Berlin
August 9
We land in Berlin early, but I’m not two steps off the plane before a sleek black S-K executive sedan pulls up—sent specifically for me, courtesy of Herr Krieg. No mistaking the intent. The interior is armored and silent, the kind of quiet that comes with very expensive promises. And a most excellent mini-bar. I'm not offered a route or asked my preference. We both know where I'm going.
The vehicle descends into the subterranean depths of Saeder-Krupp’s Berlin headquarters. Security performs the usual ritual—scanners, etiquette, a little menace to spice the air—then I’m shown to a private elevator. One long ride later, I step out into halls that seem sized for beings larger than men. Because, of course, they are.
I arrive at the boardroom.
There’s only one occupant.
Lofwyr.
It’s not my first Great Dragon—Vivek still holds that honor—but this one is… magnificent. Pure gold, an empire made flesh. The kind of being whose presence physically alters the air in a room.
We exchange polite words, as is customary before being eaten or promoted. But no—Lofwyr has a different agenda. He’s agreed to appear in one of Kate’s projects: Five Minutes with Philip. It’s a short, punchy streaming series cooked up by Starway Elite where I “interview” dragons. Apparently, both Kate and Lofwyr find this very entertaining. I suspect I’m the only one not laughing.
Still, I play along. We do the segment. I ask him about his youth, his hoard, whether he’s really recovered every single coin from his first treasure pile. That gets a growl that might’ve been a laugh. Or a warning. I’ll take it as both.
Then the cameras go dark.
What follows is not for public consumption. We speak of Velaxas—the dragon I encountered beneath the earth, the one whose claw I claimed, whose eye calls to me in dreams. Lofwyr warns me: Velaxas was the doom of the First Age, the architect of entropy, corruption incarnate. Sealed, imprisoned, forgotten by time and myth. “He cannot escape,” Lofwyr says.
But I’ve spoken to him.
And I’m not convinced.
Still, I say nothing. Some secrets aren’t ready to be shared, even with golden kings.
August 10
Berlin, as always, thrums with a kind of violent harmony—tech, power, culture, chaos all smashed into megablocks of brutalism and industry. Halo dives into it headfirst, gathering inspiration from everything and everyone. In true Halo fashion, she runs the team ragged trying to keep up.
August 11–12
Double concerts. Massive venues. Big crowds. Bigger numbers. Halo goes hard on German virtues—resilience, discipline, creation through labor. There’s something refreshingly unromantic about it. She even ditches the wings for the first night. Critics light up the Matrix like it’s December 24th.
Some fans are getting edgy. “Corporate-controlled Halo.” “The Halo Megacorp World Tour.” You’d think they’d be used to it by now. She’s been doing this since Cairo. But the shows are good. Really good. Ratings remain sky-high. And the money, of course, is flowing.
August 13
Private concert, by invitation only. The usual suspects: execs, dynasts, state actors. Fewer silver spoons, more platinum implants. Halo dials in the mythology of greatness. Leaders rising to uplift the masses. It’s subtle, but not too subtle. The Matrix will chew it to pieces tomorrow. “She’s not just a shill—she’s a monarchist shill now!”
Let them talk. The tickets were a small fortune each, and every seat was filled. And the streaming rights are a sprinkling of gold on top. A thick layer of gold.
August 14
The wrap-up day. Rest for some, logistics for others. Halo flies out to London, her final European stop before we return to the States.
Houston looms large at the end of the month, but that’s another war.
For now, I sip cold espresso on a high-rise balcony overlooking the Spree and think about dragons.
No comments:
Post a Comment