Trip to Oslo.
The Predator’s starship tore through the Norwegian night with all the grace of a drunken mountaineer. Somewhere behind it lay the smoldering wreckage in Drammen, a herd of psychologically scarred reindeer, and Farmer Bjørn—who now swore he’d seen a Russian saboteur on a snowmobile. But Oslo didn’t know that. Oslo was too busy being Oslo—a city where even the streetlights shone with Scandinavian smugness.
First, the ship soared over the Opera House, that gigantic ice slide for adults. “Biomask, threat assessment,” clicked the Predator.
“Threats: zero. Stupidity: critical levels. Subject: humans in puffer jackets crawling up the sloped roof, risking death for photos. Motivation: unclear.”
“Typical,” the Predator growled and banked toward Karl Johans gate, where the usual madness was unfolding.
A German tourist pointed at the sky:
— A shuttle! Definitely a shuttle!
— Darling, that’s just the Northern Lights, sighed his wife.
— I wouldn’t drink vodka with Northern Lights like that!
The Predator, hovering invisibly two meters above them, mentally awarded the man “Most Observant Human in Norway.”
Meanwhile, his ship paused above the Royal Palace, where Guard #3 was testing how many boot straps he could unbuckle without dropping his rifle. “And these creatures conquered half the world?” the alien thought in horror.
But the real surprise came outside City Hall, where a group of Japanese tourists simultaneously pulled on Norwegian reindeer sweaters.
“Biomask, scan!”
“Detected: 12 specimens of Homo touristicus in cultural feeding mode. Threat level: subzero. Recommendation: if they start taking photos—run. Their cameras can capture even cloaked entities.”
The Predator was about to move on when he spotted something odd. A homeless man on a bench was… staring right at him. Not through him—at him.
— Hey, space bro! the man shouted, shaking a bottle. — You got any… y’know… alien booze?
The mask flashed a warning: “Subject displays anomalous awareness. Possible explanations: 1) Extra-sensory perception 2) Exceptionally strong moonshine.”
The Predator chose not to investigate and bolted toward Holmenkollen, where a biathlon race was just ending.
— Look! the commentator gasped. — Is that the Northern Lights over the track?
— It’s… pulsing? the expert added uncertainly.
— And moving against the wind!
— Great racing weather! the host concluded hastily, because Norwegian TV prefers to ignore the apocalypse if it doesn’t interfere with sports coverage.
Meanwhile, the ship’s console beeped: “Optimal landing zone located: Munch Museum rooftop. Advantages: 1) City center 2) Abundance of screaming humans 3) Irony.”
The Predator’s mandibles clicked into a grin. Finally, something was going right.
