Today's a good day. First of all, my wife is not at home, she has gone shopping with a friend and will be back most likely by evening. Secondly, the children are not at home, they have gone to their grandparents' cottage. Birds are singing outside the window. A cool breeze peeks through the opened glass. The sun is shining. It's a little hot, but today you can take off all your outer clothes and relax. A whole day off for the most favorite person in my life — me. Cold homemade kompot, a computer game from my childhood, my phone turned off. No one and nothing will stop me today just to sit and play my favorite game. It won't, will it?

Darn it. As soon as I settled down in my computer chair and reached for the switch on the computer, the doorbell rang. Somehow I managed not to howl. My mistake, I'd forgotten to turn it off. I sat for a couple of breaths, but the eternal human “I don't know what's out there” got the better of me, so I went to see what was out there.

I had a drink of kompot, a dozen steps and I was in the hallway. I'm yelling:

— Who's there?!

— Sergei Vladimirovich, is that you? I need to talk to you, it's very important! — shouted back at me. The unfamiliar voice was elderly and with some strange, lingering accent.

I was really Sergei Vladimirovich, but I didn't answer anything, went to the door and looked through the peephole.

— I will not buy anything from you, — I said as soon as I saw the character in the peephole. He was a classic salesman, in a suit, cleaned up and all that. Except that he was suspiciously old, late gray, though all the hair was in place, which I could only envy with my baldness. - Get out of here, Sergei Vladimirovich isn't home!

— Sergei, please open the door, we need to talk, — the man's speech was confident, he pronounced each word with precision, but still made strange accents because of his emphasis.

— My name is Artur Milos, I'm a lawyer. I represent the interests of a man you know. Please open up, it's very important! I couldn't reach you since this morning and you didn't answer your messages, so I came to see you personally.

Lawyer… I don't know what he needs, but he really should be a lawyer. Otherwise, I'm gonna talk to him so hard, his mother won't recognize him. Ugh. All right. Health to all the salesmen who go door to door, because at the mere mention of them I'm already sweating and want violence. Well, about doorbells, I have a separate screw in my head, all creaky and rusty. My wife opened these good people the last two times, so now I have a refrigerator with multicolored buttons that for some reason can connect to the phone and a robot vacuum cleaner, which, instead of vacuuming just cut circles around the apartment. Having finished indulging in unflattering memories, I wanted to open the door, but remembered what I was wearing.

Men's knit underwear, short cotton socks. Not the most presentable look not only for a meeting with a lawyer, but for a greeting with a neighbor. Shouting “One moment!”, I went back to my room and got dressed: I pulled my T-shirt over my potbelly, threw my meaty legs into my shorts, and jumped into my house slippers. Not that I was ready for a parade, but to welcome the occasional guest was just fine.

Putting aside any worries, I boldly opened the door and stared down at the guest. Rectangular glasses, a briefcase under his arm, a three-piece suit with a bowtie. The man himself could see that he was tired, sweating and not standing upright at all, staggering. He did not make me wait long and immediately began:

— Astakhov Sergey Vladimirovich, you, right? — The elderly man adjusted his glasses and slightly relaxed the butterfly on his neck. - Extremely serious matter regarding the inheritance….. May I come in? I'd prefer a more private conversation.

— I don't remember any of my relatives dying recently. And there's only a handful of them left to count. Did you find a treasure trove of gold? Secret riches? — For some reason I ridiculously joked.

— Sergei Vladimirovich, the conversation is very serious, it's about your old friend. I insist on a private talk, — he looked around in the rather spacious entranceway, obviously catching a glimpse of the surveillance cameras hanging above the doors.

He doesn't look dangerous at all. And he looks like a princess at a frog ball, wrinkling his nose, looking at everything around him, even me. And this is in an elite dwelling, in the center of the city, albeit an apartment building.

Not knowing what to do with this character, decided to give him a chance. I respected, figuratively speaking, his old age and tired knees. I shrugged my shoulders, waved my hand and took him into the apartment, sat him down in the kitchen and even made him some tea. By this time the old man had already managed to get rid of the butterfly and was now shifting some documents in his briefcase. It was pleasant to note the fact that he felt more comfortable in my apartment than in the entrance. He even looked better and lost a couple of years, relaxed. Well, I'm not a fool and not a fool, my home renovation is the envy of many made, beauty, in a word. He finished his shamanism with paper, chose one of them and stared at me, talking:

— Sergei Vladimirovich, — I heard my name for the fourth time today.He put the paper upright, with the clean side facing me, and continued. - A few years ago you were in contact with someone. Does the name Kirill ring a bell?

