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.
Speaking of— the fetishist acted exactly as a silent hero should.
During all that pterodactyl chaos, he'd stopped his self-pleasure for a moment to check out the new creature. But apparently, it didn't do it for him. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and calmly walked off into the dark.
We waited until the last humans (well, two painters) cleared out of the valley, then started packing up. I boxed the projectors; Odile fussed with his camera. We'd trek to another village— this one to the left— and crash there for the night.
Because, unfortunately, future fame doesn't reattach frostbitten noses.
Didn't sleep a second the next day. Not morning, not noon. I should've crashed hard, but no— my brain was spinning with images of success, my body still soaked in adrenaline. Even after chugging a custom-made mug of hot grog — yeah, I heard about it in some cartoon — I was still freezing.
The heater blasted at full power, and I sat right beneath it, absorbing every molecule of warmth. Odile, of course, slept peacefully the whole time, sitting cross-legged on the floor like some unplugged monk. That habit freaked me out at first — I mean, who the hell sleeps like that? — but then I accepted it as just another manifestation of his mystical weirdness and stopped caring.
Let him sleep however he wants. Just as long as he doesn't shapeshift under the full moon.
By evening, there was a knock on the door. I gladly let Adelgunda in.
No hugs, no handshake — our professional chemistry didn't require that kind of sentiment.
She was, as always, composed, strict, and her empathy switched on only when strategically useful.
And damn, she was good at it. Sliding into people's trust like silk, brilliant and inventive all the way. Emotional IQ and raw IQ — perfect fusion.
She took off her shoes, nodded her thanks, accepted the cup (yeah, I'd insisted it be a chalice — props matter), sipped the punch, and said:
— I told everyone I was traumatized by what I saw at the lake and that I need to leave the settlement for a while to recover emotionally. Nobody suspects a thing.
Anna even teared up and made me promise with pinky fingers that we'd always be best friends. I'll admit — exploiting that poor girl was tough… but necessary. — Her voice wavered, and I hurried to reassure her:
— It's all for the content. It's worth it. Dumb girls like that help the world create new realities. And the people who'll soon become our devoted followers — they crave that. They need it.
Who's gonna give them the Wonder, huh? Who's gonna manufacture that level of mystification that makes them gasp and drop their fucking tablets — the same tablets they were using to read about the stock market crash? — I kept revving up, launching into the hottest, most manic rant I could. — You think you'd wanna live where you can't ride a Leviathan? Wanna take a spin in that taxi? I'm sure you'd be into that if it was on offer. Picture Leviathan business class, best driver, top service!
— You won't shake me with your torrent of words, NoWay, — Ada cut in, — those acts are immoral, and I won't lie to people.
— The whole point of any prank is to build a covered lie, — I snapped, thinking if she ever rats us out I'll smash my fists into a wall. These fists — part of the very hands that made genius plans to alter how the world sees things. And that damn bitch is murdering the fertility of my hands!
A proper staring contest ensued, appropriate for the moment.
Odile had something to say. He pulled out an e-cig, blew a thick plume of vapor and offered:
— Before we step out of the fog, we can walk through it. It sometimes makes the strangest images, and we'll help weave them together. I only hope these outfits turn out not to be shrouds, but wedding dresses.
— Uh… yeah. That's sorta what I meant, Ada. So, don't be a pain, okay?!
— As you wish! But from today on, you'll be the one infiltrating. I'll back you up. — She turned away from us and stared at the calendar on the wall.
— Agreed. — I sweetened the pill, since she'd actually earned it and deserved to be rewarded.
Exactly one month earlier Ada arrived at the settlement we needed and quickly found the locals' language. There she found Anna — pliant, hungry for gossip, always ready to chatter.
When X hour came, call it Y (or whatever math symbol you prefer), Ada subtly hinted to Anna that that night the most beautiful aurora the lake had ever seen would light the sky.
We hoped the youth would bite — those romantic types who treat such events as an excuse for hanky-panky. For the older, more grounded crowd, Ada spun a yarn about unbelievable fishing: every fish in the lake would be dreaming of biting a bait-hungry hook.
Bingo.
Everything worked as intended. Fewer people showed up than expected, but they reacted perfectly. All settlements around the lake, according to Ada, were buzzing, and hotheads were already itching to set an ambush for the pterodactyl. The slightly smarter ones were already seeding the story to newspapers (yeah, that prehistoric crap still gets used — and some folks even read it!), online, and soon the tale would spread across the country and beyond.
And now, without any pause, it was time to start the second act of our Marleson-style ballet (that's literally the only kind of ballet I know).
Our route led to the land of legends — Scotland.
— Ada, hey, Ada… — I sidled next to my colleague and nudged her elbow, — I promise, all the nastiest stuff will hit only me. You'll be pure bliss.
She smiled slightly, just the tips of her lips, but the fierce look on her face didn't budge until I pulled a piece of rubber and a needle from my bag and pretended to stitch with very serious concentration. That's when she couldn't help laughing:
— Okay, okay, I'm in. Your helplessness kinda moves me. What costume do you want?
— So now I'm Peter? And I got bitten by a radioactive—
Odile threw his head back on the couch foot and shut his eyes:
— References unworthy of such a lively and nontrivial mind, NoWay.
He respected me. He always spoke, maybe incoherently, but pleasantly. His phrases literally hugged me.
So I paused and started calmly laying out the idea, attentive to every detail. Until the operator asked:
— Why a pterodactyl anyway? Is it your vision of something forgotten from deep time bursting into a modern person's imagination?
And he had to answer:
— No, I decided to cross the popular tale that pterodactyls still exist and sometimes fly over the States with a cooler location. Purely for visual richness. The main thing is that the visual form doesn't suffer.
Content? Do you need it, if our goal is to make everyone shit themselves with the perfect blend of joy and terror?