For now, He is still He.
No operator in the world would willingly step into this utterly gray house with their equipment, so this hired worker will have to be brought to life through imagination — a solid way to save on wages.
The peculiar muzzle of his filming rifle (if it had a will of its own) would hardly want to capture the landscape outside and the interior within. It would much rather fire a few shots into the air. Just out of boredom.
That very thing — autumn — is the key parameter of this place. These lands have practically married the season and can't exist without it. Trees forever swollen with moisture, bushes that are supposedly meant to be cared for — but why, exactly?
And the sky, so often called leaden, even though the real lead exists only in that very bullet which could later end up in the head of the imaginary operator, who by now has more than had his fill of this suffocating atmosphere of dull despair.
Alright then. He opens the gate, which, naturally, lets out a strained creak — because if the hinges were oiled, that simply wouldn't fit the canon of houses like this. The gravel path would moan just as pleasantly under real feet, but since his are incorporeal, the operator simply walks.
What else does he do? He scares off puffed-up little birds, who are perfectly within their rights to run safaris on worms they find appealing.
The facade of the house might have caught a fleeting glance, if not for the closed old-school shutters on the windows. Those made it unmistakably clear that no one looks after this place at all — and the chunks that had fallen off symbolized that even better.
There is no doormat on the porch.
We open the door.
Right behind it stands an inseparable pair — a tripod fan, switched on roughly once a year when it gets briefly warm, and a battered exercise bike that serves, naturally, as a coat rack for all kinds of clothes.
The crown jewel of this "Try-On Suite" and Styling Room was, of course, a bra. Proudly lying on top of all the other rags. There wasn't a single woman in the house, but the brother insisted he needed it for a role.
The hallway walls have no wallpaper, no plaster — everything has been replaced by drywall, which knows a thing or two about yellow stains, dampness, and streaks from a pipe that burst long ago. Wooden studs showed through at the corners, and some of the outlets looked especially tired of life, sagging more than anything else, their plastic dulled and lifeless.
"Works — don't touch it. And if it didn't work — we still wouldn't touch it, we'd call a specialist." — one of the wonderful aphorisms from Grandpa's endless collection of lazy quotes.
He held that opinion about everything, and for that the cobwebs were especially grateful — along with their tireless urban planners, who had founded their own empire inside this house.
After the parents' divorce, the house first froze, then groaned, and finally let out a death rattle.
Still, the nonexistent operator demands the main angle, and so the living room proudly steps onto the foreground — the very room that gloomy hallway led to. Right by the entrance hangs a series of drawings made by the younger brother in childhood, placed there instead of framed family photos.
As if to say: "My art matters more than any so-called family moments of happiness. Especially when there were none to begin with."
In some ways, he was right — surprising as it is to admit.
Mother and father parted ways, tipping their feathered hats, exchanging polite bows and curtsies, and receiving the blessing of a divorce lawyer.
Now the father lived with his new lady at the other end of the country on his own ranch (quite the countryside enthusiast), breeding not animals but people — for money. He was involved in some shady schemes whose details no one ever bothered to examine.
And Mom successfully moved to Morocco, where she and her brand-new boyfriend worked at a large hotel in Rabat, holding respectable positions. Naturally, she constantly sent everyone selfies with camels — which, judging by everything, were the real reason she divorced Dad and moved to another country. No doubt the walls of her apartment there were covered with the appropriate photos. Why not? What's wrong with camels?
Alright. Family dramas and memoirs are fine, but in the present moment we have a very specific slice of life, and—
"Remembering the past is hard. Personally, I can't even recall the name of my kindergarten caretaker. Though his disgusting mug stuck with me forever." — Grandpa's words fit here as well.
So. In the center of the room stood a dolled-up young man, bent over a wheelchair, gripping its handles. He stared at the person sitting there as menacingly as his completely non-threatening face and the remnants of stage makeup left after theater rehearsal would allow.
His breath smelled of pineapple spray. He always bought that one — his biggest fear was bad breath. That was his primary phobia. Hedgehogs came next.
- You. You… You?! You!
He was addressing Denzel — his brother. The very one who had invented that operator, who was now describing everything that was happening and shuddering as he breathed in the already hateful smell of the cursed pineapple.
- My career, my life, my fame! Everything rests on one — and then the second — wheel of your infirmity! How dare you get sick?! Celebs are supposed to wrap themselves in red carpets and wear them instead of glossy outfits, not babysit a Hawking of the AI era, you villain!
This whole speech was supposedly aimed straight at Denzel's ego and, in theory, was meant to humiliate him as much as possible. The younger brother assumed that the infamous "psychological armor" was now being successfully pierced — if only the older brother hadn't resorted to an even more worn-out cliché: the "cocoon." He simply curled up inside it and let the abuser's words pass him by.
"Talk as much as you want. You can't make things worse than they already are. And keep all your hang-ups for the stage and performances I sincerely hope I'll never have to see."
It wasn't that Denzel was angry or trying to be spiteful toward his brother. It's just that, even in locked-down mode, he was tired of the routine. Every day the same thing, with this person… by the way, what was his name again?
Why?! Just why should Pixie Luchador himself waste his priceless time on someone who merely happened to crawl out of the same womb as him?!
Let it stay that way. Denzel had known his brother his entire life under a different name, but this high-flown nickname — one he had recently invented for extra flair — humiliated him far more than any mockery ever could.
"Do you even understand the level of genius here?! Pixie is something mystical and feminine, something that inspires and drags you deep into dark fairy-tale forests. And then Luchador comes in and smothers it all with deliberately toxic masculinity — jumping off the ropes straight onto the first nickname and smashing it with a chair.
So now I'm not A.K.A. anymore. I am Pixie Luchador. Not an alter ego — my actual essence." That's how he once explained it to Denzel during a rare moment of calm, stirring his punch with a spoon and blowing dust off the sleeve of his concert tailcoat.
Now Pixie was in his usual state of mind — the one he had when he wasn't rehearsing The Little Prince or Frank Lucas right in the middle of selling a particularly large batch of drugs.
He humiliated his older brother, dumping all the pain that bounced and shrieked inside him whenever he remembered that he had to do something for the family, not just for himself.
And that was deeply irritating.
Pulling a chair closer to Denzel's vehicle, he sat down — naturally crossing one leg over the other — and lit up. Of course, slim cigarettes with that same unchanging pineapple scent, which now muddled not only his own brain but everyone else's as well.
Releasing a theatrical plume of smoke, he tried to speak — but just then the TV announcer began desperately ranting about an approaching storm. It even drowned out Grandpa's snoring.
Grandpa lay on his usual couch, surrounded by a cellphone, a TV remote, and a chessboard where the queen was frozen mid-position, still unaware of whom she was about to attack. Apparently, Grandpa hadn't thought the move through either and, after the most strenuous mental effort, decided to let his brain relax.
The announcer fell silent, the rumbling snores softened into gentle snuffling, and Pixie decided to continue:
- How lucky I am, brother dear, that my suffering will apparently be over very soon. I'll finally have the chance to hire a professional film crew instead of begging poor Vanilla to shoot me on her phone. And then I'll be able to carry out my Great Beginning!