The sound of a shell landing wakes me. It's very close by. My face is sprinkled with sharp grains of dry earth. I rise without fear, although explosions and screams continue all around. It seems our position has been hit by an artillery shell. Several guys were killed instantly. But they won't get to me that easily.
They can shoot at me. They can try throwing grenades or blowing me up on a mine. Perhaps they could even spray me through a jet engine turbine and disperse it over the area, though I haven't tried that yet. In any case, all these would be wrong decisions. The greater the damage, the better—I become angrier. And the worse things get for my enemies. That's why I try to restrain my anger. It's a poor ally. If killing in rage becomes some kind of animalistic act, then killing in joy is simply inhuman. But I'm still human. Or at least I want to be for now... So I remain calm. Terrifyingly, absolutely calmly.
I crawl along the crumbling trench. I climb over the bodies of dead and wounded soldiers. Their moans no longer distinguish different voices. Pain dehumanizes. First, it reduces everyone to the level of suffering flesh. Then it mixes them with the earth. Many have less than ten minutes left to live. At best, death will come with another fragment; at worst—slowly and painfully—from wounds and blood loss. Do they really know what they're fighting for in this war? To restore justice. To fight against a criminal regime. To defend geopolitical interests. Because that's what they're told to do. Simply ordered. All of this is either too general or too empty constructs. I know a simpler answer—to kill. I know how to do it. They don't. Let them sit there and not move.
Some Vasya with a frenzied look clutches the machine gun grip. Who was he before? Did he draw pictures? Sit in an office making "cold" calls? Or work in delivery? It doesn't matter anymore. The main thing is that he's here now, and he's afraid. And that means he'll die. The enemy unit has already entered the ruins of the village. Soon they'll dig in there and start shelling our edge with mortars. I need to get there before them.
"Don't show yourself," I growl into the machine gunner's ear, as I rush forward. Bushes and trees torn apart by artillery fire will only cover half the distance. After that, everything will be exposed—dusty dirt road along the forest belt and a scorched patch of land. From there, they'll spot me immediately. From a drone—definitely. And some Vasya like this one will try to cut me down with a machine gun burst. He'll even manage to hit me several times. If he's quick enough.
I leap over the last fallen, charred trunk. Now ahead are only sand and scorched grass. The automatic rifle still hangs on my shoulder strap, though it's long since become completely useless. I carry it for show. It's required by regulations. I don't even remember the last time I fired it. But the guy on the opposite side clearly practiced. Bullets pass within half a meter of me, kicking up fountains of dust into the air. They've spotted me already. Excellent. The continuation will be even more fun.
Behind the blackened remains of a half-ruined hut, movement is visible. The mortar crew is already setting up their infernal machine. A machine gunner hides in the dark opening of a neighboring window. I must hurry before he recovers and gives his comrades the opportunity to cover our position.
I toss aside the annoying automatic rifle and charge straight toward that black rectangle from which bullets will soon fly. The machine starts rattling. A few times, lead hits my armor just above the abdomen. The enemy Vasya doesn't have time to fire again.
The sensation of my body changing in response to external impacts probably will never become completely familiar. And hardly anyone constantly engages in such self-control. We perceive our organism as something given. Something ordinary. Everyday self-awareness. Something indistinguishable from our own self. A holistic sense of self, disturbed only in cases of illness or spiritual reflection. Me and my body. But this isn't my case...
What a second ago was internal organs, bones, muscles, skin, under the influence of intricate biochemical processes comes into motion, changes its purpose and form. I contract and stretch. Twist like a python. Seep through like water. The enemy Vasya probably doesn't understand who or what is standing before him. Dark-blooded, almost black, thin as hair and sharp as needles, long tentacles, like arrows, enter his body. Now I feel fresh flesh with every cell. Special intercellular vesicles release enzymes into the victim's body. At each puncture site, cell division begins. Like a giant living rhizome, I penetrate between organs, dissolving and absorbing tissues. Exponential growth literally tears the unfortunate man apart from within. He hardly imagined his death like this. A torn-apart person turns into a shapeless lump of meat within a minute. The greedy carnivorous rhizome reflexively continues devouring these leftovers, continuing to wrap itself with its threads, but I've already lost interest in them. The feast continues. Ahead lies a new dish.
In search of nutrients, the biomass, swollen twice its size, bursts out into the yard of the ruined house in several twisting streams. The mortar crew clearly didn't expect such a meeting. The commander grabs his NATO-issue boot, but no assault rifle will help now. Black tentacles already coil around his boot, reach upward, penetrating under the fabric, constricting and leaving him without a leg. The soldier falls to the ground with a heart-wrenching scream—right into a boiling black puddle that continues greedily consuming him.
Within a couple of minutes, the mortar crew is completely subdued. I'd even say "consumed." In the middle of the trampled clearing remains a lone tripod, yellowed bones, and someone's helmet with a piece of skull attached. Having fed on its victims, the rhizome mercifully returns me to my usual body and initiates autophagy—beginning to consume itself, storing energy in mitochondria. White-coated intellectuals said that now I have four times the normal amount of them. Gradually, I once again feel my bones, muscles, skin...
I look at the world again through a single pair of human eyes. And I see thousands of eyes looking back at me. Ten meters above my head hovers a POV drone. Not at all like the ones used by our guys or the guys we're fighting. This isn't some cheap disposable Chinese device, but a nimble six-motor beetle with a "Pressa" sticker. Journalists, indeed... I know well enough—it's a spy from the Holding.