Phagocytosis

St. Petersburg, April 2038

Multinational Forces 1st Corps headquarters.

Although St. Petersburg looks as alive as it was before the war, the MF corps headquarters feels like a window back in time. Security measures inherited from the war are still active. The compound spans several city blocks along the Neva River, with fortified checkpoints at every entrance and surveillance towers at key intersections.

At peak staffing, the headquarters accommodates roughly 12,000 personnel, including command staff, logistics teams, intelligence units, and support services. Security is layered across three dedicated battalions of multinational military police, reinforced by armoured patrol units and rapid response teams. Entry requires multiple ID verifications, biometric scans, and constant monitoring from a network of over 500 cameras.

The headquarters exists to coordinate the half a million troops stationed along the Russian Baltic border, ready to respond at a moment's notice in case the so-called "crabs" decide to test humanity's resolve again. Despite the heavy military presence, daily operations have returned to near-normal, with offices, communications centers, and training facilities functioning much like they did during the height of the conflict. Do, a few peace time luxury's have been added. Multiple fast food chains, two high end restaurants, three bars and an Irish pub. The most popular attraction, three tax free shops where Cigarettes, perfume and other luxury's are sold at a 0% tax. Yet the ever-present checkpoints and patrolling units serve as a constant reminder of the city's wartime past, whether it's the military police on patrol, the tanks stationed at the main entrance, or the occasional helicopters flying in and out on reconnaissance missions.

Seo-yeon meets me at the compound Burger King. Early 30s, she carries herself with the kind of gracethat makes it seem like she's never had a fast-food meal in her life. Her shoulders are straight, her limbs lean but strong, and even in casual clothing, there's a sense of power coiled beneath the surface. The way she talks, dresses, and carries herself makes me realize we aren't in the same tax bracket. She's the head of the local UN Aliens Affairs mission and was one of the original architects of the Tauroggen Doctrine, the strategy that established peace between humans and the extraterrestrial species.

"Did it come naturally?" I ask.

"The peace?" she replies between two bites of her Whopper.

"Does any of it happen naturally?" she continues. "Two sides clash, whether it's a dozen cavemen or millions of soldiers. One side eventually runs out of men. The victor dictates the terms of peace. If we had been on the losing side, I can guarantee we would have begged to be left in open-air zoos, just as we do with them."

"Why bother?" I ask.

A sounds catches my attention somewhere in the compound, echoing across the parade square. Outside, three Russian soldiers in immaculate parade dress march in perfect unison, their boots striking the stone with hollow, mechanical precision. Each lifts his leg in the exaggerated goose step, eyes fixed ahead, as they approach the eternal flame honoring dead soldiers. Smoke curls gently from the memorial, mingling with the crisp air, while the soldiers' movements carry solemnity beneath the rigidity of their march.

She pauses for a moment, chewing thoughtfully, then leans back slightly. "Because we aren't soft. Did you know there are more chemical weapons now ready to be deployed on the European continent than there were at the end of the war? The cost of maintaining and safeguarding those stockpiles is mind-boggling. The cost of maintaining all of this could run a country. A few years back, even during what we now call peace, there would be at least one or two airstrikes a week. Mostly against hatcheries that had grown too large, or beetles nesting and multiplying. Those beetles could not get bigger than a bus before being wiped out by a laser-guided bomb. It became so routine that the pilots treated it like target practice. The crabs learned quickly,they no longer use beetles as livestock for fear of having a Rafale or a Sukhoi wipe their mud village away."

"I see. But again, why bother? Why was the order given to encircle them and let them be?" I ask, trying to sound as calm and measured as possible.

She leans back slightly, still chewing, her eyes never leaving mine. "Because sometimes the cost of action outweighs the cost of inaction," she says slowly. "Encircling them without engaging allows us to contain the threat without provoking unnecessary bloodshed. It sends a message: we are watching, we are capable, but we will not strike unless forced to. Letting them exist under our scrutiny keeps them predictable, and predictability is a form of control."

She pauses, then adds, almost conversationally, "Most people assume inaction is weakness. They cannot grasp that restraint, when applied correctly, can be more powerful than a thousand strikes."

She leans back further, her gaze steady and unflinching. "There's another, less official reason," she says, her voice quieter, almost conspiratorial. "We need them alive. If more arrive, we want the newcomers to see the outcome for themselves. To see that we are victorious, yes, but also merciful. Letting a few survive under our watch sends a message: resistance has limits, but cruelty does not define us. It's as much about optics and deterrence as it is about strategy."

