The screen fills with a massive, round-faced war correspondent wearing a bulletproof vest and helmet. The ever-present "Press" patch on his Velcro. I instinctively start examining the patches on his uniform. Letters, flags… No. No microscopes here. This is a real correspondent. A funny guy. He could easily host some children's program. Dress him up in a white coat, with a protruding belly underneath, and he'd be presenting a health show. You trust such a person. You can tell he's a kind man. Cheerful. Only his eyes aren't cheerful. He's seen a lot. He speaks clearly. He moves quickly, but doesn't lose his position in the frame. No ostentatious hysteria or frantic pacing typical of BBC-style reality shows. It seems like he's been here for a long time. Experience.
"Just recently, militants were driven out from here... They left their positions in haste. All around, you can see many unopened boxes. Considering that the junta troops are experiencing ammunition shortages and always try to take as much ammunition as possible, we can say this was a retreat. Further down the road is a burnt-out bus—the very one we reported about earlier. It tried to evacuate children through a humanitarian corridor. It was hit by artillery fire. The driver died right behind the wheel while making another trip. There was no one else in the vehicle at that moment."
The war correspondent turns around, taking up a position against the backdrop of a building. Here's that familiar landscape again...
"He was heading here. An orphanage and home for disabled children. Locals call it a 'children's home,' just like they did back in Soviet times. It's better not to show on air what the so-called defenders of the city have turned it into... Behind me, forensic experts from the Investigative Committee are working. They're carrying out bodies... There are no survivors. The investigation still has to draw its conclusions, but it's already clear—another horrific crime has been uncovered... Yet another appalling example of how the fascist junta regime treats its own population. The corpses of children were hastily dumped in the basement, bearing obvious signs of violence. Torn apart and shot. As has happened before, the building was unlikely to remain intact. When our troops arrived, the first floors were mined to cause damage even after the retreat, simultaneously concealing evidence... This time, things didn't go as planned by the militants. A special assault group, better known as 'Phenomenon,' suppressed enemy firing positions, pushed back the adversary from the territory, and cleared the premises within two hours. Lightning fast! Under normal circumstances, it would have taken weeks to capture this fortified area. Thanks to the heroic efforts of these guys, soldier lives have once again been saved. Unfortunately, not those of these children... Another reason to destroy this criminal regime as soon as possible..."
I turn off the player on my tablet. For the umpteenth time, I examine the cramped room. How did we even fit in here? Walls of the local medical center press in from all sides. Surprisingly neat, glass-fronted cabinets. A small refrigerator. Only a calendar with a two-colored flag and a country map 404 hung on the door for decorative purposes remind us that we're currently on territory controlled by someone else. Strangely enough, this paper banner reminds me of a GOST-standard poster titled "Carcass Dressing." Well, yes... That's essentially what's happening now. Otherwise, everything is as usual. A medical coat hangs on a hanger. A table. A chair. A couch.
Agnia is lying on it, her upper human half exposed. Kiryusha, a helicopter pilot wearing rubber gloves, is giving her an injection, preparing to perform some procedure on her snake-like neck, but doesn't miss the opportunity to make a comment for me:
"Damn! You missed it. They'll show me later. About fifteen seconds... From behind."
"You'll get to enjoy it again..."
Kiryusha hums thoughtfully. He puts the syringe aside. Picking up a scalpel, he examines the strange ulcer spreading across the girl's skin, mentally calculating where he'll begin.
"You don't like frontline news, do you?"—he asks, testing with the tip whether the novocaine blockade worked.—"But everyone watches."
"No... Even reality tires me out. Watching this too..."
"It's like pornography,"—Kiryusha laughs.—"Not everyone can participate, but everyone wants to watch."
"And you're a pilot, a driver, a nurse, and a social psychologist all rolled into one? You're also an expert in pornography... A jack-of-all-trades,"—Agnia irritably replies.—"Cut already!"
Using his fingers to lift the edge of the skin, the young man skillfully makes an incision and carefully begins to separate the upper layer of affected tissue.
"Ay!"
"Don't twitch... I won't cut you. Hear me?... You're our heroes. Everything's fine. You worried for nothing..."
"What about the boy?"
