"Oi, Vector, get your mitts off that chest!" Nate, having barely dusted herself off from the boss's remains, was already looming over another loot crate, her smoking pistol levelled at Lena. "We had a deal! Pirate's code: he who shoots most, gets the loot".
Lena, who was reaching for a particularly sturdy-looking tactical vest, straightened up slowly. The symbiote shifted restlessly beneath her skin, sensing its host's aggression. "Listen here, 'Blackbeard' in a bikini," Lena spat, stepping forward and ignoring the aimed weapon. "If I hadn't tanked that jelly, you’d be dessert by now. And if Irka hadn't shielded you, you’d have dissolved before you could pull the trigger. So, stove your code up a USB port and let's split this fairly. By class".
Nate huffed but lowered her pistol slightly. "Fine. Но the System credits are mine. I need to upgrade my kit. Do you have any idea what a plasma core upgrade costs? You couldn't farm that in a lifetime".
"Girls, please, don't squabble," Irina said, having finished her mana-recovery meditation. She stood between them, glowing with a peacemaker's light. "We’re on the same team. We still need to find a way out of here".
She approached the crate and pulled out the bone of contention—a light tactical vest with numerous pockets. "Eli, this is likely for you. You're in close combat; you need the torso protection. And this..." she pulled out a pair of strange, glowing glasses, "...looks like a marksman’s visor. Nate?"
The pirate snatched the glasses with the greed of a magpie.
[Item: 'Eagle Eye' Tactical Visor (Rare)]
Properties: +15% Accuracy, Night Vision, Weak Point Highlight.
"Oh yes, babe!" Nate snapped the visor on over her tricorne immediately. The lenses flared crimson. "Now I can see exactly where you losers have weak spots. Spoiler: everywhere".
"I'm going to clock her," Lena promised Irina. "Honestly, I will. And no amount of healing will fix it".
"Bear with her, Eli. We need her. She’s got... high DPS," Irina said, using the gaming term uncertainly.
Donning the new vest over her latex suit—it fit like a second skin, allowing full movement while matching her orange accents—Lena felt more prepared.
[Your Armour Class has increased.]
"Right, the travelling circus is ready. Let’s move," Lena commanded. "Our target is the service exits in the northern part of the hangar. According to the evacuation plan I saw at the entrance, we need to pass through the warehouse zone and..." she hesitated.
"And what?" Nate prodded, admiring her reflection in the visor.
"And through the 'Red Sector'. Zone 18+".
A silence fell over the group.
"Oh," was all Irina managed, turning bright red.
"Are you serious?" Nate burst out laughing. "We’re heading into the abode of tentacles and futa-demons? Brilliant, that's my target audience! I’ll be right at home. Might even run into a few of my premium subscribers. In zombie form, obviously".
"That is exactly what I’m worried about," Lena grumbled grimly. "Brace yourselves. If it’s been revolting so far, it’s about to become a proper nightmare".
The transition into the Red Sector was gradual, but no less unsettling. The emergency purple lighting was replaced by a heavy, pulsing crimson. The air became thick, humid, and sickly sweet, smelling of cheap perfume, latex, and something biological that suggested a locker room after a busy day.
The walls here weren't plastered with comic books, but with posters that would usually be blurred in polite society. Now, under the System's influence, the images were moving. Drawn girls with unnatural proportions winked at the passing heroines, licking their lips and beckoning with their fingers. Tentacle monsters on adjacent posters writhed, as if trying to break free from their two-dimensional prison.
"I don't like the way that octopus is looking at me," Irina whispered, clutching her staff tighter and staring at her feet.
"Relax, saintly. They’re just pictures," Nate snorted, marching ahead with pistols ready, her visor gleaming. "Though I must admit, the decorators have gone a bit overboard with the 'immersive effect'".
The floor was sticky. Lena tried not to think about what exactly was coating it. Her new Shadowshade Boots gave a quiet squelch with every step.
"Stay sharp," she said quietly, activating a partial transformation. Her right arm turned black, shifting into a blade. "My gut says we aren't alone here".
Her instinct didn't fail her. A thing drifted from behind a corner where a stand of 'special' toys had once stood. It was a drone, but not a standard quadcopter. Dozens of flashes and microphones were strapped to its chassis, creating a hideous hum. In place of a weapon, it carried a lens—obscene in length and constantly zooming.
