The interior of a high-tech ice fishing hut hums with the sound of electronics and a propane heater, creating a fragile bubble of warmth against the stark, frozen expanse of a desolate lake under a flat grey sky.
The upload speed is garbage. Two red bars. That’s all we get.
“I’m throttling the bitrate down to 720p,” I say, tapping at the laptop screen. The plastic keys are cold. “It’s gonna look like pixelated trash.”
Chad shakes his head, framing a shot with his hands. He’s wearing a brand-new parka, the color of a highlighter. It still has the creases from the box. “Doesn’t matter. Authenticity trumps quality. It’s about the message, Steve. We’re bearing witness to the corporate degradation of our sacred wild spaces.”
He’s aiming his finger-camera at a sponsored cooler. Behind him, Brayden fumbles with the gas-powered ice auger, the engine sputtering like a wet cough. The whole hut, a flimsy pop-up tent bolted to a plastic sled, smells like gasoline and recycled fleece.
“The 2025 carbon tax is just a corporate handout masquerading as policy,” Chad says, his voice dropping into the smooth, serious tone he uses for the camera. He’s practicing. “They tax the consumer, while giants like Petro-Synth get subsidies to continue their ecocide. It’s a performance.”
The irony is so thick I could choke on it. He checks his reflection in the dark screen of his phone. Brayden finally gets the auger started with a roar that makes the whole hut vibrate. He trips over a coil of charging cables, and the auger’s fuel can tips, a glug of gasoline splashing onto the ice floor. The rainbow sheen spreads instantly.
“Dude!” I shout over the engine noise.
Brayden kills the motor. The sudden silence is jarring. He looks at the spreading puddle, then at Chad, his eyes wide. “My bad.”
Chad sighs, a long, performative exhalation of disappointment. “Brand integrity, Brayden. We can’t have a toxic spill in the middle of a conservation stream.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just… just kick some snow over it before we go live. And don’t get it on the NorthRidge boots. They haven’t approved the product placement shot yet.”
Brayden nods, kicking slush over the gasoline with the toe of his expensive, unblemished boot. The chemical smell gets sharper. He gives a thumbs-up. Problem solved.
We go live. Chad is a master. He talks about ice-melt particulates and generational responsibility while the chat scrolls by with flame emojis and comments about his jacket. It’s going okay, I guess. The bitrate holds. But the engagement is flat.
“We need a viral moment,” Chad whispers to me, covering his mic. “Something real. Primal.” His eyes scan the hut, then the frozen world outside the clear plastic window. He spots the row of icicles hanging from the hut’s roof.
“Brayden,” Chad says, his broadcaster smile back in place. “They say that before the industrial revolution, you could drink the water right from the earth. Pure. Untouched.”
Brayden, who thinks Fiji water is camping, just nods along. “Totally.”
“I dare you to taste one,” Chad says, pointing at a thick, yellow-tinged icicle. “Taste the planet. For the stream.”
Brayden’s eyes light up. A dare. The core of his personal brand. He unzips the hut door, letting in a blast of brutal, clean-smelling cold. He breaks off the icicle and brings it inside. The chat starts scrolling faster. He looks at the camera, gives a stupid grin, and licks the icicle from base to tip.
His face changes. The grin cramps. He makes a gagging sound. He doubles over, clutching his stomach, and vomits onto the floor. It’s a violent, full-body heave. The stream is now broadcasting a close-up of Brayden retching up his breakfast burrito next to the snow-covered gas spill.
I cut the feed.
“What the hell, Chad?” I yell, backing away from the mess.
“It’s authentic!” he says, his eyes wild with the thrill of it. “It’s a metaphor! The planet is rejecting us! This is perfect!”
Brayden is still groaning on the floor when the tip-up alarm shrieks. It’s one of those smart-reels that sends a notification to your phone. A fish. A big one, judging by the way the line is screaming off the spool.
Forgetting Brayden entirely, Chad scrambles for the rod. He fights it for ten minutes, grunting and posing for his phone, which I’m now holding, recording the whole thing for B-roll. He hauls it up through the hole in the ice. It’s huge. Easily three feet long, but it’s the wrong color. A pale, almost translucent white, with milky blue eyes. It flops on the ice, its gills working silently. It looks sick.
“Monster catch!” Chad bellows, holding it up. “Look at the size of this thing!”
“We should release it,” I say, lowering the phone. “It looks… wrong. Releasing it is better for the brand. Hashtag catch-and-release, hashtag eco-warriors.”
Chad glares at me, the fish struggling in his grip. “Are you kidding? The engagement on a trophy pic would be insane. Hashtag monster-catch, hashtag lake-beast. It’s a new vertical.”
“It’s off-brand!” I shoot back. “We’re conservationists, not bass pros!”
“We’re whatever the algorithm wants us to be!” he screams, his face red. He shoves the fish towards me to make a point. I step back, bumping into the propane heater.
It wobbles. For a second, it just balances there on one leg, a metal flamingo. Then it tips. The red-hot grille makes contact with the hut’s plastic floor.
There’s no fire. Just a quiet, hissing melt. A black circle appears and widens instantly, the plastic vaporizing with a sickeningly sweet smell. The heater drops through, followed by the tackle box, the cooler, and Brayden’s backpack. The pale fish slides back into the dark water.
“Out! Get out!” I yell, scrambling for the door.
We tumble out onto the open ice, gasping in the freezing air. We turn and watch as our shelter, our studio, sags in on itself. The laptop slides off the folding table, its screen blinking out as it hits the water. One by one, our sponsored possessions sink into the black, gasoline-slicked hole.
Chad is panting, watching thousands of dollars of gear vanish. “My jacket,” he whispers. “My jacket was in there.”
I just stare at him.
He looks at me, his face a mask of dawning horror. “Steve. The car keys were in my jacket.”
We stand there, three idiots in the middle of a frozen lake, miles from shore. The last bubble popped, and the only sound left was the wind.
“The last bubble popped, and the only sound left was the wind.”