Ahoy, readers of the Paranoia Blog!

  No, I’m not feeling as cheerful as that exclamation mark might suggest. That idiotic "ahoy"—hell if I know what it even means. Right now, we’re dangling fifty-three kilometers above what I think is the European Grand Cluster. Hard to tell—my geography’s crap. High above us, the Marshall Hills stretch like a grotesque scar. Horrifying view. I’ll send a photo next time. Vesley mentioned that the Marianas Trench should align with our ascent trajectory in eleven bleeping days and fifteen bleeping hours.

  ELEVEN BLEEPING DAYS AND FIFTEEN BLEEPING HOURS! Can you even imagine the boredom in here?! Lara Barcroft even suggested shooting her Desert Eagle out the porthole. I only said no because I didn’t want to catch the recoil with my face. But thanks, Lara! You’re the "sweetest" creature in this tin can with a Space-X logo. And thank you, dear readers, for spicing up my existence with your wonderfully unhinged comments.

  Wait for me—but don’t hold your breath.

  Oh, and tell my mother I still hate her.

  Ciao! (Whatever that means.)

  Nora Paranoia

  March 21, 1596, 17:22

  * * *

  I stretched out on the bed and cracked my knuckles. Counted to twenty, then hit refresh in the browser.

  Two hundred and eighty-five comments. My hands started shaking. Nearly three hundred idiots, layabouts, no-lifers, and general human disappointments had nothing better to do than stalk my blog? Seriously, what’s wrong with them? My mood… No, let’s not even go there—I don’t have enough swear words in my vocabulary, and frankly, it’s time to pull myself together and sort this mess out.

  So, hello. My name is Nora Paranoia, and I’m currently one of six crew members on the "Up to Earth’s Core!" expedition.

  How did I end up here with ONLY a degree in philology and zero PhDs? I can blame exactly one thing: my imagination. See, when I was twelve, I had this ridiculous habit—on late evenings, I’d open my bedroom window, climb onto the porch roof, and lie there staring at Earth spinning in the sky above me. I think most kids do that. But I was one of the few who also fantasized about what if our planet were hollow, filled with bizarre creatures and jungles of unimaginable beauty. I wrote all these delusions in my Paranoia blog. The people who read it… well, let’s just say they often left comments explaining why it was impossible. Or called me a moron. Or worse.

  "Listen here, little girl," they’d write. "There’s this thing called Gravity. Pick up a physics book sometime. Gravity is the force that pushes objects away from a planet into space. So, the atmospheric pressure inside a planet would be so low that no large creatures could exist there. Maybe stop daydreaming, shut down your blog, and spare us the embarrassment?"

  No, I’m not exaggerating. That’s how they commented on a twelve-year-old’s fantasies. I still have those comments saved, by the way—IP addresses and WHOIS records included. Just saying.

  So, the years passed. My childish fantasies turned teenage, my fanbase grew (all seventy of them), and I learned to ignore the trolls. Typical life of an overimaginative adolescent.

  That is, until one fine day, an elephant fell from the sky.

  * * *

  Of course, the elephant wasn’t alone. First came down a hundred-ton slab of basalt, which slammed into the New Zealand landmass with such force that it sheared off an 80-square-kilometer chunk, neatly adding it to the Tasmania Island cluster. The elephant landed half a kilometer away—probably knocked off course by thermospheric winds. What was left of it… yeah, let’s not go there.

  Fun fact: Up until that moment, there were no elephants in New Zealand. The feds checked every airship log—nope, no rogue pachyderms were reported missing mid-flight. So where the hell did it come from?

  Oddly, nobody questioned the basalt slab’s origin. Not the first time Earth shed a little "pebble" that went splat on someone’s head. Just ask Marilyn Monroe (may she rest in pieces…)

  But everyone lost their minds when scientists analyzed the elephant’s stomach contents and found two dozen unknown plant species and a whole zoo of exotic parasites. That’s when the world collectively hyperventilated. Geographers cross-referenced the impact site, the rock’s trajectory, and Earth’s surface maps. Rewind the clock, and the X marks the Mariana Trench—the deepest scar on the planet’s underbelly.

  Wait. Could there be life up there we don’t know about? Vast, uncharted voids? Somebody call the press—we’ve got a scientific circus to sell!

  And amid this chaos, someone remembered a little girl who’d spent half her life trolling the internet about a hollow planet and its mysterious inhabitants.

  Yep. That was me. By then, I’d "matured" into a linguistics major (upgraded my swear words). So when a pack of very odd men ambushed 17-year-old Nora Paranoia, I’ll admit—I bolted. They terrified me! I thought they’d assault me with those fuzzy, phallic things they were all clutching. Seriously, each of them had one!

  I called the police, screeching about "pedophiles with dildos" at my doorstep. In broad daylight. Cops arrived, sirens blaring—three squad cars—and casually knocked like this was a tea party. Meanwhile, the "pedophiles" loitered nearby… until I realized they were journalists holding microphones.

