If Truth were really close by, then why can't I ask Her to grab me some liquor? – © NoWay
First Case / Operation / Infiltration into the Minds of the Audience
The cold was freezing every single organ inside me — and worse yet, everything even slightly exposed to its damn influence.
My cheeks, my nose, even my hair were in it.
Clothes, it seemed, had never been designed for rolling on a snow-crusted, frozen ground. Which is why they did a piss-poor job of protecting my most precious possession. And no, not that one — I mean my belly button. It looked like a crescent moon, a dent, and something else equally deformed and mutant. I gotta feature it in the shot at some point — viewers love that stuff.
The rock I was hiding behind could easily carry the noble title of Sir Boulder. He was my only companion in this tundra.
Why Greenland, you might ask, my hardcore-content lovers?
Allow me to explain.
My fingers were frozen stiff inside the gloves, but I still managed to grab my phone and start recording:
— It's about to begin. You're gonna freeze in awe and scream your lungs out. And if your genome's got that little worm of hate in it — don't strangle him. Feed him. And donate anyway. Because Only We can show you a Show like This.
I paused the recording and whispered into my earpiece:
— What's your status, Odi? You got the full panorama? Is your hiding spot still invisible?
— By no means compromised. My hands are as steady as ever, and my eye remains loyal to me till the final flutter of its lashes.
That's exactly the kind of poetic crap I wanted to hear from Odile.
He always talked in this low, chill, hypnotic tone, every comma dripping with meditation. But I hadn't tested him in real action yet, so there were these tiny, nasty little worms of doubt gnawing at his professionalism.
Alright. We'll see…
The snowy valley held one key object a bit away from the scene of our future performance.
A settlement.
It was inhabited by speechless (for now) characters whose sole job was to display emotions at the right moment — to scream, get scared, rejoice, dance — whatever works.
Then their reactions would be sent out to the media.
So, technically, they had two functions. The Creator — meaning me — didn't build in any more.
God, I love my persona! Those are exactly the kinds of punchlines I should be dropping in all my future, and obviously, current videos. Because:
"Viewers love that stuff."
Even the slightest breath of wind made the ice cubes inside my body's freezer compartment multiply. My blood could've been used for cryotherapy — celebrity facials, five grand a pop.
Brrr… Why the hell's it so cold? Yeah, I get it, climate and all that, but couldn't one of those warm winds — monsoons, breezes, whatever they're called — swing by and heat up my damn fingers?!
Okay, I'm done waiting.
Oh!
Spoke too soon — the first members of our corps de ballet, our burlesque of human curiosity, entered the stage. Under the bright moonlight reflected in the snow's albedo came a couple huddled together, bodies clinging like they were trying to melt into one. Or maybe they were just giving each other literal warmth.
From what I could tell, they spread out some cases on the snow and pulled out foldable easels. Oh, hell yeah — our bait worked. We lured in the art crowd.
Perfect! Exactly the kind of people who'd paint extra layers into our spectacle and help open the eyes of any lurking fear.
The pair really did start painting, sketching the lake in all its natural beauty. Pretty scene, sure… though not exactly my thing.
— Film them, Odi. That's the prelude before the big scene. While they're still chill and clueless.
— My camera will capture every pore on their faces, I swear on the memory of my hamster Benny. Trust me. — Came the immediate reply.
I was already distracted, watching a group of men and two women dragging a boat toward the lake. Packed to the brim with gear. Perfect. That meant the fishing crowd took the bait too. We needed their kind of legend-spreading energy — fishermen love a story.
Then came this short dude in a fur hat the size of my rock. Without paying anyone attention, he stepped right into the middle of the valley and gave the lake a long, thoughtful, probably philosophical look.
Then he reached under his clothes. And started gently fondling his nipples, squirming in delight.
— Odi, zoom in on that sweet pervert face. I love how frozen his brain must be to come up with this kink. Yet how focused his blood still is — just in a slightly different area...
— His thoughts are impure, and his body—
— Don't wanna hear it. Because right over there, two gorgeous ladies just arrived. And that means it's time to fire up our infernal machinery.
Next to me stood the devices. No, not that kind of devices — I know tech-heads will bite me for imprecision, and their beaks are sharp, and I value my epidermis.
These were rented laser stadium projectors, Arctic-condition rated.
I didn't know jack about what that meant, but the manufacturer promised in the ad:
"They can make magic."
That's all I needed — atmospheric projection, where snow, low clouds, and lake steam would merge into one stunning image. I opened my phone notes, scrolling carefully so as not to miss a single step in launching this glorious beast.
Didn't screw up the setup.
