Not an Intimate Prelude
Not an Intimate Prelude
Straight into the grind, no foreplay.
So how exactly should a movie about the tragic fate of a hero against the backdrop of war look?
According to the audience—and according to C.J. Night:
A luxurious hall, luxurious everything. Into it stroll five main categories of viewers, all coming for this art-casual-citylife-dystopian-noir spectacle. There’s a clear hierarchy among them.
The first ones show up in cocktail dresses, pendants, bracelets, and earrings—sometimes feather-light, sometimes heavy as sin, but always expensive.
The second group wears tuxedos, and that’s all you really need to say. They don’t even bother with underwear. The outfit itself is already enough.
The third caste are the Brands. Sometimes they look like human beings, but more often they look like walking logos.
The fourth are the Trends. Their looks change every nano-second, so good luck trying to keep track.
The fifth, of course, are the Big Shots.
And then the film begins.
The screen lights up and immediately throws the audience into a world where a small child trudges forward, dragging a teddy bear whose eye socket is just an empty hole where a button used to be. Ahead of him—ruins of a grim, shadow-choked city.
Above him, naturally, hang storm clouds. The sun has never visited this forgotten corner of the Earth. Probably it doesn’t even exist here at all, because bright rays are the mortal enemy of tragedy—and of those moody filters that make everything black-and-white.
In the angel’s little eyes there’s a frozen pain of unbearable loss. His mouth twists in a silent cry. He calls out for his mother, the word echoing against the rotting skeletons of broken-down buildings. When she doesn’t answer—the toy slips from his hand and drops in slow motion to the ground.
Honestly—one minute of that kind of movie is enough for:
Cocktail Dresses and Tuxedos to quickly remember how to squeeze a tear from their eyes, forcing their tear ducts to produce something they never normally let out. Their hands can’t yet come together for applause, because it’s not the finale, and it’s too early to stand up and stare at the director.
No command has been given yet, and Pavlov’s Dog hasn’t shown up with its trusty stick.
The Brands have their own job. They’re here strictly to evaluate. They’re already imagining how every body part of this kid (meaning the actor) would look with their logo stamped on it—if the movie turns a profit. They’re mentally signing contracts, arguing with invisible lawyers, even aging the kid fifty or sixty years forward to see if he’d still be marketable in their ads.
The Trends openly yawn. Not interested yet. They’re just waiting to find out if this film will actually become a hit. If yes, they’ll immediately slice it into vertical videos right here in the theater and brainstorm which viral captions to slap on for maximum conversion.
As for the Big Shots? They don’t need a reason.
These folks just enjoy the fact that they already have everything. They sit in the theater to remind themselves they have everything. So they look at the weeping child with tender amusement, thinking how wonderful it is that they, apparently, still have everything.
End credits:
Slavs—and Luckrainians in particular—aren’t like that. Their stories are made of dirt and post-apocalypse. So fuck that kind of movie. Now, ladies and gentlemen, a man will pass through the hall and hand you printed or electronic copies of a different story. One about country under the letter U. And in it…
Magicupol
A cramped, suffocating room. There’s barely any space at all, and way too many terrified people. If Fear had a physical form, here it would’ve been that dim emergency light bulb, caged in by rusted wires. The only one still glowing, when every other lamp in the city had already gone dark.
The whole city had lost power—or more likely, it had simply been annihilated.
-How’s that even possible? Electricity runs through wires, you can’t just shoot it down with a missile! asked Yan slowly, almost logically.
From the corner, a grown man shot him a vicious glare and snapped:
-Shut it! We’ve had enough without you.
-Don’t yell at the boy—can’t you see he’s scared?
A kind old woman tried to defend him, but her words were drowned out by a barrage of explosions that shook the whole building. Everyone ducked, pressing closer together. Yan felt strange hands gripping his shoulders, though he couldn’t tell who they belonged to. The darkness was absolute. And why the hell did it stink so badly in here?
-Oh, who’s this? Did somebody piss himself? a mocking whisper brushed right against Yan’s ear. That mean kid again—the one who’d been tormenting him all along. -What a coward, shitting his pants in the dark!
-Shut your mouth already! Enough! Nadya couldn’t take it anymore. She pulled her brother close, swatting away the little bastard like a mosquito with a human face.
-Ohhh, look at this! Big sister protecting her farting crybaby brother? Some man he’s turning out to be.
Nadya sniffed the air and, yeah, the smell really was brutal. She even let out a small giggle—but kept her face straight, because no one was allowed to hurt her brother.
-And who was screaming when the artillery fired, huh? Wasn’t that you? So who’s the squealing little pig now?
The same man in the corner spoke up again:
-Both of you, shut it already! …Though honestly, girl, keep going. That brat’s whining is worse than the bombs.
His useless approval got cut off by another round of blasts, stronger than before. The walls rattled harder than the people inside. Breaths came short and ragged, stealing what little oxygen was left. The heat was unbearable.
A woman lay flat on the floor, and someone was literally standing on her legs—there wasn’t space to move. Another person fanned her with a scrap of torn T-shirt, reviving her little by little. Until the next -firecrackers went off and the whole place shook again.
