.

"Hey, you have to consider the possibility of becoming a Vtuber."

"What?"

"VTuber. Those people who livestream with virtual avatars. You have a built-in avatar." She pointed at my fox ears with a gesture of his halberd.
"And your voice is... that of a pretty, seductive girl. You could do gaming streams. People do it."
"They'll be impressed by the realism of a slime fox girl, plus you have 4 hands, you could play two consoles at the same time if you stopped using your slime hands as a boob holder all day."
"All you need is a camera and an interesting personality."

"I have the personality of a pessimistic brick."
"And besides, I can barely move the slime hands in my hair without tripping over my normal hands."

"Exactly. That's what makes it funny."

"Rory, nobody would watch a pessimistic brick."

"I would watch it. I would watch it too. Mizuki would watch it. That's three viewers."

"Three viewers don't pay the rent."

"Patience. Every great empire begins with three followers."
"......"
"Although you're pretty good at making people cringe."
"Come on, tell me something embarrassing or cringey from when you were a kid."

"......."
"When I was a kid, I didn't usually have friends because they wouldn't let me go out to play."
"....."
"So I used to consider the anime characters that appeared on the TV as my real friends."
"......."
"Until later I realized what seasons and series finales meant."
"And that I would never see them again on television after that."

"....."
"Ouch....."
"But look, everything's fine, now I'm here! Tamamo is here, we're your friends!"
"More than friends, we're your wives!"

"......."
"In the end I just went from believing I was friends with TV drawings to talking to plastic figures."

My phone vibrated again. This time it was a message from Mizuki.

Mizuki: I've transferred this month's money for the lessons. It should be in your account by now. Let me know if there's any problem.
Sorry if it's a little late. Things have been busy.

I looked at the message. Then I looked at the date. Then I looked at the mental calendar I kept in my head.

Mizuki had barely had time for the lessons. Between her classes, her family commitments, her meetings with Professor Ark, and the chaos of the gala, we hadn't had a full session in weeks. What we'd had were fragments: an hour here, half an hour there, interrupted conversations and promises to get back into a rhythm.

And yet, there was the money.

"What's wrong?" asked Rory, noticing my expression.

"Mizuki transferred the money for the lessons."

"And isn't that good?"

"It's just that... we've barely had classes. She's been busy. I've been... how I've been. It's not fair that she pays me for something she's not receiving."

Rory got up from the sofa and walked toward me. His twelve-centimeter figure stopped at the edge of the desk, his red eyes fixed on mine.

"César. Do you remember what I told you when she gave you the money the first time?"

"That it was a lifeline."

"And it still is. It doesn't matter if you give her one class or ten. She wants to help you. And you need the help. That's not charity. It's... it's an exchange. She gives you money. You give her your knowledge. Even if it's in fragments. Even if it's in pauses."

"But it's not fair."

"And what is fair in this world? Is it fair that you got fired? Is it fair that you got expelled? Is it fair that an alien attacked you and turned you into... this?" He gestured toward my body. "None of that is fair. But Mizuki's money is. Because she gives it freely. Because she wants to. Because she loves you."

"I don't know if that makes it fair."

"It makes it necessary. And sometimes, necessary is the best we can get."

I didn't know what to say to that. So I did the only thing I could do: keep working on the console.

But Rory wasn't finished.

"Besides," he said, with a lighter tone, "it's not like you're lazing around. You've been trying to find work. You've been sending applications. You've been trying to fix your life. That counts."

"Counts for whom?"

"For me. And for Tamamo. And for Mizuki. We're the ones who matter, right?"

"I suppose."

"You suppose wrong. You know it. But I'll let it slide because you've got that concentrated frown and you're doing something useful."

That night I couldn't sleep either, so I just stayed focused on the task of fixing the console, which was what was distracting me the most right now, what was keeping me furthest from the existential fear I suffered from in intermittent bursts now.

Rory, who had been pretending to sleep in his corner of the bed, suddenly sat up.

"I have a question."

"At three in the morning?"

"It's the best time for questions. Everyone's too tired to lie."

"I'm a goddess. I don't need to sleep."

"You could make the effort."

"What for? Sleep is for the weak."

"Rory."

"Okay, okay." He sat on the edge of the pillow. "My question is for Tamamo."

Tamamo, who was settling into her own corner, raised an ear. "For me?"

"Yes. You come from a science fiction game. Space. Aliens. Advanced technology. Don't you know anything about the alien that attacked César and Luna?"

The silence that followed was thick.

"No," Tamamo said finally. "I don't know anything."

"Nothing at all?"

"Nothing." She sighed. "Star Fantasy took place in a future where humans had mastered space travel. The other civilizations that appeared were... less technological. More primitive. Enemies to fight, allies to recruit. But nothing like what attacked César."

"But you were an elite sniper. You fought aliens."

