في عصر قديم، عاشَتْ أسطورة موسى وشهيرة الشهيرة، الجميلة والأنيقة. لم تكن حياته مجرد قصة عادية، بل كانت كالحكايات الساحرة التي تجذب القلوب والعقول. ولد لهما ابن، سماه موسى، كما ورد في السجلات القديمة. ولكن هل كانت نهاية القصة؟ لا، بالطبع لا. لأن في عالم الخيال والحكايات، كل شيء ممكن، حتى السحر والمفاجآت الغير متوقعة. فلنتابع القصة ونرى ما الذي يخبئه المستقبل لموسى ولسعيه إلى السعادة في عالم سحري وخيالي
¡We🔥Come!
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Click the image for a quick introduction.
My dear princess of Lebanon!
This is the last time I place a letter in your mailbox. The roads have grown dangerous, and the whispers I once found enchanting are now warning of shadows beyond the old cedar grove. But I promised to write until my hand, weary though it is, could bear no more. And so, under the pale stars of a moonless night, I trace these final words.
To be, or not to be—the faint, transparent line
Between the mannequins' world and those who feign
At life, who breathe but barely more than glass—
Can only fracture, shatter, break at last
For one who sees no borders in the jail
Of life, nor lies in promises that fail,
No difference twixt living flesh and cage,
Twixt schoolroom oaths and traitors cloaked in sage.
The time has come, perhaps, to teach anew;
He tires of seats where mocking shadows stew,
Where each attempt to bridge that social void
Is met with sneers, his solitude deployed.
A something missed, elusive, slips away,
A silence dwells within each gaze's play—
Oh, silent stares he knows too well, that taunt
With bitter smiles of scorn and a reproach gaunt.
If mannequins but spoke, what tales they’d share
Of laughter, spite, and wistful, vacant stares.
The lonely watcher of these frozen forms
Remembers moments rare as summer storms,
When mannequins would mutter, faint and low,
As if the world they saw could overthrow
Their placid truth, when life itself seemed strange,
And static beings sensed a subtle change.
His bag a butterfly, mid-flight, unfurled,
Explodes into this jaded, veiled world,
A vision larger, sharper, finely bold—
Beyond the glass, it finds the bright and cold
Fields where the flowers bloom, their colors bright,
Unknowing of its own short, fragile flight.
These mannequins forget their shapeless past,
When plastic blobs were molded to the cast
And sculpted by the hands of chemistry,
In forms the sculptor’s only eye could see.
Is there a word, a whisper, deft and sly,
To stir such hollow beings with a sigh,
And make them wonder, doubt, perhaps ask why?
👄🪬🫦
Не выходи из витрины, твой мир —
В стеклянной тюрьме, в тумане из света,
Твой образ — наряд, твой плен — сувенир,
Ты — вечный молчальник без слова ответа.
Накинь на плечи привычный наряд,
Скрой пустоту, чтобы верить в личину.
Ты создан, чтоб платьем пленить женский взгляд,
Но взгляд без души — всего лишь картина.
Тебя, как скульптуру, хранит теснота,
Как прах вековых неизменных законов,
Смирись — ведь ни воли, ни смысла, ни сна
Не ведают формы глухих полигониев.
Они надевали тебе этот шёлк,
Эти брюки, застёгнуты на тебя строго,
Чтоб ты в их приказе, как раб и истолк,
Стоял средь витрин, не мечтая о многом.
Ты — образ пустой, ты безликий чурбан,
В стеклянном стоишь ты под светом, как в клетке,
Ты маска без права на личный обман,
Ты шепот чужих суетливых заметок.
👄❤️🫦
Темной ночью по лондонским улицам раздаются звуки битого стекла. Манекены в дорогих костюмах и платьях один за другим прорываются сквозь витрины, оставляя осколки и ошеломлённых прохожих позади. Хозяева магазинов, охваченные паникой, тщетно пытаются остановить их — но это не просто манекены. Это совершенные роботы, запрограммированные, как выяснилось, на возвращение в Техас, на свою фабрику.