She takes another bite of her meal, then adds, almost casually, "History remembers both the hand that conquers and the hand that spares. They might not be ableto read our books. But this sends a message."
I lean back, trying to process her words. "But doesn't that make it… cruel? Using survivors as proof, as a warning? They're just tools in your strategy."

Seo-yeon meets my gaze evenly. "Yes," she admits calmly, "in a way it does. If we did this to humans id be in The Hague by now. WIt is calculated cruelty, but one that keeps the larger conflict contained. Do, it's not comparable to human zoos of our colonial past. I don't like it when peace freaks of all people make that comparison."

"So you're saying the intent matters more than the act?" I press.

She shrugs. "Maybe. Intent is everything in strategy, but morality does not vanish. Our choice is about survival and deterrence. We are merciful only because it serves a purpose. Legally or morally, it skirts the line between calculated control and crimes against humanity, but in war, those lines are often blurred."

"Forget about the damn war. How long are we supposed to keep them as war trophies?" I ask, my tone sharper, more direct.

She tilts her head slightly, studying me with that calm intensity. "As long as it takes for the message to sink in. Do don't get me wrong. My office, we are thinking of every possible outcome with them" she says evenly. "But every newcomer must see the consequences of violence. Every survivor serves as a living reminder. We weren't going to send back the Baltic refugees to their homeland anyway. You can't live on those lands anymore, be it because of their crap or because of the effects of our weapons. Hell it would take half a century just to get rid of all the unexploded ordonance, if you think digging a subway in Frankfurt is bad, wait till you see all the EOD experts we need just to pitch a tent in northern Belarus"

"Couldn't it be argued that we could have just nuked them from day one if it wasn't for that doctrine?" I ask.

She shakes her head slightly. "This plan wasn't sitting in a cabinet at NATO headquarters before the war. The reason we just didn't yell bomb away and duck under our desks was that we couldn't risk just blowing up a chunk of Europe and seeing what happens. Nuclear fallout was already bad enough, just nuking 300 thousand square kilometer was unthinkable. Everything happened fast. The doctrine was literally made up during the brief window when our troops needed to rest and refit before taking out the last pockets of resistance."

"Then what's the real reason we went for it then?" I ask, leaning forward.

Her eyes flash, and for the first time she lets her irritation show. "Are you even listening to a single word I've been saying?" she snaps, her Korean accent sharpening slightly, cutting through her English. "This plan wasn't about revenge through cruelty. Doing nothing would have been far worse. Leaving those pockets of resistance alive without a strategy risked them regrouping and counterattacking. Wiping them all out would have opened a can of worms with problems we couldn't fix or had at least anticipated. With the forty-some thousand crabs left in their quarantine zones, we needed as many contingency plans as possible, everything from new aliens landing and seeing what became of the last species to try their hand with Earth, to Polish revanchist crab-hunting safaris. And that last scenario actually happened six months after we drew up plans for it."

She takes a deep breath, her voice leveling but still firm. "The doctrine was designed to minimize casualties on both sides and ensure long-term control. Sometimes, to guarantee peace, you have to be ruthless in the short and long term. That's what I've been trying to tell you."

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

She leans back, the anger fading, replaced by that calm, calculating composure she always carries. "Enough for now," she says, picking up her Whopper again. "I'll organize a trip for you. You'll see it for yourself, up close, what I've been trying to explain. Sometimes words aren't enough."

I nod, unsure if I'm more nervous or curious, but there's no arguing with her. The world she operates in is one step ahead of mine, and now, I'm about to follow.

=====================================================================================

"Narva Gate" Sector –
Multinational Forces FOB

"Turn off that fucking engine and get down here for the briefing!"

The lieutenant yells at the driver of the Patria armored personnel carrier. The young-looking soldier simply nods, reaches down in the driver compartment, and turns off the engine.

I check my watch as he climbs out: 07:02.

The motor pool is as busy as it gets, yet everything feels mundane for everyone involved. The Finnish platoon is assembled around their platoon commander, the mechanics are busy with early morning repairs, and even the two attack helicopters flying overhead seem routine.