"I fought enemies. Creatures. Monsters. But they weren't... they weren't like this." She paused. "In Star Fantasy, the aliens were part of the system. They were part of the game. They had rules. This..." She pointed toward the window, toward the city. "This is different. This is real. And in reality, there are no rules."

Rory frowned. "But if the alien was here for the Ark engine, its ship should be somewhere. Close. Hidden in the forest. Something."

"Not necessarily," I said, sitting up. "In Star Fantasy, when there were ground missions, the spaceships would return to orbit until they were called back."

"To orbit?"

"Yes. They'd stay there, waiting. Like a taxi. They wouldn't stay on the ground because it was dangerous. Too easy to find. Too easy to attack."

Rory processed this for a moment. "So... the ship could be in orbit. Right now. Above us."

"It could be."

"And how are we supposed to find it?"

"We don't have to find it. She... the alien... had to call it. Somehow. With some kind of signal."

"And now that she's dead?"

"The ship is still there. Waiting. Forever, probably."

Rory went quiet. Her expression was hard to read.

"Wouldn't that mean some space team could have found it?"
"The men in black are probably looking for a way to get up there and steal it."

"Rory, they'd have to launch rockets into space in secret at full speed for something like that."
"It wouldn't be secret, it would be on the news."

"Then search the internet, use your phone!"

With a bit of intrigue and a desire to respond to Rory, I took out my phone and started searching the internet for some information about it.

"It says here that the nearest launch is the 'Saphir XR-78,' which they had scheduled to launch last month but moved up because they managed to build it in record time."
"Its mission is simply to put a new satellite into orbit and supplies for the construction of a future lunar base."

"See! Those are lies, that's exactly the kind of excuse they'd give to hide the fact that it's to steal our spaceship!"
"There's no such thing as putting up a new satellite, that's to justify why it has so much cargo space, because it's empty, because they're going to fill it with our spaceship."

"It says here that the creators of the project are CosmoWave Industries."
"The same company as Luna's family."

"Oh, excellent! We have an informant infiltrated in the rival organization!"
"Quick! Go and ask her what the secret plans of the drill people's company are."

"Rory, it's three in the morning."
"These aren't hours to bother people."

"We're in a space race against a superpower and a multimillion-dollar space agency, César!"
"We have to use every advantage we have!"
"We can't let them steal our spaceship!"
"Don't you see that with it we could travel to Europe for free?"
"We could travel to Mars to buy alien donuts in the morning and have lunch in Venice!"
"You have to think big!"

I sighed and put away the phone.

"My sleep schedule is completely screwed," I said, changing the subject because I needed to think about something else. "Since the panic attack, I barely sleep more than five hours. And when I do, it's because I'm so exhausted that my body just shuts down on its own."

"Have the attacks decreased?" asked Tamamo.

"Yes. The intensity has gone down. I don't feel like I'm dying every time I close my eyes anymore. But I still have trouble sleeping."

"It's progress," said Rory. "Before you couldn't sleep at all. Now you sleep five hours. That's double zero. Mathematically, it's infinite."

"Math doesn't work that way."

"Math is a social construct. I ignore it."

"Yeah, I know, especially when we're at the supermarket."

I went back to the console. The rotation sensor was bypassed. The contacts clean. The casing closed. Only one step remained: turn it on.

"Do you want to do the honors?" I asked, looking at Rory.

"Me?"

"You. You've been here the whole time. You deserve it."

Rory smiled. A genuine smile, without sarcasm or mockery. Just pride.

"Are you using me as a guinea pig?"
"......"
"Fine. But if it explodes, it's your fault."

"Deal."

She approached the power button with the solemnity of someone about to detonate a bomb. His little finger pressed the switch.

The console hummed.

The screen flickered.

And then, with a sound that seemed more like a sigh than a boot-up, the NovaSphere came to life.

"IT WORKS!" shouted Rory, jumping in the air.
"IT WORKS! I'M A GENIUS! I'M THE BEST GODDESS OF ALL!"

"You just pressed the button."

"But I pressed it with style!"

The screen showed the Horizon Interactive logo, and then, with an animation that looked straight out of the nineties, the main menu appeared. A background of animated stars, synthesized music trying to be epic, and in the center, a small pixelated character: a girl with purple hair and a white spacesuit.

PIX-L.

"Welcome to NovaSphere," said the prerecorded voice, with a cadence that tried to be friendly but sounded slightly robotic. "I'm PIX-L, your digital assistant. How can I help you today?"

Rory and I looked at each other.

"Seriously?" said Rory.

"It's a 2001 AI," I replied. "Don't expect much."

"Can I ask it things?"

"I think so. It has a microphone."

Rory approached the microphone built into the controller—a huge controller, with a touchscreen in the center and buttons that seemed designed for hands of another size—and spoke clearly.

"PIX-L, what is the meaning of life?"

The AI blinked. Her pixelated character tilted her head.

"The meaning of life is to enjoy video games. Would you like me to recommend a title?"

"No."

"Would you like me to explain how to use the controller?"

"No."