Сцена: Королевский дворец, вход
Антони, ведущий программист и загадочный хакер из Бельгии, жаждет передать срочный доклад о восстании манекенов Ее Величеству. Но путь ему преграждает Королевская охрана.
Антони:
Let me through! I have crucial information for the Queen herself. It’s about the mannequins, they’re no ordinary robots—Ilon’s tech, no less! I must—
Королевский охранник (сдерживая Антони, говорит в стихах):
Hold on, lad, slow your feet, know where you stand,
In this hallowed hall, by the Queen’s command.
A mannequin’s charge may seem quite dire,
But rushing the gates, mate, lights no fire.
Tradition here breathes through thick and thin,
Since wars long past and threats to kin.
When blitzes rained and Paris fell,
We kept our calm, we served her well.
So stay your talk and check your plea,
For here, lad, it’s the ceremony.
Антони (задерживая дыхание, немного сбитый с толку):
But don’t you see? These mannequins aren’t just out of control—they’re advancing, and they’re well-equipped! This is bigger than some malfunction!
Королевский охранник:
Oh, lad, you’re keen, but not yet wise,
Through war and peace, we’ve seen surprise.
Back when old France thought flight was nigh,
And London saw black in the sky,
These stones held fast, our swords held true,
No mannequin stirs our royal view.
You think, by stormin' here, you're tough?
This palace, son, made of sterner stuff.
Антони (упорствуя):
Look, I’ve studied the code—they’re homing in on Texas! Something is off, either a glitch or sabotage. You must let me in!
Королевский охранник (смеётся и качает головой):
A Belgian stormin' the Queen’s own gate,
With code in hand and talk of fate!
You think these halls be made of glass?
They've weathered foes and winds that pass.
When press cried doom, when France near fell,
Tradition stood where chaos dwelled.
You’ve learnt a thing or two in school,
But palace ways make kings of fools.
Mind your place, lad, be steady and learn,
Our ways withstand, in stone they burn.
The guard leans closer, voice low and steady.
So take your tale and hold it tight—
For even the bold know when to fight.
If these walls outlasted history’s might,
Your mannequin tale will fade in the night.
Королевский охранник (последняя реплика):
Now off with you, to your lessons past—
The Queen’s guard here, they stand steadfast.
And mind me well, young Belgian keen,
These halls are more than might be seen.
Think on your schooling, weak links and all,
A single crack can break the wall.
But here? Stone deep, since battles anew—
Now, back off, lad, your plea’s through and through.
Антони остается на месте, понемногу осознавая, что слова охранника не просто приказ, а глубокое напоминание о стойкости и чести — таких, что ни одна бегущая армия манекенов не сможет поколебать.
Scene: The White House, where preparations are underway for a high-stakes visit. Elon Musk is set to deliver a briefing on the rise of mannequins—creations originally designed to entertain passersby with fashionable outfits, gestures, and playful interactions, but which have now taken on a life of their own.
The walls are adorned with portraits of past U.S. presidents: Nixon, Kennedy, Reagan. Biden, still President, and Blinken, still Secretary of State, stand beneath these portraits, engaged in a thoughtful conversation.
Biden:
You know, Tony, I keep looking at those faces on the wall, the men who shaped this country. Each one of them faced their own crises, their own calls to preserve our future. And here we are, with Musk and… well, Trump. President-Elect Musk, I mean.
Blinken:
Yes, sir. Strange times. I wonder if they ever imagined that we’d have to reckon with something like this—machines meant for entertainment, mannequins, deciding to stand on their own two feet. And then there’s Musk himself… I don’t think anyone saw this coming.
Biden:
You know, some folks say we’ve lost our way. That America’s become more about tech profits than anything else. National security doesn’t mean what it used to, not with Silicon Valley holding the cards. It’s like security’s just another term for “profits.”