— Kirill… Kiryukh, Kira.No way! — I instantly realized who we're talking about and jumped up, — Safronov?! Oh, for fuck's sake. Dead?

He just smiled sadly and nodded, continuing:

— I worked with him for the last three years and provided some legal services. I apologize, not me personally, but my firm. I've only helped him with a couple of matters, but that's not what I'm talking about right now. Let me ask one more clarifying question, again I apologize, that's not the regulation, it's just the deceased person's wish.

I nodded.

— Could you specify the game nickname, which was mostly used by Safronov Kirill Olegovich? I ask you to take it seriously, it is a very important point.

Uploaded, so uploaded. And what to answer him? I remember, I never complained about my memory, but the nickname… Kirill Olegovich, how about that? So I do not remember him, and his patronymic first heard only today. But I remember Kiryu. Kirya, the fool, the ringleader, the plug in every conflict and dispute, the center of the company. A jerk, a friend. And his nicknames in all the games were appropriate, like: Antiwomanizer, Pesticide-cide, Hand-foot and others in the same vein. But now, straining my brain, I can still single out one of his nicknames. The last one, as ambiguous as it may sound, given that he's dead. Jumbo. I even happened to remember the meaning of the word — it's a gesture in the form of a thumb and pinky and the rest of the fingers pressed against the palm of the hand. And yet, fifteen years ago… I was wrong, oh, I was wrong to bring up this memory.

I just blurted it out:

— Jumbo.

— Well, you are quite right, but, frankly, I was hoping to hear something else, — said the old man. — Let's move on to the next part of our conversation. First of all, you should read the document.

I took the sheet he handed me and read the handwritten text with a crooked handwriting:

Being in sober mind and health, Safronov Kirill Olegovich, I hereby declare… Oh, well, you'll figure it out yourself, the lawyers there will formalize it all by themselves, anyway, everything is already paid. So here it is. Sergei, you big-eared mug. I've got two pieces of good news for you. First, I'm dead. Yes, yes, dead, don't be surprised. Well, not yet, I'm writing this crap, and I could not have written it, but I felt a strange urge, so read it and suffer. There. I'm dead. Well, I'm still alive now, and I'm writing this. It's so hard. Anyway, Sergei, I'm a heart patient. And this heart can't be cured, I've tried everything, even shamans, don't laugh! I've already lasted a long time, I should have moved a month ago, but they pumped me up, but now they won't let me out of the hospital. I feel like a fruit now, I mean a vegetable. Sergei? Just between you and me — I would have pulled the wire out of the socket, and I would have retired already, but the damn wire is nowhere in the room. Or I can't find it, I can't get out of bed anyway. And my wife is running around, nasty, I don't know what she's checking — whether I'm better or dead. You should know how we deal with inheritance and families, you're not a kid. Well, tears won't do the trick, as my father used to say, so let's get to the point. The second news is I'm leaving you something. Yeah, yeah, don't be surprised. I got rich by accident. I never thought I'd be telling our Sergeant Lucker how lucky I am, hehehe. Where and how I got rich? I won't tell you! Or you'll want to. Why am I bequeathing anything to you, you asshole? There's no one else, that's why! Sorry for the freak, not out of spite, Sergei, but out of envy. I remember how lucky you were when you were always playing characters on the screen together, those were the glory days. Now the case is that the money is, but friends have not appeared… Well, or to spite the bitch painted on, my wife, bring the list, and do not be surprised, there all rank and file:

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

I can't say I'm shocked by what I read. Yes, it was Kirill who wrote it. You can feel his hand at the text. But how censorious, I remember all the nonsense that he used to write in guild chats. The fucking pen shark could get into text battles for hours at a time, proving something to strangers on the internet.

The old man handed me another sheet, smaller in size, with a short list on it. That one, yeah:

N.E.C.T model A-life v2 full immersion N.E.C.T capsule with full set of accessories and documentation for it.

Lifetime premium account on the C.O.N.N.E.C.T network.

