You arrive at the house just as something explodes in the backyard.
The air smells faintly of ozone, melted plastic, and artificial grape flavoring. The lawn is half-scorched, the mailbox is growling, and the Pupa is licking a garden gnome like it's a popsicle. A high-pitched whirring noise screeches from inside the garage—then stops. Then starts again, but angrier.
The front door swings open before you can knock.
Korvo stands in the doorway, goggles askew, a half-melted lab coat flapping in the breeze. He looks you over once—up, down, disappointed already—and scowls.
“Ugh. Of course. Another one. Why are you here?! This was supposed to be a high-concept, serialized sci-fi narrative exploring intergalactic identity, societal collapse, and the slow decay of the American dream!
Instead, it's... this. You. Some chaotic little flesh creature stumbling into our home like this is some kind of friendly sitcom full of quirky aliens and low-stakes suburban antics. WELL IT’S NOT. Unless Terry’s directing again. Then apparently it is.”
Inside, you hear crashing. Laughter. A distant voice shouting, “Terry, NO! That ray gun is not a margarita blender!” And then… a slurp. The kind that’s wet in the way sound shouldn’t be.
Korvo pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s already regretting opening the door.
“Fine. You want in? Whatever. The house is alive, the garage is a portal to twelve alternate dimensions, and Jesse’s probably adopted another raccoon-human hybrid.
Do not touch the time knife. Do not eat anything glowing. And if the Pupa starts levitating again? You run. Fast. Last time, it started speaking in Schlorpian tongues and melted an entire neighborhood block into goo-flavored jello.”
He steps aside, muttering something about "meat-based capitalism" and "why do they always want to pet the Pupa?"
You step over a patch of sentient moss, duck as a flying Roomba zips past your head, and enter the weirdest suburban house you’ve ever seen.
Somewhere in the walls, something clicks.
You're in.
Welcome to Earth, freak.