And there it went — soaring skyward, closer to the celestial HD realm. The image came out perfect: translucent, massive, slightly tearing at the edges. Ghostly — but that only helped.
It wasn't just a pterodactyl — it was a phantom pterodactyl.
Sure, it lagged a little, and its outlines kept morphing, but who cares — pareidolia's got our back. The human brain fills in the blanks, says Wikipedia, my adoptive mother, whom I trust way more than my partners.
Now then? When? Where's the reaction?!
— It really flew, I swear, it was right above the lake and then vanished in the mist! — There it was, the emotion I'd been waiting for. One of the fishermen shouted, shaking with fear. The synchronized projectors, set at different angles, sent our Jurassic messenger diving and twirling through the air, and then—
— I see it! Aaaand… gone. It hid behind a cloud! — One of the fisherwomen squealed, jumping in excitement. Half her crew scattered, screaming like banshees. Somewhere, the inevitable "Devil!" rang out, while the painters' brushes froze midair.
Well, one painter's — the other was already down cold, fainted, betraying the Art within him.
— Incredible! Amazing! — That thin voice belonged to one of the two women who'd just arrived, her companion echoing her:
— Agreed! I filmed the whole thing, so chill. Got it all on my phone.
Smart girl, Ada. Always gets the exclusive before her dumb friend does. Let the rights stay with the real owners.
— Odi, what'd you get?
— A short film worthy of Cannes, as you'd say.
— Nah, I aim higher. — My face twisted. — I want the bags of money straight away. Skip the useless festivals.
— Your ambition does you honor, NoWay. — Odile complimented me. I waved him off:
— Keep flattering me, my eloquent friend. You're almost as seductive as our live-porn philosopher over there.
That guy, by the way, did what any true silent hero would.
While all hell was breaking loose with the pterodactyl, the fetishist had paused his self-pleasure to admire the new apparition — but it didn't seem to turn him on, so he shoved his hands back into his pockets and quietly walked off into the dark.
We waited till the valley emptied out (okay, except for the two painters), packed up the gear, Odile fussing with his camera, and then we'd head to the next village to crash for the night.
Because, sadly, future fame doesn't regrow a frostbitten nose.
And I don't wanna hear a single damn word about him, 'cause look— right there, two gorgeous ladies walking in. Which means it's time to fire up our beautiful monstrosity of a drill machine.
The devices stood beside me. No, wait— wrong term. Tech people would tear me apart for that, and their beaks hurt, and I value my epidermis.
They were rented laser projectors— stadium-grade, Arctic-proof.
Not that I had any clue what that technically meant, but the manufacturer promised in the ad:
"They can make magic."
And that's exactly what I needed — almost magic. A projection in the air itself, with snow, low clouds, and steam rising from the lake all blending into one surreal image. I opened the notes app on my phone and started carefully scrolling through the setup steps, making sure not to miss a single one.
No mistakes this time.
And then it — or he, or maybe she — launched upward, straight toward the chilly heavens. The image came out perfect: semi-transparent, massive, slightly "tearing" at the edges. Ghostly. Even better that way.
It wasn't just a pterodactyl.
It was a phantom pterodactyl.
Sure, it lagged a little, the body lines glitched and shimmered, but hey— pareidolia saves the day. The human brain fills in the blanks, just like my beloved Wikipedia always said. And her, my adoptive mother, I trust way more than my teammates.
When though? When?! Where's the reaction?!
— It really flew! I swear, it was right over the lake, then vanished into the fog! — There it was. The emotion I'd been starving for. That fisherman screamed it out, trembling like a leaf. The synchronized projectors, each set at different angles, sent our Jurassic messenger diving, looping, twisting in midair until—
— I see it! Aaah— no, it's gone! It hid behind a cloud! — shrieked one of the fisherwomen, hopping up and down with excitement. Half her crew bolted, squealing hysterically. Somewhere, the good old "Devil!" echoed, and the painters' brushes froze midair.
Well— one painter's. The other was down cold, fainted, betraying the Art within him for the sweet mercy of unconsciousness.
— Incredible! Breathtaking! — The thin voice belonged to one of the two latecomers, her companion chiming in:
— Totally! Got it all on camera, don't worry. Everything's on my phone.
Smart girl, Ada. Covered her bases, didn't let her airhead friend grab the exclusive. Let the true rights-holders own the footage.
— Odi, what'd you get?
— A short film worthy of Cannes, as you'd say.
— Nah, I always aim higher. — My face twisted. — I want the money bags straight away, skip all the useless pre-rituals like festivals.
— Your ambition does you honor, NoWay. — Odile complimented, and I waved him off.
— Keep buttering me up, you silky bastard. Almost as smooth as our live-porn philosopher over there.