Phagocytosis

"Although the naval landings proceeded with relative ease, General Lin Weihao, commander of the Eastern Stability Amphibious Task Force, admits that heavy fighting continues in the Somali cities of Berbera and Bosaso. While Mogadishu itself has not seen any amphibious landings, the city and its ports—contested by dozens of militias—have been subjected to sustained air and naval strikes. The International Red Cross estimates that over 5,000 militia fighters and civilians have been killed." The reporter's voice overlays dramatic footage of Chinese, Saudi, Iranian, Thai, and Indonesian marines storming Somalia's coastline, and of tank battalions rolling across the Eritrean border into Somali territory.

The screen cuts from chaotic beach landings to the stark, controlled calm of a press room. Bright lights beat down on a minimalist podium draped in a deep navy-blue banner bearing the insignia of the Eastern Stability Amphibious Task Force. Behind it, General Lin Weihao stands in clean fatigues, flanked by stern-faced aides from China, Iran, and Thailand. His posture is rigid, every inch the career officer. A bank of microphones crowds the podium, their logos displaying a patchwork of Asian and global netwroks.

The room is tense. Cameras click. A low hum of whispered translation hangs in the air.

Lin removes his cap, places it neatly on the podium, and begins speaking in Mandarin, his words deliberate, steady — translated in real time through earpieces and over a quiet voiceover:

"The operation continues according to our broader strategic timetable. While the initial landings achieved their objectives with minimal resistance, the urban enviroments in Berbera and Bosaso present dynamic and unpredictable challenges. We are prepared for a protracted engagement, and our rules of engagement remain precise and disciplined."

The camera zooms in on the General's face.

"Although we still welcome the Somalis with open arms to join the fight against the alien invaders, let this be a message to any and all armed groups attempting to profit from these perilous times. As our armies continue the push to liberate Europe — with the US Fifth Corps and our Scandinavian brothers joining forces and linking their fronts in Hamburg this week — the events of the last few weeks in the Gulf of Aden will not be forgiven or forgotten. With the accord of the nations whose ships have been destroyed by pirate attacks, the perpetrators will be brought to justice and face death."

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"As winter arrives, here's how your children can help prepare your home to keep every bit of warmth!" the morning show presenter says in French with a southern accent, her voice subtitled in German.

"Yes! We're now going to Francis in Alsace, where some ingenious displaced kids from Dresden have started a winter clothes drive—sending messages on social media, organizing the transport of winter clothes from Americans, Canadians, Mexicans, and all over the place!" The second co-host replies in German, with French subtitles appearing near-instantly thanks to AI.

"Isn't it just fantastic how everyone's pitching in during these chilly times? Nothing like a bit of community spirit to chase away those winter blues, right?"

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"1500 meters!" the squad leader of the Javelin anti-tank team yells to his gunner, who sits cross-legged in front of him, the Javelin missile launcher resting on his shoulder as he peers through the sight.

The footage is shaky, grainy — taken from a helmet-mounted camera, giving a first-person view of the tense moment.

"Get him!" the squad leader continues, eyes locked on the tripod machine. The tripod uses its lasers to wreak havoc on the convoy it just ambushed — its beams scorching men and vehicles alike with brutal ease. Suddenly, it stops targeting the vehicles and instead sprints forward on its three mechanical legs, crushing a group of figures running across a field to escape.

The motor of the Javelin launcher whirs to life, the cover of the tube slides open, and the missile propels out with a powerful blast. Its propulsion ignites again mid-flight, accelerating toward the target.

"Fucking get him!" another voice shouts urgently.

The missile blasts out of the launcher with a sharp roar, its propulsion igniting in a fiery burst that lights up the smoky battlefield. It streaks upward into the sky, a blazing comet against the gray clouds, leaving a trail of shimmering exhaust curling behind it like a burning ribbon.

For a tense moment, it hovers on the edge of sight, then bends sharply in a deadly arc, zerroiing in on the tripod's three-legged form. The missile accelerates, cutting through the air with lethal precision.