Personal car Nebula GT2000

Cold crypto wallet

Personal things: handwritten diary, ChronoTech TitanX watch, cigarette case

I blinked. Reread the list again. And again. Checked with the old man:

— Is this some kind of a joke?

— Absolutely not, Sergei Vladimirovich, the authenticity of the document is notarized by video recording. Kirill Olegovich really wrote this will while on his deathbed.

I don't know what to say. First of all, the question arises — and for what such merits? Is this one of those times in my life when I'm very lucky? Am I, like, winning the lottery now, or what? And in general — should I be happy or sad? I feel sorry for Kiryukha, even though we haven't talked for a long time…

I remember, I remember. We played the last time in a large guild. Kiryukha, as usual on the first roles, all almost on him alone held. Then began some ridiculous claims in his direction, say, the leader himself loot clamps and other nonsense. Classic of the genre of mmorpgs: envy and greed. In the end, everything ended in a major scandal, after which Kirill sent everyone over the horizon and deleted his game account. After that moment we never communicated with him again. I was even going to write to him or call him several times, but alas, I could not find any of his contacts. How many of those Kirills are in the network, and he did not like social networks especially, he just wanted to play, to immerse himself in it all. Eh-heh! He was a man of the world. I'd better take a toast for his repose, or something. There was a bottle somewhere with a nice label. But that's for later. Right now we have to deal with this sudden inheritance of his.

I don't have to think long, everything is clear. Kirill somehow got rich. And he got unrealistically rich, something on the level of a pop star. I remember him as a penniless and cheerful student, not as an old man angrily rewriting his will to spite his doll-wife. Oh, boy. I can't even get my head around it. This man still holds some kind of grudge against me for doing well in the game? He's got, uh, what's in his will? Nebula's personal automobile. It's a sports car, that's what I know. And you don't drive one of those. They just sit in the garage and look pretty. They remind you of their value just by looking at them. And God forbid you should ever bruise the body or scratch it, you can hang yourself, because the cost… I don't remember how much, I can only estimate. Three, four of my apartments? More like all five, along with the cottage and the country house I bought for my old folks. I want to swear, but I can't understand where this emotion comes from. What am I supposed to do about it? All right, the car is still a good thing, I'll deal with it somehow. I'll sell it as a last resort, it's not my last foreign car. The rest of the stuff.

I don't know how much money is in that purse, I can only guess. The watch is obviously very cool. I saw a review of it once and even wanted one for myself, but then I heard the price and I was sad. I have no idea what's in the diary.

What is immediately worth highlighting separately is the Connect account and the full immersion capsule.

A bit of history, to refresh my memory. Regarding C.O.N.N.N.E.C.T..

Connect, aka Nect, aka Con. It's a movie worth story. Once upon a time there were two brothers, and they had an unrealistically rich father who loved his children very much. So much so that in his old age, he gave them everything he had. A lot of money, a number with nine zeros after the first one. These kids loved to play computer games and read literature of LitRPG genre. It's not hard to guess what they dreamed of most in their lives. Total immersion.

The kids grew up, got stronger, learned and made many acquaintances. They've survived competitors, assassination attempts and waves of negativity. Now they're corporate titans. Some of the richest and most powerful people on the planet.

Junior took on the C.O.N. project. The acronym stands for Connect Our Net. The essence of the name is connecting the Internet. No matter how silly the initial idea was, but it suddenly became a success. The essence is social. Not a platform, but something that brings them all together. For games, videos, texts, etc. Chat rooms, something that pretty much every person on the planet uses at this point. Too convenient, too private. No buckling to countries and their totalitarianism, no matter what sauce it's served up under. Impossible to block. Con is everywhere, everyone uses it, even though twenty years ago it wasn't even conceived. That's the reality. Even I communicate with my family and friends through it. I use it for news, games, whatever I want. I even work there sometimes when I don't feel like sweating in the office.

My older brother is the head of N.E.C.T. It stands for Now Evolve Current Tech. Evil tongues say that the success of the younger brother depends entirely on the success of the older brother. Not a particularly controversial claim, considering that at this point, Nect has an army of his own. Real trained fighters, pulled from hot spots on the planet, and mountains of armored vehicles.

