“Applause at the Edge of Destruction”
The Predator’s ship blazed across the night sky like a fallen star cursed by the gods.
Below, among the crowd:
“God, this is even cooler than that Kygo concert in Oslo!” screamed a girl in a knitted sweater, tilting her head back. Her iPhone captured vertical video, automatically adding the hashtag #NorthernLightsChallenge.
Old fisherman Lars grunted as he poured himself mulled wine from a thermos:
“Back in my day, meteors at least fell quietly.”
Nearby, a seven-year-old boy pointed at the sky:
“Dad, are you sure this isn’t Elon Musk?”
At that moment, the ship’s hull split apart with a deafening roar, showering the fjord with sparks. The crowd gasped in unison—just as they had a week earlier during the Constitution Day fireworks.
No one noticed:
—The dark figure tearing free from the fiery cocoon
—Three muffled clicks of an activating plasma caster
—Drops of alien blood hissing against the snow-covered roof of the museum
And when the city square speakers began playing a-ha’s “Take on Me,” the Predator felt something strange for the first time in 300 years of interstellar hunts.
This primitive species was applauding his demise.
And deep within his four-chambered heart, something more dangerous than rage began to stir—resentment.
“Reindeer, Phone Calls, and Cosmic Chaos”
The Arctic wind howled like a wounded beast as the Predator plummeted from the sky. His parachute—once the proud standard of the Serpent Fang Clan—now flapped helplessly in the wind, tangled in the wires of the only streetlight for fifty miles. That very streetlight, which the Drammen municipality hadn’t managed to fix in three years, surrendered to the alien onslaught with a decisive crack.
The snowy plain welcomed the intruder with open, treacherous arms.
The first layer: fluffy frost, deceptively gentle.
The second: a brittle crust, snapping like kindling.
The third: the back of Thor the reindeer, smelling of pine, salt, and philosophical acceptance of his fate.
Impact.
The air rushed out of Thor’s lungs with a sound resembling a Scottish bagpipe sat on by a bear. The herd froze in a ritual semicircle—fourteen pairs of gleaming eyes, fourteen sets of flaring nostrils. Young calf Ola, infamous for his unhealthy curiosity, took the first step.
Step one: sniffed the cloaking generator.
Step two: sneezed.
Step three: marked the Predator’s boot with a stream that glittered under the moonlight like the most treacherous of creeks.
The Predator went still. His biomask, which had survived three hundred battles and two volcano drops, issued a warning:
[DANGER: MEANING LEVEL UNDEFINED]
Behind the hill, an accordion wheezed to life. Tourists. Germans. They were singing something about roses and rain, utterly oblivious that two hundred meters away, the most absurd interspecies encounter since a moose tried to fistfight a steam engine was unfolding.
And Thor… Thor slowly stood up, shook himself off, and fixed the Predator with a look of profound offense. That gaze said:
“I am a descendant of Thor’s legendary reindeer, three-time champion of surviving Norwegian bureaucracy, and THIS is how I’m welcomed?”
The Predator, who had never felt the need to justify himself, suddenly felt a strange urge… to apologize.
But then farmer Bjørn emerged from the trees, wielding a flashlight and a bottle of something that smelled like at least three medical protocol violations.
“Alright, where’s that damn—” His eyes landed on the scene: reindeer, alien, puddle. “…Oh.”
Silence.
Even the accordion stopped. “Minimal threat,” his bio-mask analyzed. “Recommend ignoring and proceeding with mission.”
The reindeer, however, seemed to have other plans.
A young calf, nimble and nosy, trotted closer and—sneezed directly onto his cloaking device. A glob of sticky reindeer snot short-circuited the system for a split second, rendering him visible. The herd recoiled in unison, but their fear didn’t last.
“Unbelievable,” he thought. “They don’t fear me.”
Then, laughter echoed behind him.
A group of tourists, armed with smartphones and mugs of glühwein, had been watching the “spectacular meteor shower.” Their eyes were fixed on the sky—until a redheaded guy in an absurd pom-pom hat suddenly looked down.
“Hey, did you see that?” He pointed straight at the Predator, who was currently trying to shake off an overly affectionate reindeer. “Something’s… moving over there.”
The Predator activated his cloaking instantly, but it was too late. The humans were approaching, phones raised to film.
“Probably an elk,” said a girl in a pink parka.
“Elks don’t glow,” Redhead argued.
The Predator weighed his options. He needed intel. Maps. Coordinates. And one of those ridiculous human devices could help. He moved fast.
While the tourists bickered, he crept behind them and—just as Redhead bent to pick up a dropped mitten—swiftly plucked the phone from his pocket.
The device was sticky from spilled glühwein and covered in fingerprints. The Predator wrinkled his nose in disgust but tapped the screen.
The phone lit up.
“Face ID required,” it chirped.
He frowned.
“Try again,” it insisted.
Holding it up to his bio-mask, the camera flashed.
“Hey, handsome! ;)” popped up in an open chat.
The Predator flinched.
Meanwhile, Redhead was patting his pockets frantically.
“Guys, my phone’s gone!”
“Did you drop it again?” Pink Parka giggled.
“No! It was right here!”
They began sweeping their flashlights across the snow.
Crouched behind a boulder, the Predator stabbed at the screen with a claw, battling relentless notifications:
“Mom: Where are you??”
“Tinder: You have a new match! 🎉”
“Weather: -15°C, feels like -20°C.”
At last, he found what he needed—maps.
Google Maps cheerfully pinpointed his location: Norway, Drammen, Hiking Trail #3.
And also…
“Nearest McDonald’s: 27 km.”
The Predator growled.
In the distance, another explosion rumbled from his wrecked ship.
The reindeer startled.
The tourists gasped.
And the phone in his hand suddenly blared music—apparently, Redhead was a heavy metal fan.
“Welcome to the jungle, we’ve got fun and games!” screeched the speakers.
Enraged, the Predator hurled the device into the snow.
Then, after a beat, picked it back up.
…The maps might still be useful.