[Enemy: Paparazzi-Pervert Drone (Lvl 3)]
The drone spotted the girls, let out a shrill, high-pitched beep, and lunged at them, aiming its 'armaments'.
"What the bloody hell?!" Lena recoiled, less out of fear and more from the sheer surrealism. "System, you are absolutely mental!"
"Leave it to me!" Nate threw up her pistols. "I hate paparazzi!"
Two plasma bolts hissed through the air. The drone exploded in a shower of sparks and heart-shaped confetti.
"Bullseye!" the pirate smirked. "The visor works!"
But that was only the beginning. Other inhabitants of the zone crawled out at the sound of the shots. Voyeur Slimes—transparent gelatinous orbs with massive eyes inside—tumbled from the vents. They didn't attack directly but tried to stick to limbs, slowing movement and applying a 'Confusion' debuff. From behind the curtains of former private booths tumbled Possessed Dakimakuras. These life-sized anime body pillows had grown spider-like legs out of their stuffing and were scuttling across the walls and ceiling, trying to pounce on the heroines and 'cuddle' them to suffocation.
"Ir, light! More light!" Lena shouted, slicing a pillow in half. Synthetic stuffing flew everywhere, mixed with red pixels. "These things hate the bright!"
"Beacon! Holy Flash!" Irina, overcoming her disgust, acted as a floodlight. Her magic incinerated the slimes and sent the pillows scurrying in panic.
It was an exhausting, bizarre battle. The enemies weren't strong, but they were numerous and distracting. Nate fired non-stop, laughing and commentating like a streamer: "Have a headshot, pillow! One less deviant! Donate for more batteries!" Lena handled the close combat, keeping the filth away from Irina. Even the symbiote seemed revolted; the blade shook off enemy remains with particular ferocity after every strike.
They advanced slowly, literally hacking a path through living fetishes.
"I can't do this anymore," Irina moaned as they cleared another corridor. "I want to go home. I want a shower. I want to forget this nightmare".
"Hang in there, mate. We’re close to the centre of the zone," Lena said, checking a map found in a ruined info-kiosk. "The main stage for the 18+ contests should be there, and behind it, the passage to the plant rooms".
"The main stage..." Nate mused. "Sounds like the place for a final boss. Hopefully, there’s something more interesting than flying dildos".
They emerged into a vast circular hall. It had once been the heart of the 'adult' entertainment: a podium with stripper poles, private dance booths, and bars. Now, everything was coated in something white and sticky. It was a web, but not a normal one. It was as thick as rope, woven from charging cables, torn tights, used tissues, and something resembling dried instant noodles. Lena looked closer and barely suppressed a gag. The entire hall had been turned into a giant, revolting trap. In the centre, suspended over the stage, hung a massive cocoon, pulsing in time with the crimson lights.
Silence reigned. In this hall, there was no sound of slimes or scuttling pillows. There was only a low, infrasonic hum that made their teeth vibrate.
"I don't like this," Nate said, serious for the first time in a while. She swung her barrels from side to side, her visor blinking nervously. "My radar is going mental. There’s something huge here. But I can't see where".
"Watch your feet!" Lena shouted.
She felt it through the soles of her new boots—vibration. The floor beneath them came alive. The sticky threads covering the ground suddenly pulled taut.
"It's a trap!" Irina tried to cast a shield, but it was too late.
Dozens of white, adhesive whips shot up from the floor. They coiled around ankles, knees, and waists.
"Bloody hell!" Lena tried to hack at the restraints with her blade, but they were incredibly tough and elastic. The blade became mired in them, as if stuck in thick pitch.
"I'm bloody stuck!" panted Nate, trying to yank her legs out of the sticky mass. She fired at her own feet, but the plasma only slightly melted the restraints, which instantly solidified again.
Irina shrieked as a whip coiled around her staff, dragging it to the floor. They were immobilised. Like flies in a spider's web. And then, the Master revealed itself.