  The shame was so nuclear, that I deleted my last two blog posts (the ones ranting about "perverts outside"). Don’t laugh—I was genuinely scared! But my loyal fans had already screenshot everything and Facebook went feral.

  Three days later, my fan count exploded from 70 to 102,000.

  Horrifying? Well, when most just cheer your delusions, it’s weirdly flattering. But when one in twenty starts demanding details—"When did you reach Earth’s core? Got any secret files?"—that’s when it stops being fun.

  Year after year, naive little Nora hardened into Paranoia the Snarker, who bit back twice as hard at every idiot with a dumb question.

  Do I believe Earth could be hollow? Are you stupid? Look at the date those fantasies were posted. I was twelve, for Christ’s sake! As for the actual question—no opinion.

  What do I think about the falling elephant? Well… an elephant’s an elephant. Wouldn’t wanna be it.

  What do I think about the basalt slab? Why the hell should I think about it? Pretty sure it’s still spinning out there near New Zealand. So what?

  Do I have a boyfriend? Go **** yourselves, none of your damn business!

  I’d hoped my filthy, disrespectful rants would piss people off enough to leave me alone.

  Turns out, I over-delivered.

  By age twenty, my fan count hit 25.5 million, and the Paranoia Blog wasn’t just moved to a dedicated server—it got dissected everywhere like I was some prophet-genius combo.

  Moron planet.

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  * * *

  In 1579, the private company Space-X began organizing the first expeditions to the Mariana Trench. Following the elephant’s footsteps, so to speak. They built specialized balloons designed to withstand the low atmospheric pressure near Earth’s surface. I could only watch it all unfold from my computer screen or glance out the window—it was all happening nearby, on the AM-14 landmass of the North American Cluster. Practically neighbors.

  The first two expeditions launched successfully, reached the Trench, ventured inside… and vanished without a trace. No one knew what happened. The third mission failed when the Space-X capsule malfunctioned mid-flight. The balloon’s support cables snapped one by one, pressure plummeted, and the capsule nearly smashed into the St. Helena Islands, missing them by mere meters. Then it hit the magnetosphere and started decelerating. It took two weeks for the oscillations to stabilize before the capsule drifted back into the Goldilocks Zone—the same orbital band where all 425 floating landmasses (and countless islands) lazily spin.

  When airship crews finally retrieved the unlucky bastards, every crew member had lost 10 kilos from sheer stress. I remember thinking a crash diet like that wouldn’t hurt me—I’d gained a few extra kilos myself...

  Missions Four through Sixteen were sacrificed to balloon R&D. Space-X CEO Elon Musk promised that by Mission Seventeen, they’d return to the real objective: exploring the Mariana Trench. And they started assembling a six-person crew.

  The Dream Team Needed:

  A biologist;

  A geologist;

  A geographer;

  An engineer;

  A security specialist;

  And a blogger (yes, really).

  Preferably all with advanced degrees.

  Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Bite me. I had zero degrees and was a foul-mouthed internet troll—about as qualified for this mission as a goldfish in a spacesuit.

  But my fans disagreed. To them, I was the "expert"—my deranged blog posts were all the credentials I needed. Media vultures descended on me and my parents, offering obscene sums, luxury resort trips, celebrity parties, free drugs—anything to get me on that mission. "When you return, you’ll be a star!" they crooned. "A red giant—Betelgeuse-level famous!"

  I said hell no.

  My mother threatened that if I didn't participate and she didn't get her share of the bonus, she would throw me out on the street and change her last name. It would be time for me to pay her back for giving birth to me.

  Thanks, Mom. Really feel the love...

  Then my father chimed in, dreaming of trading his 27-year-old Ford for a shiny new Hummer (whatever that is). Maybe even a 100-meter yacht.

  When I pointed out our landmass had no oceans, he switched his dream to a damn airship.

  Verdict? My parents wanted me to stop disappointing my fans and sign up for this suicide mission.

  After two days of crying, I caved.

  The Deal: €250 million if I returned alive.

  Double if I brought proof of the inner Earth ecosystem.

  All I had to do was blog when signal allowed and try not to die.

  NASA and Space-X swore the new capsule was indestructible—lightweight composites, triple-redundant systems, and a real engineer on board.

  Honestly? The tech didn’t scare me.

  The other five crew members did.

  When I heard that the famous Lara Barcroft would be joining our expedition, I screamed with joy for the first few hours. Finally - at least one bright spot in this shitty mess!

  You see, Lara Barcroft is a renowned adventurer, tomb raider, and generally a huge celebrity without equal. For the past few years, I had become her devoted fan... until I met her face to face. That's when all my illusions burst like a soap bubble.

  Yes, Lara was famous. Yes, she was noble and extremely athletic. A rare beauty who could even shoot both of her Desert Eagles without chipping a tooth. But the moment we shook hands and exchanged our first words, I got the strong suspicion that something was seriously wrong with Lara Barcroft's head.

