I open my eyes and see the familiar compartment of the Mi-8 helicopter all around me. I must be so tired that I dozed off sitting in the chopper. I urgently need to take a vacation. The pilot senses somehow, by some sixth sense, that I've woken up. He turns around.
"Almost over the target. Ready?" he asks quietly.
I nod silently. He looks like an ordinary brave soldier. One of those bright guys who die in this meat grinder. But judging by the chevron with a magnifying glass and the inscription "Press" on his back, it's obvious to me—he's a Holding employee.
"I can't promise a soft landing," the helicopter pilot shouts, trying to be heard above the engine noise. "There's no time. The whole city is crawling with banderlog monkeys armed with MANPADS. I'll drop you onto the first flat roof, and then you're on your own..."
"You find that roof," I think, looking down from above at the multi-story ruins. Houses now resemble barricades made of concrete fragments and rebar. Alright. Fixing my legs isn't the first time for me. I'll manage in five minutes and get going.
I spot a suitable landing site before my aerial taxi does. Waving to him, I step into the open hatch.
A short flight, and I land on a wrecked nine-story building. The helicopter waves its stabilizers cheerfully as a farewell and heads east. I watch it go. I grimace in pain. No matter how careful I tried to be, my right leg still broke upon landing on concrete. The bone shifted, protruding sharply through the skin, pressing against my pants leg, leaving a bloody stain on the fabric. The human body is so fragile. Rizoma begins to mend me, giving me a moment to look around.
I'm sitting on the roof of the first entrance of a block apartment building. The second entrance has been blown apart roughly halfway up the structure. All around are similarly twisted gray boxes—square Soviet-era buildings. A kindergarten sits in the middle of the square courtyard. Further away, in other sections, there's a school, some kind of store... Within walking distance. Typical urban planning. An impeccable planned system. Now, however, the entire neighborhood resembles an organ eaten away by a dying organism. Our artillery has thoroughly destroyed everything. Well, what can you do... These people themselves wanted decommunization.
Right now, the gods of war are silent. There's no sign of enemy troop movements either. They've hidden somewhere. As well as the civilians, of whom there are still enough here according to intelligence reports. The humanitarian corridor to the west is effectively closed. There are exits to the east, but they aren't guaranteed from both sides. So there's nowhere else to go; people simply fear coming out of their basements. That's exactly why I'm here. The task is clear: clear the area of armed individuals, protect the unarmed. There's no reinforcement. No communication either. Whatever anyone says, my war is always very simple. Chew, chew, swallow.
I descend the staircase covered with concrete rubble and broken glass. The crunch under my shins reminds me of snow. Almost every landing has apartment doors wide open. Brave defenders of the city have already been here. Somewhere to set up a concealed firing position, but mostly just to loot, taking advantage of the absence of owners. It's disgusting. And sad. For some reason, I remember my apartment. The layout reminded me of something... How long has it been since I was there? Three years, I think. Or maybe even five? When you're not in a hurry anywhere, the sense of time gets lost. And frankly, I haven't been in a hurry anywhere for a long time. Still, it's about time to get down to business.
I exit the entrance into the courtyard. I walk along the sidewalk littered with shrapnel. I emerge into an alley lined with charred cars. Behind me remain several identical empty courtyards. Where is everyone? I'm not hiding at all, so they should find me sooner than I find them.
I can't shake the feeling that all this silence isn't accidental. Someone is following me. Could it really be a trap? Well, let them try.
On the wall near the basement entrance, someone has boldly written "PEOPLE" in white paint. That's right. Maybe it will work on humans. I listen carefully. Dead silence. Only distant explosions echo. You can't rely on human senses here. I extend a thin tentacle with a thermoreceptor from my sleeve. Rizoma stretches out, crawls along the ground toward the basement, descends the stairs. Alright, no tripwires. Recently, it's become fashionable among the "svidomyi" to mine civilians—to prevent them from entering or exiting. But it seems clean here. Maybe nobody's been around for a while. Rizoma bumps into a metal slab—it's the door—and grows into the gap near the frame. Warm. Four or five heat sources. Apparently alive. For how long?
At that moment, a bullet hits the wall near my head. I turn toward the sound of the shot. A sniper is clearly positioned in the building across the street. Flash. There he is—the fifth floor on the right. A second bullet enters directly into my skull, tearing out my eye and part of my brain. Luckily, I've long been able to remember and think with my whole body. But now there's no time for memories or reflections—I need to act...