From above, beneath the hangar’s dome, It descended slowly on thick, web-like cables. A nightmare born from the darkest depths of the internet. The creature resembled a giant spider, but its body was a grotesque parody of a human. Its massive, bloated abdomen was covered in greasy, stretched T-shirts with cryptic slogans. Its cephalothorax was a hunched figure with multiple limbs. It had eight 'legs': four true spider legs covered in stiff bristles; two ended in sharp-edged mechanical keyboards that clattered as it moved; another two held ghastly, glowing controllers.
But the head was the most terrifying part. Or rather, what replaced it. A cluster of old CRT monitors and shattered tablets held together by duct tape and wires. Thousands of images flickered across the screens: hentai, game footage, pornography, and forums with endless walls of text. From the centre of this jumble of screens, two massive, red, digital eyes stared out.
[ZONE BOSS: The Archivist-Webmaster (Lvl 7)]
[Type: Techno-Arachnid / Collector]
The creature descended onto the stage before them. It reeked of stale sweat, energy drinks, and burnt plastic.
"Ooh..." the Boss’s voice rang out from built-in speakers. A multi-tonal choir, distorted, nasally, and full of perverted lust. "Guests... Visitors... No, that's not right. Content. Fresh, exclusive content."
The monitors on its 'face' focused on the girls. The screens flickered, zooming in on their faces and their bodies bound in the webbing.
"Vector... Priestess... And... oh, the Pirate Queen herself, Nate," the Archivist’s voice trembled with excitement. "What a rare drop. What luck. My collection will be... complete."
"Piss off, you freak!" Nate shouted, despite her fear. "I'll sue you for illegal filming! My lawyers will grind you to dust!"
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
"Lawyers?" The spider made a sound like a hard drive grinding. It was laughter. "There are no laws here but mine. I am the Moderator of this zone. I am the Admin. And you... you are simply new exhibits. My waifus."
He clicked one of his keyboard-limbs. The webbing holding the girls pulled tighter, cutting painfully into their bodies.
"Eli, do something!" whispered Irina, staring in horror at the approaching monster.
"I'm trying!" Lena strained every muscle, attempting to summon her symbiote's full form. The black sludge bubbled beneath her skin, but the restraints squeezed tight, preventing her from transforming. "This shite is blocking my movement!"
The Archivist crawled closer. Mechanical eyes scanned the captives, while figures and parameters flashed across the screens.
"What interesting costumes..." he hissed. "So much detail. So much... effort. But they hide the most important thing. They prevent me from seeing."
He raised one of his front legs. It ended not in a claw, but in a complex mechanism—a cross between a claw-machine grabber and a surgical laser.
[Warning! Boss is preparing special move: "Unboxing"!]
"What’s he doing?" Nate jerked in her bonds, trying to aim her pistols, but her arms were pinned to her body.
"No... not that," Lena realised. A chill of dread ran down her spine, sharper than any monster had caused before. She remembered how the System worked in this world. Their power came from their costumes. Their roles. The better the costume, the stronger the ability. The Archivist wasn't going to kill them. Not yet. He was going to do something worse.
"We'll start with you, Priestess," the spider rasped, looming over Irina. "Too much fabric. Too much... chastity. It doesn't fit the zone's canon."
The manipulator descended with a hum. A laser beam touched Irina’s white robe. It wasn't a combat laser. It didn't burn flesh. It deconstructed matter. The fabric of the robe, which had withstood acid and zombie claws, began to break down into pixels. Stitch by stitch, thread by thread. The clothing simply vanished, evaporating under the beam.
"No! Stop it! Please!" Irina screamed, trying to cover herself with her bound hands.
But the Archivist remained ruthless. The robe vanished, leaving the girl in nothing but her basic cotton knickers and a vest—hardly the attire of a fantasy heroine. Next, the staff dissolved into the air. And with the staff, the golden glow around her vanished as well.
[Warning! Critical equipment damage!]
[Class 'Priestess of Light' deactivated. Abilities unavailable.]
Irina froze, shivering from cold and humiliation. She was no longer a mage. Just a terrified, half-naked girl in a monster's lair.
"That's better," the Archivist purred, and screenshots of a weeping Irina appeared on his monitors. "Now you look... more accessible."
He turned to Nate.
"And now you, the fake queen. Your content was always... overrated. Too much bravado, too little substance. Let's see what’s under this wrapping."