Nadya herself was running out of air, but she still forced out what little she could through her nostrils, sending a thin stream across her brother’s face to cool him down. All the while, she whispered:
-Your breath is my joy. And I know you love it when I breathe—and when I’m happy.
Even in the dim light, she caught a weak smile on the boy’s pale face. His eyes looked like two gentle abysses. How could they be terrifying and comforting at the same time?
Boom! A chunk of plaster rained down from the ceiling. A piece of it nailed someone on the head, and they screamed, lunging toward the exit. They were immediately smacked back down—hard—before they could spark full-on panic.
After one last thunderous blast nearby, everything went quiet. For a long while. Minutes passed… or maybe hours, no one was counting.
Finally, people started hesitantly pulling out their phones, those who still had a battery left, lighting the room with tiny flashlight beams.
The world, crushed under fear and suffocation, began to breathe again. Somewhere, a candy wrapper rustled—its lucky owner no doubt tearing into it with every tooth they had. Someone else accidentally hit play on their music app, and a cheerful beach song about dancing blasted out, only making the mood even more miserable than before.
-Can we just get out of here already? a girl nearby complained. -I’m so done with this. If that guy lifts his armpit one more time, I’ll open the doors myself.
-I agree with her, Nadya whispered to Yan. -We need to get out too—and find Mom and Dad.
The boy clenched something tightly in his fist. When his sister gave him a questioning look, he shook his head: Not showing you. It’s mine.
-I really wanna see Mom. But it’s so loud out there! I can’t… I just wanna hide. he whimpered.
-It’s okay… I get it, his sister comforted him. -You’re not the only one who’s scared. Look at the adults—they’re terrified too. But if we don’t get out while it’s quiet, Mom and Dad might get lost somewhere.
Yan suddenly straightened up, his face serious.
-Then we have to go. Without us, they won’t find the way home. They don’t know how to walk anywhere, they only know how to drive back and forth in the car.
Nadya hid a smile and motioned toward the exit, where the mass of people was already pressing forward. The heavy metal doors of the bomb shelter groaned open. A flood of light poured in so sharp that the brave girl—the one who first suggested leaving—actually screamed.
-Close your eyes and just hold my hand. I’ll lead us out.
Yan squeezed his eyes shut and, like a puppet on a string, followed his sister. She quickly slipped a light jacket over him, then threw on her own too, because the light wasn’t the only problem waiting outside.
-Damn… it feels weird! After that furnace, it’s spring again. And it’s not even that hot yet.
-Yeah, you’re right. But for us—it’s always summer. Doesn’t matter. Nadya followed the line of people creeping slowly up from the basement toward the first floor. The battered staircase shook under their feet, ready to collapse right then and there.
-This place hasn’t been repaired since the Soviet times, explained the kind old woman who’d defended Yan earlier. -As long as I can remember, these stairs already looked old.
-Guess so… Nadya said, just to say something. Ahead of Yan was that same little bastard, trying to kick him whenever he could. But Yan was nimble, dodging every cheap shot—though he couldn’t dodge the dirt flung from the boy’s shoes.
And then—finally, the exit.
Well, almost. First the lobby, though honestly it wasn’t much of a loss.
This was her building’s entrance hall, and Nadya knew every detail: the walls gouged out piece by piece with keys, covered with crude scribbles. Now whole slabs had fallen off, far more than any hooligans could manage.
And there—the elevator doors. Once brown, now warped and melted.
She hated that elevator. It had trapped her more times than she could count, always on the third floor, like the building had a curse. Some mechanism jammed there, leaving her swinging in the dark on a frayed cable. The cabin shuddered rhythmically—tick-tock, like a broken clock you can’t throw away.
She remembered sitting there, pressing her lips to the tiny slit between the stuck doors, gasping for air, peeking one eye out at the landing where people only came to smoke. And, of course, at those moments nobody was ever there. All she could do was hammer the call button, or pound it with her fists.
Did the repair guys ever come? Hell no. Maybe they wanted to, but the transmitter was as dead as the elevator.
Bad luck, every damn time.
So you’d scream. But no one heard—or worse, they ignored you. Fine. You’d sit on the filthy floor, covered in spit and ashes, and wait. And the fact she was standing here now, walking out of a bomb shelter, meant she had survived that prison once… only to step into another one.
She had always dreamed of leaving this place for good. Begged her parents so many times. But their jobs, their whole lives, were tied to this city. So all she could do was sit and watch YouTube, escaping into distant, beautiful worlds.
Shaking off those thoughts, she pulled herself—and her brother—outside. They squeezed past Inna, the neighbor who always wore that oversized fashionable jacket, her symbol of wealth and status, blocking the hallway like a damn barricade.
Nadya shoved her aside, sneezing after her nose brushed the puffed sleeve, then finally broke free.
And there it was—freedom.
Under their feet stretched a valley of shattered glass, carpeting the asphalt. Yan crouched down, mesmerized by his own distorted reflections.
-Wow! There are hundreds of me! And each one looks different! Some even handsome.
-Not now, little brother—come on, we have to run to the theater. Mom and Dad will be there.
She tugged his hand—gentle enough not to hurt him, but firm enough to make him move. She sped up, keeping her eyes everywhere, front and back. That was Nadya—focused, sharp, and honestly… pissed off. How else do you survive in Donbas? Sing songs?
