Through the Looking-Glass Computer

"Home," you declare, pulling off your shoes at the front door and gliding up the stairs. You just go up at a brisk pace, that is, not literally gravitate off the earth. One hand patting the rail periodically as you rhythmically thud against every other step. Once you make it to the second story, you open the door to your bedroom and turn on the computer.

After pulling open a bag of mixed nuts and popping one handful into your mouth, you wheel your chair back and forth mid-thought. For this, you are going to need more than just a Dell PC.

You need a master computer, one whose domain was that of certain departments of reality that theoretically should not be possible even in the deepest corners of the NSA, or MIT, or what have you. So you make it so.

The change manifests with a quick sparkle of electricity engulfing the monitor and tower below the desk, shutting the computer back down into a silent black screen. When it boots up once more, it flashes the same Windows logo, only with an addendum underlining it: 'World Owner Ed.'

Funny seeing that on there, as if it was always meant to be an official iteration of Windows or some other.

You push your feet against the carpet and stick your hand into the mountain of bras and panties that you had just made appear in the middle of your room. After a brief dig, you pull out a lacy pink and black pantie that you had taken from a blonde bombshell around 3:30. She had just finished showering, having gotten dressed and dolled up by the time you stepped up to the porch, finger on the doorbell. Wherever she is now, hopefully, she wasn't too uncomfortable having her trimmed crotch brushing against her fancy triple-figure dress with every wayside leg cross or ruffle. You decide to give her a small exhibitionist thrill for the night -- and, presumably, a gift for the date, boo, or whoever she would be cajoling with throughout its course.

Tugging at either end of the pantie, you stretch the pair out with two separate pairs of fingers. On cue, a laser of lights suddenly blink out from your monitor's webcam, and scans the set top to bottom, then back again. Really, this goes on for only a second or two, but the novelty seems to slow the clock as you watch it conduct its magic.

An underwear-scanning camera functionality? One proper pat on the back for that.

Scan done, you drop the pantie and a loading reticle takes to the center of the screen. It disappears in a matter of seconds, giving way to a profile of some kind. A quick flit of the eyes would pick up text like 'Name', 'Sign', 'Place of Birth', 'Kinks', as well as other inquisitive categorical overheads. Most interesting is the incredibly photorealistic, full-body rendition of the woman who you had taken these panties from (or accepted, rather) idling in the right margin of the window. She is even flipping her hair, cocking a hip while patiently tapping a heeled foot as if cycling through an actual idle animation set from a video game. A sigh exits her chest, her neck turning to the right to look at something off-screen, somewhere.

"Name: Shasta Gavin. Age: 29." A feminine, even-toned voice emerges from the computer, to no surprise on your part. Folding your arms, you let it bab on as you make an approving nod. Archiving the women of this neighborhood in godly fashion required a godly computer, after all.