The lieutenant flips open his laminated notebook and clears his throat.
"We are at the eastern gate, Narva sector. Motorpool 2-0-1."
He yawns, covering his mouth. "Apologies."
"Situation's unchanged. Despite last week's artillery strike on a suspected Beetle nesting area, everything remains as it was, and will be.
"We're heading out to patrol the old E264 highway. At the junction with regional road 126 lies a post station we need to clear. Drones show half a dozen crabs have moved in there. We're to clear the station and push them southwest to their cordon area."

"SIMO!" he yells. A soldier in the first line jumps awake.

"What did I just say?" he asks the soldier who had dozed off.

"Narva sector. Motorpool 2-0-2. Lieutenant," the soldier replies.

The lieutenant just stares at him, eyes sharp enough to cut through butter. A sergeant whistles as another conscript laughs.

"You're riding with your head out of the carriage, and God help you if you fall asleep," he barks. "Now, as I was saying…"

He paces a few steps, letting his gaze sweep over the platoon. "Narva sector. Motorpool 2-0-1. Kick out some crabs."

"Execution. The 4-1 vehicle leads the way," he says, pointing at the Patria AMV equipped with a 20mm cannon.

"Behind, 4-2," he continues, indicating another Patria, this one fitted with a 30mm remote-controlled grenade launcher.

"And finally, 4-6 with yours truly," he adds, gesturing toward a JLTV 4x4 armored vehicle. A .50 caliber weapon is mounted on top, along with gas canisters capable of firing tear gas up to 100 meters.

"4-1 will arrive on point and stop at 200 meters. 4-2 behind will dismount. Once your guys are out, it will move up to 4-1 to dismount their personnel. We'll walk in two lines along the side of the road toward the crossroad. Gunners in the Patrias, keep your sectors covered and mind where the other vehicle is."

"Tigers Attack helis will be no more than five minutes away if anything happens," he says. "Emergency rally point at that time will be the warehouse a kilometre to the north. But I expect all of you to fight to the last man if the crabs manage to find where they have hidden their balls."

==========================================================================================================================================

I sit in 4-2 as we rumble down the road toward our sector, the engine's vibration rattling through my bones. Inside, the vehicle smells faintly of grease, gun oil, vape liquid and coffee. The soldiers, some professional troops and some conscripts look disciplined, but there's a casualness to their movements that belies the tension outside. One checks his gear with practiced efficiency, humming a quiet tune under his breath. Another taps at a phone attached to his chest, reviewing coordinates before switching back to the video he was watching, while the gunner idly spins the mounted 30mm turret's controls as he takes a drag from his vape pen.

To my right, a blonde soldier with her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail taps me lightly on the shoulder. Her armor shifts as she leans in, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "After the third patrol," she says, her voice casual, almost teasing, "you start getting bored of everything. Even this," she gestures around the cramped interior of 4-2.

Before I can respond, another soldier pipes up from across the cabin, grinning. "Bored after my second patrol," he interrupts, shaking his head as if in disbelief at how quickly time stretches in the field.

Some time later, after dismounting, we move down the road in formation. The soldiers march in a double column, vehicles rolling between the two lines, engines humming a low, steady rhythm. Their face shields catch the sunlight, reflecting it in harsh glints as they protect us from potential projectiles. I can't help but notice that they look more like Israeli policemen patrolling a Palestinian street than the soldiers I fought alongside some years ago.

As we approach the distant, abandoned post station, I freeze, fear gripping me at the sight of a figure emerging from where a door once stood. I instinctively take a knee behind the Patria, while the soldiers seem to treat this as a routine occurrence. The crab is large but malnourished, its body bearing the scars of some horrible ordeal.

A private leans over and hands me his phone. "Yo, mind recording this?" he asks with a grin, casual and unbothered, before falling back into line with the rest of his squad.

The lieutenant lowers his face shield and signals to his 4x4 to move closer.

The JLTV veers off the road, positioning itself between the soldiers, while the Patria with its 20mm cannon follows. Another vehicle moves to cover the rear.

The roof of the JLTV opens, and a figure peers out, holding an object that looks like an antenna.

"Long-range acoustic device," the lieutenant tells me. "They hate it."

"I hate it too," a private mutters.

"Yeah, but you're not on the receiving end," the officer replies.

Roughly eighty meters from the building, the figure in the JLTV lifts the device, aiming it toward the post station. A low, grating hum begins to pulse from the antenna, vibrating through the air and rattling against the armor of the vehicles.