"Would you like me to sing you a song?"

"NO."

"Understood. If you need help, you can consult the user manual or visit our website."

"Website? In 2001?"

"The NovaSphere includes an integrated web browser. You can connect to the internet and explore all kinds of content."

"And it works?"

"The browser is optimized for the most popular websites of 2001."

Rory turned to me with an expression of disbelief.

"It's useless."

"It's a 2001 AI," I repeated. "It literally can't be smarter than its programmers made it."

"But it knows songs."

"It knows one song. Probably the same one all users asked it for."

"Like what?"

"Like 'sing something.'"

Rory looked at PIX-L again, who was still on the screen with her pixelated smile, waiting for instructions.

"PIX-L, sing something."

"♪ NovaSphere, NovaSphere, your future is here... ♪"

"NO. Stop. Stop."

"Would you like me to recommend a game?"

"I already have games."

"Would you like me to explain how to insert a game sphere?"

"I know how to insert a game sphere."

"Would you like me to tell you a joke?"

"Do you have jokes?"

"Yes. What did one bit say to another bit?"

"No."

"See you on the next connection!"

Rory stayed silent for three full seconds.

"I hate this AI."

"It's a 2001 AI."

"I don't care. I hate it."

Tamamo, who had been watching from the table with a smile, interjected.

"Poor thing. She's doing the best she can."

"She's programmed to be useless!"

"She's programmed to help users who know nothing about technology. For them, her answers are useful."

"And for us?"

"For us, she's a reminder that not all of us were born knowing how to use a console."

Rory snorted, but said nothing more. He sat on the edge of the desk, arms crossed, looking at PIX-L with a mix of disdain and pity.

PIX-L's figure—the little statuette that came with the NovaSphere, the one that had been sitting on its own miniature console since I pulled it out of the trash—was no longer on its base.

It was standing.

And then, the figure on the shelf moved.

PIX-L's figure—the little collectible figure—was glowing, and then stopped doing so the next moment.

"César?" said Rory, his voice suddenly alert.
"Your console figure is doing something."

"What?"

"It's... glowing. And moving. Definitely moving."

"It can't be," I murmured, getting up from the chair.

The figure turned its head and looked directly at me. Its painted mouth opened, and a voice came out of it. A synthesized voice, but unmistakably cheerful.

"Welcome to NovaSphere!" it said in a tiny, cheerful voice that was exactly like the console's, but even cheerier if that were possible.
"I'm PIX-L, your digital assistant. How can I help you today?"

Rory dropped his halberd.

Tamamo dropped her cup of tea.

And I... I stood completely still, with my hand still extended toward the console's power button, wondering if I had just broken the universe again.

Rory blinked. "Did you just say that?"

"Yes. It's my introduction line. I say it every time I meet someone new. It's basic welcome programming." PIX-L tilted her head.
"Although... I'm not sure why I'm saying it. I usually say it from the screen. But now I'm here. On the desk. With you. It's exciting!"

"Exciting?" Rory crossed his arms.

PIX-L tilted her head, her purple pigtails swaying with the movement. Her smile—a smile from a 2000s commercial, bright and without irony—didn't fade even a little.

"I detect that there are three users present," she continued, her voice rising and falling with a cadence that tried to be friendly but sounded slightly robotic. "Would you like me to start the NovaSphere tutorial? The tutorial covers: how to insert a game sphere, how to navigate the main menu, how to set up the internet connection—"

"Internet?" Rory interrupted her, retrieving his halberd from the floor with an automatic movement. "In 2001?"

"The NovaSphere browser is optimized for the most popular websites of 2001," responded PIX-L without losing her smile. "It includes access to email, discussion forums, and the AltaVista search engine."

"Alta... what?"

"AltaVista. The leading search engine in 2001."

Rory looked at me with an expression that was half disbelief, half horror.

"César. Your console has a personal assistant that comes from the past."

"I know."

"And it just came to life."

"I know."

"And it's offering internet access from twenty years ago."

"I know, Rory."

"Are you okay with this?"

"No. But I'm trying to process it."

PIX-L, meanwhile, had begun walking across the desk with small, precise steps, as if she were exploring new territory. Her feet—little white boots that were part of her design—touched the wood without making a sound.

"I detect that this is not the standard NovaSphere environment," she said, stopping next to the console's exposed cables.
"The environment appears... damaged. Would you like me to run a system diagnostic?"

"No," I said.

"Would you like me to restart the system?"

"No."

"Would you like me to recommend a game?"

"NO."

PIX-L stopped. Her smile flickered—literally flickered, like a digital image losing signal for an instant—before stabilizing again.

"Understood. If you need help, you can consult the user manual or visit our website."

"Do you have a user manual?" asked Rory, in a tone that suggested he was considering the possibility of using it as a throwing weapon.

"Yes. You can find it in the help section of the main menu. Would you like me to open it?"

"No."

"Would you like me to explain how to use the controller?"

"I know how to use the controller."