"What boy?"—Kiryusha smirks and plunges the scalpel deeper than necessary.
"Ay! It hurts! Are you a butcher or something?"
"Well, actually, yes... And aren't you?"—the helicopter pilot continues, pressing the scalpel slightly deeper than needed.
"I wasn't expecting this..."
"Ah, really? What did you expect? Experiments? Then be prepared for surprises..."
"I didn't want this..."
"Yeah, right... Who created this? You're a first-generation phenomenon. She's second... You could say, a chimeric form... Huh? What do you say, snake-baby? Did you just want to show off your feminine side? Here's the result."
"You could've warned me, since you're so smart..."—Agnia replies through gritted teeth. Exactly. She's offended. And she's worried, of course...
"No one knew it would turn out like this. But with you, it worked out. Now we know that exceptions do happen. Let's try to figure it out... We're not restricting you in any way. We're just observing. In a natural environment... Heh-heh..."
"And what about the consequences?"
"You really don't have to worry about them."
"But who will? Who will think...?"
Kirill shrugs his shoulders.
"War will take care of everything."
He finally cuts off a large piece of Agnia's clothing, eaten away by some strange crust. With a wet slap, he throws it onto the bottom of a plastic container. He snaps the lid shut with a crisp click. He stuffs it into a thermal bag with dry ice. Earlier, fragments of an unusual bullet had gone into a similar thermal bag.
"Well, that's it..."
He starts to gather his things.
"And what are *you* doing here? For money?"— the girl asks.
"For money? Yes!— Kiryusha laughs.— But also for the feeling of being part of something bigger. When something is happening around us, it's foolish to stay on the sidelines. Half the world considers us liberators and fighters for justice against global colonialism. The other half calls us aggressors, occupiers, and an empire of evil. I enjoy being both."
For a few seconds, he pauses, watching as strands of rhizome repair the tissue on Agnia's neck.
"Hmm... Well, I've chatted too much with you... We need to leave before my window closes. I'll take your samples. Farewell, consumers..."
Throwing a medical bag over his shoulder, the helicopter pilot exits through a small anteroom onto the street, heading toward his motorcycle. Strangely enough, right now, the safest way to get across the LBS is by such transport. I follow him out, ostensibly to smoke or breathe fresh air. But neither interests me as much as asking quietly:
"So, will she be like this now?"
Kiryll wrinkles his nose, making a skeptical face. He answers in a whisper.
"I don't know... It depends on what they pumped her full of. After doesn't necessarily mean because of, but there's also the localization of tissue damage. And those bloody boys... Honestly, I don't believe in coincidences, you understand. And there are clearly no fools sitting on the other side of the sights either. Do you know how many Western bio-labs were here? And how many remain..."
I nod silently. I don't believe in coincidences either.
"In short, don't worry, professional virologists and geneticists will figure it out," Kiryyl continues with a smile, glancing toward the door. "I'm just a butcher..."
"All right... What about approximate risks?"
"Well, I don't know... If it's a synthetic viral agent used as a vector to integrate into your DNA, then anything could happen. Further degeneration and loss of tissue stability. Uncontrolled growth of biomass. But if it's, say, a prion protein, that's a different matter..."
"A butcher, huh?"
"Just working at the slaughterhouse...— the helicopter pilot laughs.— By the way, Valery Semyonovich asked me to give you his regards."
"Oh, yes?"
"Yeah. So, here— I'm passing it along. He, by the way, asks about you separately every time. He's interested."
"Well, thank you."
"Keep an eye on our patient... Not just her neck and tail. It could affect her head too."
"Her head hasn't been right for a long time... And what do you recommend in that case? Eat her?"
Kiryyl rolls his eyes in disappointment.
"Of course, it's not all right... You'd better treat her... Eat her... Come on, what kind of person are you?"
"I'm not a person."
The helicopter pilot only smiles in response. Only later, already sitting on his steel steed and shouting over the engine noise, does he yell so that Agnia can definitely hear:
"And one more thing... Management asked me to strongly remind you that you have a specific task. Less humanitarianism, more action. Focus on the truck."
The motorcycle roars to life. It speeds away along the dirt road, disappearing somewhere into the fields, leaving behind a dusty trail that lingers for a long time.