"Don't you dare! You wouldn't dare, you fat bot!" Nate shrieked as the manipulator reached for her.
The beam touched her pirate peacoat. It vanished instantly. Then the tricorne with the visor. Then—oh, the horror—her precious plasma pistols. They crumbled into dust right in her hands. All that remained was her tiny bikini and thigh-high boots. But without the coat and weapons, she no longer looked like a formidable space pirate. She resembled a stripper after a disastrous shift.
[Class 'Space Adventurer' deactivated.]
Nate stared at her empty hands, unable to believe it. All her bravado, all her power, had evaporated along with her plastic toys.
"My guns... My three hundred quid..." she whispered.
Finally, the Archivist turned to Lena. His numerous monitor-eyes narrowed.
"Now this... this is interesting," he hissed. "The most complex costume. The most... alive. I can feel its resistance. A symbiote... such a rare thing. I want to study it. I want it... for myself."
Lena stared directly into the monster's digital eyes. She didn't scream like Irina, nor did she go hysterical like Nate. A cold, black rage was rising within her.
"Touch me and I'll shove that manipulator so far up your arse I'll be able to see it when you cough," she growled.
"Resistance is futile, waifu," the Archivist brought his face close to hers. "I am the Admin. I can delete anything I want."
The manipulator touched her shoulder. The symbiote beneath her skin howled. This wasn't just losing clothes. It felt like her skin was being flayed off. The orange latex began to melt. The black sludge that tried to protect its host hissed and evaporated under the "Unboxing" beam. Lena clenched her teeth so hard they ground together. The pain wasn't physical, but mental. As if a part of her soul was being ripped away.
The Agent Vector suit was vanishing. Along with it, her power disappeared. The blades disappeared. Her confidence disappeared. Within a minute, she was left in what she had worn beneath the suit—a sports bra and compression shorts worn for comfort. Even her new tactical boots had vanished, leaving her barefoot on the sticky floor.
[Critical System Failure!]
[Connection with Symbiote severed.]
[Class 'Symbiote Host' deactivated.]
She tried to summon a blade. Nothing. Emptiness. Only a normal human hand.
The three of them were left. Half-naked, stripped of weapons and abilities, bound by a sticky web of rubbish in the centre of a crimson hall reeking of lust. The Archivist loomed over them, triumphantly clacking his keyboards. All the screens now displayed them—humiliated, defeated, turned into "content."
"Now then..." the monster’s voice filled with smugness. "Now we can begin the real game. Welcome to my private collection, girls. The session begins."
He raised one of his legs, and the webbing began to slowly drag them closer to the stage, closer to his pulsing abdomen and the waiting nightmares. Lena looked at Irina, who was crying quietly, and at Nate, who sat with a vacant stare.
"We're in proper deep shite," Lena thought, feeling a sticky terror rising in her throat. For the first time since this madness began, she didn't know what to do.
The webbing pulled them forward, like luggage on a conveyor belt in a hellish airport. The sticky threads, reeking of stale sweat and cheap lubricant, bit into their skin, leaving red welts. They slid across the fouled floor of the stage, nearing the towering bulk of the Archivist. His numerous monitor-eyes flickered, reflecting faces twisted in fear and humiliation.
"No... please..." Irina, stripped of her priestess’s robe and, more importantly, her faith in the Light’s protection, huddled into a ball. She was left in nothing but basic cotton underwear, which now felt like the most pathetic clothing in the world. She tried to cover herself with her hands, but the webbing wouldn't allow it.
"Stop your blubbing!" Nate snapped, but the old strength was gone from her voice. She jerked in her bonds, trying to kick the approaching manipulator with a booted foot—the only thing left of her pirate persona. "Oi, you heap of microchips! Do you have any idea who my agent is?! if anything happens to me, he'll tear this hangar apart brick by brick!"
"Agent?" — The Archivist let out a grinding noise. "There are no agents here. There are only Users and Content. And you, my dear 'queen,' have just moved into the second category."
The manipulator with the laser "unboxer" hummed back to life. It hovered over Nate, buzzing like a sadistic dentist’s drill.