Blinken:
And those profits are for the few, not the many. Musk and Trump, with all their ambitions… do you think they can handle the pace of change? Our future depends on it, Joe. Our position, our role in the world—it’s all in flux now. And Musk, well, he’s a visionary, but is he grounded enough to steer this ship?
Biden (glancing at the portraits):
Each of these men had to adapt, to look beyond what was right in front of them. But it’s a different world now, Tony. Tech doesn’t adapt to us; we adapt to it. It’s as if we’re in the middle of a storm, and we can’t see where it’s taking us.
Blinken:
The storm of technology, yes, but it’s more than that. It’s about power—real power. If Musk and Trump can focus not just on their legacies, but on the nation, maybe, just maybe, we stand a chance. But if it’s only about profit margins and market shares…
Biden (nodding slowly):
Then America’s future might look a lot more like those mannequins—empty shells, controlled by whoever’s holding the remote.
The two men fall silent, contemplating the walls around them, the legacy of America, and the uncertain future awaiting them. The White House, a place of history and tradition, seems to hold its breath as it prepares to welcome the whirlwind force of Elon Musk.
Scene: Inside the cockpit of the C-5M Super Galaxy. The cargo bay below is loaded with an unusual shipment—rows of mannequins, neatly dressed in high-fashion outfits, standing silently as if awaiting further orders. General Thompson of the U.S. Space Force sits behind the pilots, watching the surreal cargo on the monitors.
Captain Rogers (glancing at the monitor feed from the cargo hold):
You know, sir, I still can’t wrap my head around how these things managed to end up on a military base in Saudi Arabia. One minute the base is clear, and the next—poof!—they’re just standing there in the sand, all lined up like they’re ready for deployment.
Lieutenant Jones (smirking):
And to top it off, they’re claiming their boss is none other than Elon Musk. Talk about dedication to the role! These mannequins have been trained well, it seems.
General Thompson (frowning, studying the feed):
I don’t like it. They’re just supposed to be mannequins—retail displays, glorified dummies. But they appear out of nowhere in a warzone and demand transport to Texas? That’s no ordinary operation. And if they’re programmed, who’s giving the commands?
Captain Rogers:
They kept saying, “We belong to Elon Musk. We must return to Texas to the place where we belong.” Over and over, like they’re stuck on repeat. But Musk or no Musk, how did they get in? Last I checked, fashion dolls aren’t authorized for entry on a military base.
Lieutenant Jones (with a nervous chuckle):
Maybe Musk has invented some kind of… I don’t know, underground mannequin express? They do seem to have come right out of the sand. Could be that the guy’s testing some bizarre new desert navigation tech.
General Thompson (thoughtful):
It’s possible. But regardless of the technology, if they’re following orders from Musk himself, there might be more at play here. Maybe it’s some strange corporate ploy, or maybe he’s testing us—seeing if we’ll comply with his orders even when they come in the form of a bunch of hollow shells.
Captain Rogers:
What’s weird, sir, is how they’re dressed. You’d expect some tactical gear or at least plain clothes, but these mannequins are in high-end fashion—some of them look straight off the runway! It’s like a twisted joke: well-dressed mannequins, ready for battle but without an ounce of practicality.
General Thompson:
Maybe that’s the idea. Send something unexpected, make a statement, confuse the enemy. But still, if they really “belong” in Texas, like they keep saying, I don’t see why Musk wouldn’t just send a convoy. Instead, he’s putting on this eerie display.
Lieutenant Jones:
And what do we do if they… I don’t know… start moving on their own?
General Thompson (sternly):
Then we follow protocol, Jones. They’re cargo. They get delivered to the designated coordinates in Texas, and that’s it. No deviations. Until we know more, we handle this like any other mission. But keep a close eye on them… something tells me this cargo isn’t as lifeless as it looks.
