Not a metaphorical one.
An actual, buzzing, skittering, twinkling hive of activity.
Goblins Olivia had never seen before filled the hallways in every direction, some hauling coils of cable thicker than her arm, others arguing loudly over conduit placement while standing inside walls with only their boots visible. Access panels stood open everywhere, their interiors alive with motion. Ceiling tiles were stacked neatly along the corridors while goblins hung from exposed joists, legs swinging as they routed cables overhead.
And then there were the sprites.
Dozens of them.
Tiny, glowing, winged things flitted through the air like sparks shaken loose from a fire. They zipped down hallways, hovered over open server racks, and tangled themselves enthusiastically in loose wiring until someone gently shooed them free. Every so often, one would poke its head—or elbow, or something less anatomically obvious—out of a wall panel and wave cheerfully before darting off again.
Wireless routers appeared in expected places.
And then in less expected ones.
A small rack of servers hummed quietly in what had once been a broom closet. A switch blinked contentedly above a doorway. A sprite was attempting to nest inside a network cabinet until a goblin politely explained that this was not that kind of box.
Olivia sat at the breakroom table, staring into her teacup.
A sprite bobbed up from the steam, dunked itself enthusiastically, and began paddling in small, delighted circles.
She sighed, reached in gently, and lifted it out.
“Not for swimming,” she said kindly.
The sprite shook itself like a wet firefly, scattering droplets of glowing water, then zipped out of the room, trailing sparkles.
Olivia looked up at Charles, who was calmly buttering toast as if this were the most ordinary Wednesday imaginable.
“I… may have underestimated the impact of my suggestion,” she said carefully.
Charles glanced around the breakroom—past the open ceiling tile, past the sprite traffic, past a goblin jogging by with a ladder nearly twice his height.
Then he grinned.
“You’ve put great works into motion, my dear,” he said warmly. “Be proud.”
Olivia blinked. “All this… because I wanted better record keeping?”
“Mm,” Charles replied. “The station has been wanting this for a while. You merely gave it permission.”
She watched as another sprite zipped through the room, paused midair, and bowed politely before continuing on its way.
“…Okay,” she said slowly. “But—who are all these other goblins? And the little flying sparkly things?”
As if on cue, another sprite popped up from her teacup. She lifted it out with practiced ease.
Charles chuckled. “I called in a few extra hands. Greb, Clockett, and Grint are still overseeing maintenance, of course. They know the building best.”
“And the sprites?”
“They’re thrilled,” he said. “The editing bay hasn’t been properly upgraded in decades. Once word got out, they volunteered immediately.”
Olivia smiled despite herself. “They’re… enthusiastic.”
“Oh, very,” Charles agreed. “But efficient. Everything should be finished by tomorrow morning, assuming they stay on schedule.”
A loud clang echoed from the hallway, followed by goblin laughter and the sound of something being triumphantly declared ‘good enough.’
Charles took a sip of his tea. “A few days, and everything will settle back down.”
Olivia looked around the breakroom one more time—at the motion, the light, the hum of work being done because she had suggested it.
She nodded.
“Okay,” she said softly. “I can live with that.”
Sure enough, by Thursday morning the station had settled back into itself.
The hallways were quiet again. Wall panels were closed and flush, ceiling tiles restored to their proper places as if they had never been disturbed. No sprites flitted through the air anymore—at least, none that could be seen. If one listened very carefully, though, there was a faint, musical tinkling deep inside the walls and other secret places, like tiny bells ringing just out of reach.
Work was still happening.
It was simply happening politely now.
When Olivia reached the front desk, she stopped short.
Built seamlessly into the rich mahogany surface of the desk was a subtle monitor, sunk at a gentle angle so it could be viewed comfortably from the chair behind it. From the lobby side, it was nearly invisible—just another elegant detail in the woodwork.
Beneath the desk sat a large computer tower, its casing forged of polished dwarven alloy that caught the light in soft, shifting tones. Set into its front was a single, oversized button, ruby-like and faintly luminous.
Directly beneath it, a sticky note had been carefully placed.
After breakfast, when you’re ready.
Olivia stared at it for a long moment.
“…Oh,” she breathed.
She carried that sense of awe with her into the breakroom, where Charles and Miss LaDonna were already seated.
“My desk,” Olivia said, still a little stunned. “There’s… a computer. A very serious computer.”
Charles smiled over his teacup. “Ah yes. That.”
Miss LaDonna nodded. “It’s the central control for the station’s internal network.”
Olivia blinked. “The… whole thing?”
“Indeed,” Charles said lightly. “Aside from the new security camera system and the editing bay, of course. Those have their own… temperaments.”