"This swimsuit..." the boss wheezed, scanning the pathetic triangles of fabric. "Hides too much. Doesn't match the 'extreme' or 'full immersion' tags. Delete."
"DON'T YOU DARE!" Nate’s shriek hit an ultrasonic pitch.
The beam touched the bikini strings. They simply vanished, crumbling into pixels. The bra fell to the floor, the knickers dissolved into the air. Nate froze. All the feigned bravado, all the aggressive sexuality used as both weapon and shield, was gone. She was left stone-cold naked, crucified on the sticky webbing before a giant monster and two girls she despised. No longer an OnlyFans star, just Nellie—a frightened girl with smeared mascara.
"Perfect shot..." the Archivist hissed, as the screens filled with images of her naked body from every angle. "Save to 'Favourites' folder."
Now he turned to Lena. She didn't scream. She stared at the monster with a gaze where hatred wrestled with despair. Without the symbiote, she felt like a cripple. The phantom pain in her right arm, where the blade used to live, had become unbearable.
"You..." she rasped. "You’ll pay for this. When I get out of here, I’ll find your server and piss on it."
"Mouthy..." the manipulator neared her face. "I like that. But this sports top... it ruins the aesthetic. Too... functional."
"Just you try it, you freak..."
The beam touched the fabric. Lena jerked, trying to dodge, but the web held fast. The top and compression shorts vanished, leaving her just as defenceless as the others. The cold, clammy air of the 'Red Sector' touched her bare skin. It was humiliating. Far more humiliating than all the leery stares at the festival before. Back then, she’d been in armour, in character. Now she was just meat.
"There. Perfect." The Archivist scuttled back a bit to admire the view. Three completely naked girls, bound together in the heart of his lair. "Now you are ready for... integration."
He raised two other legs, which held sinister vibrating devices that looked like a cross between game controllers and torture instruments.
"Level One: Synchronisation," he announced. "Don't worry, this will take... a long time."
The webbing yanked, hoisting them into the air and suspending them before the boss like marionettes. Irina gave a soft whimper; Nate closed her eyes, tears black with mascara running down her cheeks. Lena ground her teeth so hard it felt like they might shatter. She tried to feel for even a spark of the power she had before. But there was only a void.
[System: Critical stress level. Probability of psychological trauma: 99%.]
"Shut it," Lena whispered to the interface. "Just shut up and give me a weapon. A stick, a rock, anything..."
The Archivist drew closer. Mandibles made of keyboard scraps twitched in anticipation. And in that moment, as despair hit its peak, the sound changed. Through the low-frequency hum of the lair, through the squelching and grinding, a new sound cut through. A clean, high, vibrating thrum.
Vwooom-hummm.
A sound known to every living soul on the planet who had ever watched telly.
The Archivist froze. The screens flickered with static.
"Error..." he croaked. "Unauthorised access to private zone. Who dares?.."
Out of the darkness, from behind the curtains of the derelict stage, a man stepped out. Lena, hanging upside down, tried to focus her eyes. She’d expected anyone. A SWAT team. A powerful mage in shining armour. Even another monster. But it was... some bloke.
He looked about forty-five. An ordinary, slightly tired face, a bit of stubble, bags under his eyes. A bit of a gut, hairy legs, and worn-out slippers. But his clothes were the strangest part. A white terry-cloth dressing gown. A perfectly ordinary bath gown with a belt and pockets. The kind you get in cheap hotels. In his left hand, he held a mug that said "World's Best Dad," with a faint wisp of steam rising from it.
And in his right hand... In his right hand, he held a hilt from which a metre of pure, humming, emerald-green plasma erupted.
"What the..." Nate exhaled, cracking one eye open.
The man in the dressing gown stopped at the edge of the stage. He took a sip from his mug, winced (the coffee had clearly gone cold), and looked at the giant pervert-spider with an expression of profound, universal boredom.
"You..." the Archivist turned to the new guest, his legs clicking threateningly. "You are violating the terms of the user agreement! This zone is only for..."
"Look, mate," the man's voice was as ordinary as his dressing gown. A bit gravelly, calm, like a bloke who’d popped out to put the bins out on a Saturday morning. "I'm just trying to find the way to the car park, and you’ve gone and started... all this. It's too loud, too sticky, and frankly, it reeks."