But the Nect's business isn't military. It's primarily technology. And it's more competitive than Con ever dreamed of. Almost all the money he inherited from his father went into this project. At the very beginning, the older brother simply bought everything that was for sale and was in any way related to the brothers' dream — total immersion. The best specialists and entire companies were bought, even ideas and rumors related to the subject.

The riskiest entrepreneurial endeavor in the history of the planet. The Mansa Musa of modern times, as some have dubbed him. Many of the powerful laughed with him at first, but then they got kind of unhappy. Before they knew it, the slime-filled media had somehow gone quiet and their lobbyists were cheerfully taken over by the Con. Many subsidiaries suddenly ceased to be. And when big brother's income exceeded his expenses, he targeted the main companies. A hungry falcon burst into the bird paradise of the pampered parrots. And he devoured them all.

After a huge success amidst the defaults of many countries and bankruptcy announcements of the powerful, the brothers disappeared for a few years. There was a lot of panic and rumors, but the world coped. And then they came back and introduced the world to the first full immersion technology. Version one.

Trouble was, they used implants for connectivity. Unstable connection, constant data loss, negative effects on the experiencers, but… It worked.

Knowing the budget and the passion of the brothers, it went fast. That decade is jokingly referred to as “boiling brains time.” The brothers basically said to the world, “We want this. We're willing to give you anything you want for it.”

They succeeded. They found some special brain waves that can be influenced by technology and intercept the receptors of all five senses of a person, thus completely immersing him in virtual reality. In fact, everything is much, much more complicated, but it is very difficult for a non-scientific person to understand such technology. It's like explaining higher math to a monkey and making him solve problems.

Found it. One man managed to do it by chance. The life of young Jan, a yellow-skinned student, a genius and simply lucky, turned into a fairy tale. An island of his own was just the beginning of the brothers' generosity.

In between, a full-fledged artificial intelligence was developed, operating under Alimov's three laws of robotics:

First. A robot cannot harm a person or by its inaction allow a person to be harmed.

Second. A robot must obey the orders of a human except when those orders contradict the First Law.

Third. A robot must take care of its own safety to the extent that it does not contradict the First or Second Laws.

Not so much for neural nets. The computing power of that monster was so great that anyone with Internet access could talk to it. But a very strange story happened to humanity's first full-fledged AI. He became sad and stopped communicating with people, somehow not violating the first law. He became depressed. What happened to him afterwards is unknown, but the fact that Connect can now produce, use and even sell AI remains a fact. They are grown as crystals and yes, they all follow Alimov.

The brothers then provided the world with something very fun — version number two. Fully immersive and securely connected worlds. All you have to do is pay for the Connect, and go ahead, even into space, even underwater, even dancing with naked elven women.

I came out of the prostration of my memories and stirring the tea that had already cooled down and which I hadn't touched, I signed all the documents Milos had given me on automatic.

Immediately agreed with him on the sale of the sports car. I heeded his advice not to enter into any discussions with the wife of the deceased comrade. I got the rest of the items immediately: the smartwatch glued to my hand like a native; the wallet was not particularly surprising with its sum with five zeros; the cigarette case was unnecessary, as I quit smoking several years ago, I left it as a memory of my friend; the diary turned out to be either a set of random letters and numbers, or a cipher, and here it is necessary to involve a specialist, I will do it later.

Soon, a few days later, I was actually contacted by the Connect staff.They brought the capsule, connected it, customized it, gave me a Connect account valid until the death of the user, and that was that. And now my wife and I are sitting and looking at this futuristic miracle that took away several meters of the living room…

By the way, the capsules are extremely personal because they use some sort of crystalline AI-like technology. Everything is personalized and another person simply can't use it, except as a comfortable bed, or for medical examinations. It takes about a month to reset and reset the settings.

There is a small percentage of the population, less than one percent, who cannot use these capsules at all. I'm lucky — I can.

Smooth lines, a bundle of power fiber optic cables running into the wall. Black and white finishes, a bed with massage rollers and a translucent lid, as my wife put it, “coffin.”

— Are you seriously going to get in there? — she asked, squeezing my hand with pale, thin fingers. — I feel uncomfortable, as if I were at a funeral.

I had heard this question fifty times this week, so I gently removed my hand from my wife's grasp, kissed her cheek, stroked her head, stood up, and walked resolutely toward the capsule. Laid down. The lid slid down silently from the top, shielding me from my wife's terrified face.

Darkness.