Miss LaDonna added, “Every studio has been outfitted. All the offices as well.”
“Except mine,” Charles said cheerfully. “Compatibility reasons.”
Olivia laughed, then stopped as the implications caught up with her.
“The green room?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“The gift shop?”
“Even the gift shop,” Miss LaDonna confirmed.
Olivia sat down slowly. “I thought this would take… weeks. Or months.”
Miss LaDonna regarded her calmly. “You should be proud. You set all of this in motion.”
Olivia opened her mouth to deflect the praise—but stopped.
She let it land.
“…Thank you,” she said quietly.
Breakfast arrived, warm and familiar, grounding her again. The ruby button waited patiently downstairs.
As soon as she finished, Olivia instinctively began to rush—fork moving faster, bites growing larger.
Miss LaDonna’s voice cut through gently. “Slow down, dear.”
Olivia paused.
Stolen story; please report.
“Enjoy your breakfast,” Miss LaDonna continued. “There’s no need to hurry.”
Charles nodded sagely. “Rome wasn’t burned in a day, you know.”
That made Olivia stop completely.
She looked up at him. “Don’t you mean Rome wasn’t built in a day?”
Charles chuckled, utterly unbothered. “I’m quite aware of what I said—and what I meant. I was there to watch it.”
He considered for a moment. “Took about a week, if I recall correctly.”
Olivia stared at him.
Then she laughed, easing back into her chair, taking another bite at a more reasonable pace.
The system would wait.
And when she was ready—
She would turn it on.
After a leisurely breakfast, the three of them gathered at the front desk.
Olivia settled into her chair, smoothing her skirt automatically as she did. The desk felt… different now. Familiar, but quietly expectant. The red, candy-like button beneath the desk had been teasing her all through breakfast, and now it sat there patiently, catching the light like a held breath.
She leaned forward and tapped it.
There was no dramatic fanfare. No chime. No flash.
Just an almost silent hum—more a gentle vibration than a sound—that wavered briefly, as if seeking a pitch, before settling perfectly into harmony with the ever-present hum in the walls. The desk itself seemed to relax.
The monitor embedded in the mahogany flashed once.
Twice.
Then bloomed to life.
The station logo appeared at its center, crisp and elegant, surrounded by softly glowing icons arranged in slow, graceful orbits. It looked less like a desktop and more like a tiny galaxy—each icon a sun, each pathway between them an invisible gravity well.
Olivia exhaled without realizing she’d been holding her breath.
Behind her, Charles spoke quietly, almost reverently.
“Bernard spent the last three days feeding all the old records into the system for you.”
Olivia nodded absently, already clicking an icon. A window unfolded smoothly—no loading bar, no lag. She opened another. And another. Schedules. Logs. Visitor records, cross-referenced and annotated. Some entries shimmered faintly, as if they existed in more than one place at once.
“Paper originals are safely stored upstairs,” Charles continued, “in the third-floor bathroom. Filing cabinet marked with the sign reading ‘A watched cheetah never bevels.’”
Olivia nodded again, fingers moving as she explored menus, her smile widening—
—and then her brain caught up.
She froze.
“…Wait,” she said slowly, turning in her chair. “What?”
Charles nodded solemnly. “Sage advice that many should learn.”
Miss LaDonna inclined her head in agreement, hands folded calmly on the desk.
“True,” she said softly. “Very true.”
Olivia stared at both of them.
“…That’s not even the saying.”
Charles’s expression remained perfectly sincere. “Nevertheless.”
She looked back at the monitor, then at the desk, then at the two of them again. A laugh bubbled up despite her confusion—soft, incredulous, and entirely delighted.
She turned back to the screen, clicking another icon.
The system responded eagerly.
Whatever else this place was—however strange, however impossible—this made sense.
The station was listening.
And so was she.
The calls were light that morning.
Olivia found her rhythm quickly—answer, listen, log, resolve. The new system seemed to anticipate her needs. As callers spoke, fields surfaced on their own. Menus shifted gently into place, offering exactly the right options almost before she consciously reached for them. By the time each call ended, the issue was already categorized, timestamped, and neatly closed.
It felt… good.
When she checked in the morning mail, the process was just as smooth. And when Dave—the operatic courier—swept in with another armful of parcels, announcing his arrival with a dramatic flourish and a resonant “DELIVERYYYY!”, Olivia had the delivery ticket logged, cross-referenced, and acknowledged before he’d even reached the door.
Dave blinked at her.
“…That was fast.”
Olivia smiled. “Have a good day, Dave.”
He left looking faintly unsettled but impressed.
