Nouvelles Vagues 1

“The government should...”

Kylian Mourvan hesitated for a moment. Although the situation was quite unique, he was perfectly aware of what was at stake. He knew that his next words would decide the fate of many people. But not only.

Despite his 32 years, his face still bore traces of a puberty that must have been long and painful, and not just in relation to the pool changing rooms (it wasn't his fault the water was cold). A few persistent acne pimples grazed his face, which was otherwise scarred. Hormones hadn't exactly worked in his favor, it seemed. He could feel the presenter's gaze on him, awaiting his answer, as well as that of his rival in the presidential elections, Patrique Buchard.

Like an old hand, the latter thought the game was up, because he was convinced that nobody would ever vote for a Kylian. However, he had a great deal of respect for his opponent, as his career path and ascent had been meteoric. The young man had come out of nowhere and caused him a few palpitations after his score in the first round, but Patrique knew that his experience was in his favor, and he could already see himself at the top of the bill. The debate had gone in his favor, and to see his opponent hesitate like that before answering was reassuring. Still, he was curious to know what the kid's response would be.

The kid in question took a deep breath, gave himself a little air and loosened his tie slightly, emblazoned with a multitude of Super Goof (serious but fun, that was his credo. Besides, Super Dingo drew his power from peanuts, and that was a vision of the world that Kylian liked a lot; not to mention the fact that it reminded him of his uncle, who had made the fortune of the equivalent of the PMU bar where he came from, feeding himself almost exclusively on peanuts, leaning against the counter) and put on a determined air that Patrique didn't remember seeing on him this evening.

“The government should... Tell the truth,” Kylian replied with a big smile. And nothing else.

Across from him, Patrique was a little taken aback. He'd been expecting something else, perhaps a long sentence to say the same thing differently, simply using other, more complicated words, using long sentences to talk without really saying anything important. In short, to behave like a politician! He knew full well that he and his caste would go straight up the wall if people started to really understand what they were saying. They'd see the void.

At that moment, his instincts told him something was wrong. He was supposed to be in control of everything going on around him, especially the person he was talking to. He was very good at this, and was usually always one or two steps ahead of events. But this he hadn't seen coming. Nor did he see what was going to happen next.

The presenter left a short silence, no more than five or six seconds, but it was rare enough in television to be noted. Kylian's answer wasn't the usual blah-blah, and it's fair to say that in his 37-year TV career, Michel Ballutin had heard some blah-blah. This wasn't his first rodeo, as they say in Texas. He was a little taken aback, but, being the consummate professional that he was, quickly pulled himself together. He glanced discreetly at Patrique Buchard, saw a drop of sweat beading his balding forehead, and turned his attention back to Kylian. He asked him again.

“Mr. Mourvan, that's a fine note of intent, certainly, but you can't leave it at that. What do you mean by that? Do you think the government is hiding things from the French people?”

Kylian smiled briefly and blew out his nose, as young people do today, before answering LOL.

“Listen, Mr. Ballutin, you know as well as I do that the question isn't even whether the government is hiding things from us, but rather what they're hiding from us...”

Patrique jumped at the chance. He couldn't afford to miss such an opportunity for indignation.

“Come on, M. Mourvan, are you really going to take us to these fanciful territories? The French have real problems, sir! People are starving in the streets! Misery is on our doorstep! The end of the month is difficult! The people are suffering! They're counting on us to save them! And you want to prevent us from tackling these fundamental problems, by making us waste our time dealing with this nonsense? Is that so? It's disgraceful! Conspiracy? The Illuminati? What's next, little green men?”

Patrique Buchard had hammered away at the debate table, chanting these last words in an incensed tone. He was really very good at his role, and was proud to have embodied the people's anger so promptly. It was a bit demagogic, admittedly, but for him, the end justified the means. Like 98% of politicians, he wasn't particularly concerned with the fate of the people. But the coveted position was a good one, so he'd pulled out all the stops to make sure he was on the top step of the podium, even if it meant going to great lengths to make the teeming masses understand that he was on their side, that he shared their anger and indignation.

Michel Ballutin, for his part, couldn't believe the turn the debate had just taken. Little Kylian, as he secretly called him, had just made a terrible mistake by broaching such a subject. His previously faultless career was now over, ridiculed and beaten to a pulp by his ruthless opponent.

Still, the presenter had mixed feelings. At one and the same time, he was delighted that the debate had gone the way it had, because he knew the audience would be good, and that was good for business. But on the other hand, he felt sorry for Kylian. It was a live massacre. Kylian Mourvan couldn't get over it.

Patrique's scathing response should have silenced him forever, drowning him in heaps of shame and ridicule, triggering a public apology and permanent withdrawal from all political life.

But to the great surprise of the debate host and his guest, who fancied himself a fine politician, this was not the case.

Quite the contrary, in fact.

Much to Patrique's displeasure, Kylian smiled again, and sighed as he stared into his rival's eyes. Patrique didn't like the look on his face at all. He'd beaten him, he wasn't supposed to react like that. He was supposed to get down on his knees. And cry. But not smile as if he knew the end of the joke.

“Since you're on the subject, Mr. Buchard, you should know that they're not all green.” He punctuated his sentence with a wink, the oddity of which took Patrique some time to perceive, but which caused Mr. Ballutin a great stir, his face contorting strangely somewhere between fright and surprise.

Ignoring the look of incomprehension that was beginning to spread across Buchard's face, Kylian turned to the camera, and proceeded to undo his tie completely. He pulled at the collar of his shirt to undo the first button, and inserted his hand under his neck.

Then, with a sharp tug, he ripped off what had been his face, revealing to the world a face the likes of which he'd never seen before. The mask in fact concealed a purple skin pulled over a bony face, with no apparent nostrils, but with a mouth opening fitted with a dozen or so tentacles with claws at the ends, now gesticulating like overcooked spaghetti having an epileptic fit in a blender. This nightmarish vision was topped by two eyes, curiously unchanged from before. Except that they were blinking vertically.

The television broadcast of the debate was interrupted a few moments later, putting a happy end to the cries of existential horror uttered by Mr. Buchard and the entire technical team present on the set.

Some claim that, amid the ensuing chaos, they saw Michel Ballutin tear off his own face, while tentacled appendages let out these few words:

“My son!”