He nodded toward the suspended girls.
"And let the lasses go. It's not right. It’s not decent."
"Not decent?!" the Archivist roared. "I am the Admin! I am the law here! And you are just a bug! A glitch! I shall delete you!"
The boss swiped a leg. From the ceiling, "Possessed Dakimakuras" and "Paparazzi Drones" rained down on the man. Dozens of the enemies that had so exhausted the girls. The man gave a heavy sigh.
"Always the same old story," he muttered.
He didn't even put his mug down. He simply started to move. It wasn't like the over-the-top fights in films. It was... economical. Lazy. Effective. He stepped to the side, letting an anime-girl pillow fly past him, and with a flick of his wrist, sliced it in two with the light-sword.
Swish. Synthetic stuffing and pixels flew everywhere.
A drone fired a blinding flash at him. Without looking, the man raised his sword, and the plasma blade reflected the flash straight back at the drone, which exploded instantly. The stranger walked toward the boss, simply stepping over enemies or lazily batting them away with the humming blade. It looked as if he were wading through tall grass rather than an army of monsters. The white dressing gown billowed, but not a single spot appeared on it.
[System: Attempting to identify object... Error. Object level exceeds scanner capabilities.]
[Class: ??? (Hidden)]
The Archivist panicked. All the screens flashed red error warnings.
"UNBOXING!" he screamed, aiming his main armament—the laser deconstructor—at the man.
The beam hit the man in the dressing gown square in the chest. Lena squeezed her eyes shut. If that beam had destroyed her symbiote, what would it do to ordinary terry cloth?
Nothing.
The beam simply hit the dressing gown and... dissipated. Like water hitting a white-hot frying pan. The man didn't even slow down. He just brushed a non-existent speck of dust from his lapel.
"Pure cotton," he explained to the void. "Absorbs well, breathes well. And apparently, holds up quite nicely against all sorts of rubbish. Highly recommended."
He walked right up to the Archivist. The giant spider towered over him, but now he didn't look scary. He looked pathetic.
"No... wait! We can reach an agreement!" the boss shrieked, scuttling backward. "I’ll give you a premium account! I'll give you access to the private boards! I’ll..."
"I prefer reality," the man said. "It’s a bit rubbish, admittedly, but the graphics are better."
He raised his sword. No wind-up, no dramatic shout. Just a short, precise upward stroke. The emerald blade passed through the jumble of monitors, keyboards, and system units that made up the Archivist's head. Easily, like a knife through butter, leaving a smoking, molten trail behind.
The boss froze. All the screens simultaneously flared with white noise and then went black. The sound in the hall cut out. For a second, the carcass stood still, then it began to dissolve. Not into pixels like normal mobs, but into streams of binary code—green and red numbers that showered onto the stage like digital rain.
The webbing holding the girls vanished instantly. They tumbled onto the stage—naked, sticky, and stunned. Irina immediately curled into a ball, trying to cover herself with her arms. Nate sat staring blankly at one spot, mascara still running down her face. Lena stood up on shaky legs. She didn't give a damn about her nakedness. She was looking at their saviour.
The man deactivated the sword. The blade hissed as it retracted into the hilt, which he shoved into his dressing gown pocket. He finished the last of the coffee in his mug.
"Oi..." Lena’s voice was trembling. "Who are you?"
The man turned. He looked them over with a calm gaze, devoid of any interest or judgment. He simply acknowledged their presence.
"There's a staff corridor not far from here," he said, waving a hand toward a darkened passage behind the stage. "Should be a bit quieter there. And I think there's a laundry room. Might find something to cover yourselves with."
"Wait!" Irina raised her head. "Your name... What is your name? We have to..."
"You don't have to," he interrupted her gently. "Just try not to get into any more... sticky situations. Good luck."
He turned and walked away, his slippers slapping against the concrete floor. He simply dissolved into the darkness he had come from, as if he’d never been there at all.
The three naked girls were left alone on the empty stage, littered with digital scrap, under the flickering crimson light. Lena stared at the spot where he had vanished. Only one thought was spinning in her head: "A terry-cloth dressing gown. Against a Level 7 boss. And he one-shotted it. What the hell is with the balance in this game?"