Ash falls from the sky. The surrounding mountains are outlined by bright flames, exaggerating their shadowy, foreboding figures against a dwindling dusk backdrop, stooped over as if observing the carnage below. People scramble to leave the town below as they hurriedly load their belongings into their cars. The fire leaps down the mountains from one patch to another; its aimless devastation looks almost playful. Only one shop is open today—a bakery. Inside sits Pépé, and across from him, the baker.
Pépé zones out while staring at his phone—no signal—then looks out the window and sighs at the calamity. He turns to face the baker, opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, frowning out the window instead. The baker coughs and wipes his sweaty brow; after a moment, he forces a toothless grin as he asks, “What can I do for you?” He hesitates, then repeats, “What can I do for you, sir?” Pépé sits silently, staring quietly out the window. The baker follows his gaze, then comments, “It’s been this way, but this is the worst I’ve seen it.” He scratches his scalp, then motions outside, “Don’t you want to leave?” His eyes flicker towards the security camera on the wall before he mumbles, “I should probably go soon…” Pépé closes his eyes and rests his head in his arms, attempting to block the noise outside. “We’ve been here a while. Sure you don’t know what you want?” the baker asks, but then notices something strange behind the counter: the security camera light has turned off; it’s angled down and appears powerless. Suddenly, the baker rushes to the storefront, locking the door and closing the blinds—letting only a small amount of light inside through their cracks. A strange look crossed his face as he whirls to face Pépé.
A group of civilians breaks into a convenience store. They’re a motley crew: young and old; white and brown; tall and short; religious and agnostic; gay and straight. They help each other enter the store, searching for food and water. A few with access to cellphone service urge the others to hurry: weather reports warn that an approaching windstorm will cross paths with the fire, pushing its consumption rate into overdrive as it races towards the city. Teleprompts present what-if scenarios to cars as they leave the town: straddle the West Coast and risk running into a hurricane, or head east and take on the twisters that continue tearing up the countryside.
“I know you’re odd, probably have no idea, nor have you been ‘round much, but you need to listen.” The baker points out the window, “You know you’re causing those storms, right?” The baker eyes Pépé before answering himself, “They probably won’t tell you anything, so no.” He shakes his head, then ducks to hide from another drone flying by. It’s chasing a screaming pedestrian who’s managed to catch herself on fire while attempting to throw a Molotov cocktail. “You’re being watched—” Another explosion, this one even closer, rumbles underfoot, interrupting the baker; he pauses for a moment to consider his next sentence, then continues while nodding in Pépé’s direction, “You’re basically Albert.” He chuckles and adds, “Not Einstein, mind you, but the first monkey who went to space.” He pantomimes a rocket blasting into orbit with his hand before making an explosion sound and chuckling to himself. Pépé appears flustered as the baker starts rolling out a lump of dough. “Everybody else had to sit and watch; they took nearly everything to run their little experiment. What I enjoyed most were the explanations: ‘It’s to protect us from threats overseas; it will help us catch criminals; it’s no different from trackers on your phone.’” The baker nods to himself while looking down at his dough, “A great way to waste time and money if you ask me: running all those servers, usin’ all that fuel, to know everything about just you! Apparently they couldn’t collect anyone else’s data with our current resources. So, they’ve been sharing your information with us to demonstrate the power of their technology.” Pépé starts towards the door before the baker asks, this time with a sense of finality, “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”
Somebody shouts outside after a car nearly runs them over; the passing vehicle swerves from side to side before hitting the curb and running headfirst into a fire station. Shortly after, the driver climbs out of the driver’s side window, grabs a discarded fire truck hose, and pretends to put out the fire—laughing maniacally at others honking their horns as they pass. Eventually, the drones descend, subduing the miscreants with a gel that binds them to their surroundings and expands, incapacitating them. Their muffled shouts fade as the gel expands around their mouths and nostrils, leaving enough room to breathe but restricting their voices.
Pépé turns around. The baker nods, “Yes. It’s true that I, along with the rest of the world, like it or not, know that the yeast in this dough will produce carbon dioxide after they enter this hot oven. And the yeast don’t seem to mind; although they might mind after the oven gets too hot…” Another explosion nearby rattles the windows. The baker points outside the cracked windows, “Their spirits are down, see, and I don’t think it’s because of the impending storm.” Looking over at Pépé, whose face has grown weary listening to his tirade, the baker nods understandingly, asking himself, “How would I feel if I realized that I’m as predictable as the yeast in this dough? And everyone else knows about it? Whew, I can’t imagine.” The open oven spills heat into the room and bathes the baker in a warm orange hue, much like the yellow-ish light that flickers between the cracks in the shades. He pulls out a few croissants: one almond, the other chocolate, the last plain. “I wanted you to know the truth, see. Now, we have three very tasty croissants here.” The baker quickly glances at the camera, then whispers, “They may know what you’ll do, but if they’re not feeding us that information right now, maybe this’ll feel a bit more like a choice?” Pépé considers his options for a moment, then, smiling for the first time, he points to the chocolate croissant. “Ah, I thought you might choose chocolate,” said the baker, smiling cheekily and winking, “But I can’t know for sure!” The two enjoy their croissants before Pépé heads back outside into the chaos, and the camera’s lights flicker on as it comes online.