  She didn't understand half of what I said.

  Okay, I admit - as a blogger, perhaps some of my phrases aren't easily understood by ordinary mortals. It happens. Realizing my mistake, I tried again - using simpler words and speaking slower.

  Lara Barcroft still didn't understand. She stared at me with big, angelic eyes that contained about as much intellect as my bicycle. Then one of her agents pulled me aside and warned me not to discuss anything more complex than food or sleep with "Miss Lara." And that I shouldn't even hint in my blog that she might not be the sharpest tool in the shed. After all, Lara could still shoot her Desert Eagles and hit targets. Stunt doubles handled all scenes requiring her to speak on camera. She would be our security specialist and help in emergencies. And if I didn't keep my mouth shut, I'd face all sorts of legal consequences.

  Well, that's just great! All that remained was to smile politely at Lara Barcroft and bury the image I had cherished until now. My heart wept - for all of thirty seconds.

  Ken Celsey Buckingham was supposed to be our geologist. Twenty-seven years old, impossibly handsome, sculpted like a Greek god, with these intensely serious eyes... Did I mention he was handsome? Alright, I'm repeating myself. Anyway, this impossibly handsome Adonis gave me... complicated feelings. I'd already mentally buried my entire marital future (who knows if we'd even return from Earth's core?), when suddenly - bam! - this specimen falls from the sky.

  Yes, I was smitten.

  I shook his hand with what I hoped was sophisticated restraint while internally drooling... until I noticed Lara Barcroft glaring at me like I'd just kicked her puppy. My lovestruck brain did some quick math: Two .45 caliber cannons in a blonde's hands + my lingering handshake = my marital future getting ventilated before it even began.

  I let go. Reluctantly.

  Roland Foundland was basically our group's Frankenstein. Not yet thirty, he already had five advanced degrees in chemistry and biology. Like me, he wore glasses—and somehow assumed this made us destined for deep, intimate friendship. He actually said that. Turns out those five degrees didn't include How to Talk to Women 101.

  He wasn't just... aesthetically challenged (let's be kind). His timing was catastrophic too. Someone would tell a joke, everyone would laugh, and then...

  "Zuzuzuzuzuzuzuzuuuu!"

  That was the sound of Roland's delayed laugh, arriving like a drunk courier three days late. Even Lara Barcroft (IQ: room temperature) looked uncomfortable.

  Vesley Bernulli was the closest thing our group had to a normal human being. Not particularly handsome, but not a troll face either. As our geography and navigation expert with special forces experience, he technically shared security duties with Lara Barcroft. Upon meeting him, I immediately decided that if shit hit the fan, I’d be hiding behind Vesley and letting his double-barreled conscience make all the tough calls.

  We exchanged polite, friendly words - no special chemistry like with Ken, but no tension either. A safe middle ground.

  Though apparently not safe enough for Lara, who kept glaring at me like I'd stolen her last protein bar. What was her problem? Did she have some bizarre harem fantasy involving every male crew member?

  Aurora Tromp, at twenty-six years old, was a somewhat unexpected presence in our company. Perhaps as unexpected as me, with my lack of advanced degrees.

  Of course, she did have an education - in engineering. She even had half a Nobel Prize and Israel's sincere gratitude, having helped separate it from Jordan and Syria. How did she accomplish this? By calculating the exact drilling depths and TNT quantities needed to split the ARP-4 landmass precisely along national borders. The Israelis simply had to follow her calculations and do the dirty work. Then they lit the fuse and...

  In short, neither the Syrians nor Jordanians expected anything like this and were caught completely unprepared. The explosion violently separated both landmass sections, with only pre-prepared measures preventing Israel's portion from spinning out of control. The Syrians were less fortunate. Since the operation occurred at midnight, they were awakened by violent tremors and immediately assumed their neighbors were attacking them - a reasonable assumption given the countries' long history of conflict.

  The Syrians grabbed their bazookas and ran out to retaliate, only to discover that:

  a) Their neighbors were now 600 km away, drifting toward Southern Europe's C6 cluster.

  b) Their own landmass was spinning toward the Iraqi atoll at 12 revolutions per minute.

  When the sky and Earth are spinning around you like that... suffice to say, it was a difficult month for Syrian digestive systems and inner ear balance.

  Later, they placed a two million euro bounty on Aurora Tromp's head.

  This woman wasn't just famous - she was wanted by various terrorist organizations and other dangerous groups. How she was accepted into the Space-X program remained a big, unsolved mystery.

  And how was I supposed to feel, surrounded by such... colorful personalities?

  Of course, I was terrified. And when I'm scared, my hands shake while my sarcasm triples in intensity.

  As we boarded the capsule, waving back at the hundred-thousand-strong crowd, I felt like I was floating just a hair's breadth above reality.

  Even my parents waved from the VIP stands. I briefly considered snatching one of Lara's Desert Eagles to return the gesture.

  When the damn capsule finally detached and shot up toward Earth, I was beyond caring.