As the C-5M flies on through the night, the mannequins stand perfectly still in the cargo bay, their pristine clothing and unsettling silence casting an unusual and ominous shadow across the mission. The crew can’t shake the feeling that they’re delivering more than just lifeless figures to Texas—and that Musk’s mannequins might yet have more surprises in store.
Scène : À bord d’un Airbus de France Air, classe économique, sur le vol Paris-Beyrouth.
Les passagers commencent à s’installer, sortant du "couloir magique" qui les a conduits ici, comme autant de personnages venus de mondes différents pour embarquer dans cette aventure partagée. Ils entrent, un à un, avec la maîtrise subtile des cinquante nuances de "Bonjour" : un sourire pour le steward, un hochement de tête pour l'hôtesse, et parfois, un petit geste de la main, en guise de salut. Ce sont des voyageurs chevronnés, habitués à cet étrange rituel d’installation. Valises calées, magazines distribués, et bagages ajustés, chacun prend sa place dans cet Airbus prêt à traverser les frontières et les océans.
L’attention de l’équipage, toutefois, se focalise sur un passager de la 12ème rangée. Un jeune homme aux allures de Parisien aventurier, vêtu d’une chemise en lin blanc impeccablement retroussée aux manches, qui laisse entrevoir un bronzage subtil. Par-dessus, une veste en denim soigneusement usée, lui donnant cet air détendu et calculé qu’adoptent les explorateurs modernes. Autour de son cou pend une chaîne discrète, tandis qu’un jean foncé parfaitement ajusté et des baskets blanches minimalistes complètent son look “Paris Summer 2024”. À côté de lui, une valise à roulettes handmade en toile brute, usée mais raffinée, porte les marques de nombreux voyages — preuve qu’il n’est pas à sa première escapade.
Alors que l’avion prend enfin de l'altitude, le jeune homme enfile tranquillement ses écouteurs sans fil, apparemment insensible aux consignes strictes qui résonnent encore dans la cabine. Cette petite audace attire immédiatement l’œil des membres de l’équipage.
Marc (chef de cabine, observant ses collègues en jetant un regard vers la 12ème rangée) :
Eh bien, mesdames, regardez notre jeune rebelle là-bas… Il a sorti ses écouteurs comme s'il se trouvait dans un café de Saint-Germain, sans se soucier du monde autour. Peut-être un Parisien en quête d'aventure, ou bien un de ces gars qui pensent que les règles sont faites pour les autres.
Sophie (hôtesse de l’air, en ajustant son foulard aux couleurs de France Air) :
Il a du style, je l’admets. Presque trop de style pour un simple voyageur. Mais vous avez raison, chef… il y a un petit quelque chose de théâtral dans sa manière d'être.
Nadia (riant doucement) :
On dirait qu'il veut qu'on le remarque. Il est là, comme une petite star, à défier tranquillement les consignes. Peut-être qu’il s’attend à ce qu’on vienne lui rappeler les règles...
Marc (avec un sourire malicieux, regardant Sophie et Nadia) :
Eh bien, mesdames, il est temps de jouer la scène. Sophie, à toi l’honneur. Une petite “chute accidentelle” juste à côté de lui, histoire de lui faire comprendre que ses écouteurs peuvent attendre un peu. Après tout, les consignes, elles, sont pour tout le monde.
Sophie (avec un clin d'œil) :
Considère-le fait, chef. Un petit “accident” tout à fait innocent.
Sophie se lève, se dirigeant dans l’allée avec une démarche élégante mais naturelle, bien décidée à accomplir sa mission. Les autres hôtesses échangent un sourire complice, ajustant une dernière fois leurs foulards tricolores. Dans cette cabine où chaque geste est chorégraphié, le jeune homme ne se doute pas qu’il est devenu le centre de cette scène soigneusement orchestrée par l’équipage. Sans un mot, l’équipage s’apprête à lui transmettre le message—avec l’élégance française et un léger clin d’œil à la discipline aérienne.
