The Emperor's New Clothes

The agency "The Weavers" agency did not deal in textiles. Hans and Christina were conceptualists, specialists in reality management. Their office was sterile white, just like their reputation.

The Emperor (and in our version — the President, whose rule had dragged on for thirty years, and the title of Emperor fitted him perfectly) received them in a closed bunker. He was old, cynical, and suffered from paranoia.

— "I need something special for the Independence Day parade," he said, drumming his fingers on the table. — "Ratings are falling. The people are whispering. I need a symbol."

— "We don't sew clothes, Your Majesty," Hans answered softly. — "We sew loyalty."

 — "We offer you a fabric made of the 'Matter of Pure Truth'," Christina chimed in. — "Its unique property is that it is invisible to traitors, fools, and those who are not in their rightful place. Only a true patriot can see it."

The Emperor stopped drumming his fingers and slowly smiled. He understood perfectly well that there was no fabric. But he understood something else: this was the perfect filter.

— "How much?" he asked.

— "Half the treasury. And carte blanche."

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ACT I. INFORMATION SEEDING (THE LOOM)

The media exploded. All channels spoke around the clock about "nano-fabric," "quantum fiber," and "spiritual bonds" woven into the pattern. In the workshops allocated to "The Weavers," empty looms stood. Hans and Christina drank champagne and pretended to sort through invisible threads.

The first to come with an inspection was the Minister of Defense — an old soldier who had been through three wars. He entered the workshop and froze: only empty frames stood before him. 

Cold sweat ran down his back. "I don't see the fabric," raced through his head. "Does that mean I am a fool? Or am I a traitor? If I say there is nothing, I will be shot tomorrow."

— "Well, how do you like the pattern, General?" Hans asked insinuatingly, pointing into the void.

— "It is... magnificent," the minister squeezed out, wiping his forehead. — "Especially this... gold piping. I will report to the Emperor that the army is delighted."

The system worked. Fear was a better glue than truth.

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ACT II. THE FITTING (LOYALTY TEST)

The day of the parade arrived. The Emperor  stood in the middle of his dressing room before a huge mirror in only his underwear. "The Weavers" bustled around, putting air on him.

— "Careful with the mantle, Your Majesty, it is very heavy," Christina warned, pretending to spread out the train.

The Emperor looked in the mirror and saw an old, flabby body, sagging skin, blue veins. He was naked. But the retinue behind his back — advisors, generals, ambassadors — gasped with delight.

— "What a style!" — "How it fits!" — "It is divine!"

Through the mirror, the Emperor looked into the eyes of each of them. In their gazes, he read animal terror. They lied because they were afraid. And if they are afraid to say that he is naked, it means they will remain silent when he signs any decree. Whether for an execution or for a war. This was absolute power. Power over reality.

— "I am ready," said the Emperor and walked out onto the balcony.

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ACT III. THE PARADE (COLLECTIVE PSYCHOSIS)

The square was packed with people, tens of thousands of citizens. When the Emperor appeared before them absolutely naked, silence hung over the square. For a split second, people froze. Everyone saw a naked old man. And everyone thought: "Have I gone crazy? Or am I a traitor?".

No one wanted to be a traitor.

— "Long live the Emperor!" someone shouted in the front row.

— "What a dress!" the crowd picked up. — "Glory to the tailors!"

And the stronger the fear of those gathered in the square, the louder they shouted. They convinced themselves that they saw gold and velvet. It was mass self-hypnosis, cemented by the instinct of self-preservation.

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FINALE. THE FIRST VICTIM

A little boy sat on the shoulders of his father, who was standing in the crowd. He did not go to school yet, did not read newspapers, and did not know what a "state order" was. The toddler saw a funny naked old man.

— "But the Emperor is naked!" he shouted ringingly, pointing his finger. — "Look, his belly is hanging!"

The child's laughter cut through the roar of the crowd. The silence returned, but now it was different — ringing, dangerous. Someone giggled. Someone began to see clearly. Reality cracked.

The Emperor heard the murmur of the crowd and stopped. He looked at the boy, and there was not a drop of shame in his gaze, only cold calculation. He nodded to the head of security.

— "This boy is sick!" the announcer's voice thundered from the speakers. — "He has hallucinations caused by enemy propaganda! He does not see the Truth!"

— "Poor child," the crowd began to whisper, recoiling from the father and son. — "He is infected."

Men in plain clothes were already making their way towards them. The father was struck with a rifle butt; the boy's mouth was clamped shut. They were dragged into a black van to the approving hum of the citizens, rejoicing that the "infection" had been eliminated.

The Emperor continued the procession: he walked naked, but now he was clad in armor made of shared fear and lies. And this armor was stronger than any steel.