The effect is immediate. Three crabs, startled by the sound, scuttle blindly from the building, their movements jerky and panicked. Their limbs scrape against the cracked pavement as they flee, clearly disoriented and desperate to put distance between themselves and the source of the noise.

The soldiers watch with a mix of satisfaction and caution. "Like I said," the lieutenant mutters, his face shield reflecting the sun. "They hate it."

"Yo, we got three deaf ones!" someone yells, pointing at two crabs that stand frozen, clearly confused.

"Veterans," the officer explains. "Their hearing is literally gone. Don't ask me why."

"Mask up, everyone!" he barks.

Everyone snaps on their gas masks while the two figures continue to look around, disoriented and unsure of what to do next.

Rocks hiss through the air, flung from the crossroad and broken windows of the post office. The lieutenant and some soldiers are taken aback by this clear sign of resistance. A few rocks strike vehicles or thud against the asphalt. One roof tile barely misses a soldier, who ducks behind the JLTV.

From the JLTV, the cannisters on the roof fire gas canisters toward the building. They arc through the sky and explode mid-air, each releasing six or so canisters that land with sharp thuds, sending clouds of acrid smoke spilling over the crabs. The creatures recoil, limbs flailing as they struggle through the choking mist, their shrill cries blending with the metallic clatter of rocks.

The soldiers drop behind vehicles for cover, moving with a casual efficiency that clashes with the tension in the air. Boots crunch against gravel as they shift positions, eyes tracking the crabs' erratic movements.

The lieutenant raises his radio. "Yeah, confirmed. Send the Tigers toward our position just in case. Stay ready," he commands.

The acrid smoke mingles with the earthy scent of disturbed debris, creating a surreal battlefield. Rocks clatter, crabs flail, and yet the soldiers maintain a controlled rhythm, taking measured shots and moving between vehicles, letting the chaos unfold on their terms.

He leaves cover and walks toward the middle of the road, rifle in hand, moving with relaxed confidence. One soldier behind him whistles softly, another mutters, "Why does he always get to shoot?" and a third just shakes his head with a grin.

The lieutenant takes a knee, then crouches slightly, bringing the scope to his eye. Adjusting for the gasmask, he fires a single shot toward the post office. For a moment, everything is still except the distant hum of approaching helicopters.

As the Tigers come into sight, the officer lifts a thumb toward them. No more debris is thrown as the crabs flee south toward the forest, all but one, who crawls alone across the asphalt.

The platoon move forward in formation toward the abandoned post office, armored vehicles rumbling behind them. The one crab that hadn't had the decency to move away after the third somation, the one which had been shot in the knee by the officer tries to desperately crawl away. But he's too late to catch up. I'm ordered to stay behind next to the vehicles, some twenty meters away as the platoon move through the crossroad, a squad breech the post office, another take defensive position. Through the last of the tear gas clouds, I see the officer along with another soldier get closer to the injured crab.

The officer moves with calm precision, his posture unflinching despite the chaos around him. His face, partially obscured by the visor of his gas mask, reveals nothing—but his eyes are sharp and calculating. Even from this distance, I can see it. They flick to me. He raises two fingers, pointing first at me, then at himself, and finally at the injured crab: watch. Every muscle in his body exudes control and absolute authority.

Slowly, deliberately, he draws his pistol. The crab, dragging itself feebly across the asphalt, pauses mid-struggle, sensing the inevitability of what's coming. The officer steps closer, measured and unhurried, eyes locked on the creature, then squeezes the trigger.

The sound is crisp, echoing against the abandoned walls. The crab's limbs twitch once, then still. The officer lowers the pistol, glances at me again, and nods.

============================================================

The flames have fully consumed the post office now, roaring from the roof as the flamethrower from the Patria continues its relentless work. Sparks and embers drift lazily across the asphalt, settling on debris and making the scene glow.

The soldiers stand in the foreground, some adjusting their positions, others catching their breath, most on their knees as if they are desperate to be on the picture. And there, in the center of it all, lies the crab, its body motionless against the pavement.

The officer turns to me again after getting his platoon to shut up, raising a hand. "Now," he says, voice steady. "Take the picture."

I lift the phone I was handed earlier and frame the shot: the platoon in formation, the inferno behind them, the crab in the foreground. The shutter clicks, freezing the moment, discipline, destruction, and death all caught in a single frame better than words ever could.