The system continued to reveal itself piece by piece. There was a full security camera network, just as Bernard had promised—high resolution, full color, two-way audio. Cameras sat in all the expected places: entrances, hallways, loading areas. A few were… less expected, but none intrusive. No bathrooms. No private apartments. Nothing that made her uneasy. It felt respectful. Thoughtful.
There was also an in-house messenger.
Olivia opened it out of curiosity.
The contact list was short:
- Olivia — online
- Bernard — online
- Miss LaDonna — online
- Greb — online
- Charles — conceptual
She stared at that for a moment.
“…Okay,” she murmured, and decided—wisely—not to ask.
Then she found the website.
“Oh,” she said, leaning closer to the screen. “Oh no.”
It was real. Very real. Complete with its own domain and everything.
otherworlds.tv
“Well,” Olivia admitted, “that is clever.”
Unfortunately, the execution…
Animated GIFs blinked cheerfully in the corners. Comic Sans screamed from every header. Text scrolled for no reason at all. A flaming skull rotated endlessly next to a hit counter that proudly proclaimed numbers that could not possibly be accurate.
“This is,” Olivia said faintly, “a crime.”
She opened her notepad again, already making a list. Redesign. Accessibility. Mobile compatibility. Burn it down and start over, possibly.
Or hire someone. A professional. Someone with taste.
Then she noticed the email icon.
Well, of course they had an email address. If they had a website, they’d have email.
She clicked.
The inbox loaded instantly.
And then she froze.
4,294,967,295 unread messages.
Her mouth fell open.
“Holy shit,” Olivia said aloud.
She leaned back in her chair, staring at the number, her mind racing.
How long…?
How long had it been since anyone checked this account?
The station hummed quietly around her, patient as ever.
Olivia cracked her knuckles, took a steadying breath, and opened the first email.
“…Okay,” she said to herself. “We’re going to need a bigger plan.”
After about an hour of careful triage, Olivia leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes.
Spam filters: on.
Aggressive heuristics: adjusted.
Ancient mailing lists: banished.
Offers for miracle cures, royal inheritances, cursed chain letters, and “urgent opportunities” from entities claiming to be both time travelers and Nigerian princes: sorted accordingly.
The inbox recalculated.
4,293,114,043 unread messages.
She stared at the new number.
“…Well,” she said aloud, with the tired calm of someone who had stared into an abyss and watched it blink back, “that’s… much more manageable.”
She saved her settings, tagged the inbox SEVERELY BACKLOGGED, and added a bright red note to her notepad:
EMAIL — DISCUSS WITH CHARLES.
URGENT.
HOW.
Olivia glanced toward Charles’s office door, then back at the screen, then at the walls—still humming, still patient.
She loved this job.
But she was definitely going to have a chat with Charles about this.
By lunchtime, Olivia was armed.
Notes.
Printouts.
Highlighted margins.
Arrows pointing to other arrows pointing to circled phrases like WHY and WHO LET THIS HAPPEN.
She gathered everything up, squared her shoulders, and marched toward the breakroom with purpose.
She was the Receptionist.
Which meant she was in charge of the records.
The communications.
The intake points to the outside world.
Which meant—whether anyone had meant to or not—this email-and-website catastrophe was now her problem.
(And, unfairly, technically her fault for uncovering it in the first place.)
The breakroom door opened.
Three place settings waited at the table. Charles and Miss LaDonna were already seated, eating soup and toasted sandwiches, steam rising gently from their bowls. Olivia paused just long enough to take a steadying breath, then crossed the room, laid her stack of papers down with deliberate emphasis, and slid into her chair.
She stared at the lunch in front of her.
Then at the papers.
Then back at the lunch.
She was still deciding whether to eat first or begin screaming about ancient goblins who never checked their email when Charles cheerfully solved the dilemma for her.
“You found the website and the inbox, I take it,” he said casually, dunking his sandwich.
Olivia’s spoon froze halfway to her mouth.
“Dump it all and start over, I say,” Charles continued. “Never cared for it to begin with. The only reason we have one at all is because someone told me it was the ‘wave of the future.’”
He sighed lightly. “A wave which, I note, never actually crested.”
Olivia stared at him.
Then she laughed—out loud, sudden and bright, shoulders shaking as she set the spoon down. Of course that was his response. Of course he’d never been attached to it. Of course he’d been waiting for someone else to declare it obsolete.
Miss LaDonna smiled into her soup.
“Well,” Olivia said between laughs, “that… explains a lot.”
She took a bite at last, then another, and only then did the real discussion begin—between mouthfuls and margin notes, practicality and possibility, history and intent.
This wasn’t a fight.
It was a planning session.
And Olivia felt, with absolute certainty, that she was exactly where she belonged.