Someone once said that war never changes... Well, no. War has changed significantly, especially recently. What were its goals before? Food. Wealth. Expansion of living space. Power. Belief in one's gods. Imposition of one's way of life. Spreading one's ideas. People killed and died for these things. Both were considered valor, bestowing upon a person undying glory.
And each time, everything was decided by the force of weapons. One man is weaker than another with a stick. N is less than N + 1. From this simple formula, by the law of induction, follows the entire arms race. All scientific and technological progress—from the idea of combining a stick and a stone to the fusion of atomic nuclei. It would seem that this limit should have put an end to everything. But guaranteed mutual destruction did not make people more humane. Contrary to the moral teachings of preachers, fear does not purify the soul. It simply becomes more cunning. Like a snake… Pointing one finger at others and prophesying hellish torments, you grant yourself an indulgence from hell with the other. So, of course, people didn't want to die. But that doesn't mean they suddenly stopped wanting to kill. Especially since, besides launching nuclear missiles, the modern world offers countless ways to satisfy the thirst for blood—across various price ranges. From computer games that everyone enjoys to proxy wars in some uninteresting African country. And this means that alongside selling and buying bananas, one can also buy and sell war—export and import wars.
At this point, war transformed from a means of achieving goals into an end in itself. It became detached from its original purposes and turned into a simulacrum—a commodity, a media product.
In words, we still fight for our gods, our way of life, and our ideas, just as before. This remains heroic and glorious. The only problem is that nobody wants to stop. And if that happens, everyone will only suffer worse consequences. Holding understood this earlier than many others. That's why it created me—both human and weapon. Unity and opposition. And now I am far more dangerous than a nuclear bomb. Because I don't exist for victory or defeat. There's no way to stop. Why would there be? After all, the show must go on. People enjoy it. Though it's much scarier that *she* enjoys it…
Agnia stands atop the ruins of some structure. Her black hair, having come loose on its own, swirls against the gray sky. What was here before? Apparently, some roadside café. Until the valiant "warriors of light" arrived and set up their base. What happened to the owner? Was he loaded with propaganda crap shoved down his throat and willingly provided them with a position? Or was he driven away by a free-spirited kick in the ass? Perhaps, at best, he locked everything up and left this area long ago? That no longer matters.
Chunks of walls, fallen rafters, and fragments of collapsed roofs are entwined with strands of spreading rhizomes. Pulsations run through them, repeating the rhythm of heartbeats. The overgrown black mycelium has already imperceptibly penetrated the soil for hundreds of meters around. It fills drainage collectors, creeps under bulging asphalt, and squeezes into cracks in paving slabs.
Everyone who hasn't been buried tries to escape into nearby courtyards. One carelessly steps on a manhole cover, through whose openings receptors have already sprouted. The trap snaps shut instantly. The biomass inside requires only fractions of a second. The cast-iron lid jumps upward along with the frightened soldier. Eight tentacles with sharp spines open like a flower beneath an improvised plate. Dinner is served. The soldier screams. His comrade fires an automatic burst into the manhole. Black slime flies in all directions. But it's already too late. The bloodthirsty petals close around human flesh, piercing the skin with their spikes and beginning to digest their prey alive. They drag the screaming little man underground.
A six-motor drone belonging to the Holding, hovering at a height of one hundred meters, impartially films this entire mess. Apparently, the marketing department has managed to persuade the staff after all—the broadcasts are being conducted again. Right now, hundreds of thousands of viewers are watching the performance online. Many unmistakably recognize Agnia's style. Of course! Girls love flowers. What did Baudelaire write about this? Followers probably won't make the connection. They'll just hit the like button.
The remaining soldier stands frozen, staring blankly with wildly bulging eyes, repeatedly pulling the trigger of his empty rifle. He watches helplessly as bubbling biomass crawls toward him across the pavement. I'm acting the old-fashioned way. I even feel somewhat sorry for him... Why aren't you running, fool? It's not interesting at all. The black substance quickly envelops his boots, creeping higher. The soldier falls onto the asphalt, writhing in pain. Both legs up to the knees are gnawed down to the bone. A young man—no older than twenty—finally attempts to crawl away, clutching yellow-and-blue insignia on his sleeve. He kicks with leg muscles that no longer exist, scraping only with bony heels, unable to push himself off as the rhizome slowly devours him from below.
His friends, who managed to retreat further, are overtaken by the raging biomass near the entrance of a dilapidated Khrushchev-era apartment building. Thin ribbons resembling flat worms emerge from the shoe-cleaning grate, immobilizing and slicing their meal. Human bodies, with a wet squelching sound, are sliced into thin layers. Someone's bluish intestines fall into the courtyard dust. Essentially, everything is over. I don't really need to hurry anymore either.
Among the tangle of winding threads, I approach the legless soldier. He exudes the smell of fear and my digestive juices. His wide-open eyes and mouth are frozen in a ghastly grimace. The scream has turned into a gurgling wheeze. His hand clenches, trying to lift a spare magazine. I push it away with the toe of my boot. The soldier groans in disappointment, looking at me pleadingly.
"Did you want to shoot yourself?" I ask. He nods slightly in response. "I understand... Killing is more fun than dying, isn't it?" He can no longer answer me, but I know the answer. Kneeling down, I gently grasp his neck. The obedient rhizome descends like a thin snake along his wrist, detaches from his fingers, enters his open bloody mouth, swiftly cutting through the spinal canal, penetrating his head. Now the soldier feels nothing anymore—not how his skull empties, not how his eyes sink inward, not how bloody worm-like growths crawl out of his hollow eye sockets onto his dissolving face. I can already see his exposed scalp, but I don't remove my hand until I completely stop feeling a pulse under my palm. That's it. Everything is finished now. The rhizome continues devouring his body, nourishing mine. The food chain has completed its cycle once again, as it should.
I turn to Agnia and the scattered remains around her. She has already begun retracting her tentacles but is still posing among the ruins. Smiling at her followers, she records another video. She chatters away in her inimitable Little Russian accent.
To be honest, I feel slightly uncomfortable. Not because of her "sho" and "he," of course... But because of how easily this girl has turned into a bloodthirsty monster. Is it something sociocultural or psychological? Is it due to upbringing? Age? Environment? Traumatic experiences? Something inherently human about her... Or perhaps it's me? After all, I created her, and there's a part of me in her. In a sense, we're even one entity. But does that make me responsible? No way... All these human questions are being asked by someone who has ceased to be human. I simply live. And I eat. To live, one must eat.
The Holding's six-motor "seraphim" takes a medium shot of Agnia, then makes a dramatic artistic flight upward and away. The girl sends an air kiss to the audience, waving at the receding camera. From this footage, shorts could later be edited and music added. Something almost classic. Like "Cabaret" with Liza Minnelli. Yes... War has changed. This war now has a woman's face...