With a thunderous explosion, it slams into the tripod's central chassis, engulfing the machine in a fireball of twisting metal and sparks. The tripod's legs buckle and collapse as smoke billows upward, signaling the end of its rampage.

The squad erupts in cheers, voices overlapping with insults and congratulations hurled at the gunner. Laughter and shouting fill the air as adrenaline spikes.

"Ready the next missile!" the sergeant bellows in a blood-curdling scream, eyes narrowing as something massive peeks out from the tree line about half a kilometer away.

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PRESENTER 1 (MARTA)
(smiling to camera)
Welcome back to another episode of Ktchen of Resistance! Today we're making a delicious dish using just five basic ingredients. Times are tough, yes, but that doesn't mean we stop eating with pride, right Tomás?

PRESENTER 2 (TOMÁS)
That's right, Marta! And the best part is, you can make this meal with what's already in your pantry. Today's recipe: lentil stew with hard bread. It's hearty, nutritious, and totally doable with what most people get from their weekly rations.

MARTA
First, soak your lentils overnight—if you don't have gas, cold water works too, it'll just take longer. Then, in a small pot with a little bit of fat—I'm using a spoon of saved pork drippings, but even oil or butter will do—we're going to sauté a chopped onion until it's soft and golden.

TOMÁS
And don't toss that stale bread! We'll revive it at the end to soak up all the flavor. No waste, full taste—that's our motto. Stay with us, we'll show you how to stretch these ingredients into something that feels like comfort on a plate.

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From: Office of Essential Provisions Oversight
To: Kitchen of Resistance Production Team
Subject: Content Adjustment Request – Episode 14

Dear Producers,

This is a formal notice regarding the upcoming episode of Kitchen of Resistance, scheduled for broadcast next week. We've just read the script you sent us.

Due to the updated rationing guidelines effective October 10th, all references to pork products, including drippings, fat, or cured meats, must be removed from public food programming. Please adjust the lentil stew segment accordingly. We suggest using government-approved substitutes such as oil from seed rations or water-based preparation methods.

We appreciate your continued cooperation in promoting resourceful, equitable food practices during this time.

Respectfully,

Alejandro García
Office of Essential Provisions Oversight.

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The breech snaps back as the gunner fires. The spent HE shell clatters to the floor, smoke hissing from the chamber.

"VOLLTREFFER—NEXT TARGET!" the T-55 commander shouts, his hoarse voice barely audible over the loader's GoPro mic.

"LOAD HE, MARIUS!" he barks again.

"JA, JA!" Marius replies, already heaving a 15-kilo shell into his arms. He shoves it into the breech with practiced force.

"GESCHÜTZ GELADEN!" he calls out. His head jerks in response to sounds, not sights—it's clear he's blind to everything happening outside the tank.

The camera jitters with every thunderous recoil. Muffled voices bounce off the steel walls. Marius' hands fumble at the next shell—sweat streaks his grime-covered face, catching in the glow of warning lights.

The loader's GoPro captures only fragments: the edge of the gunner's shoulder twitching with tension, the commander's gloved hand slamming down on the intercom, distant pops and booms muffled by layers of iron and ceramic.

Suddenly, the tank lurches hard left. Marius stumbles, slamming a shoulder into the bulkhead. A scream erupts through the headset—someone on the platoon net. "Panzer drei hat Flammen!"—Tank Three's on fire.

A flicker of orange light reflects off the inner hatch. Marius glances up, breath quickening. He can't see outside. He doesn't need to. The scream of metal outside means one thing: they're in it deep.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"LOAD AP!" the commander yells—more desperate now.

Marius' GoPro captures his shaking hands reaching for the next round, the edge of a trembling shell sliding into the shadows.

Outside, hell keeps rolling.

The commander's voice cuts through the headset like a razor—no longer controlled, no longer composed.

"ZURÜCK! ZURÜCK—JETZT!" he screams. His face darts into the frame—wild eyes under a sweat-soaked helmet, finger jabbing forward at something only he can see through the periscope. His panic infects the cramped cabin like poison gas.

The GoPro shakes violently as the driver throws the tank into reverse. Treads grind, shriek against shattered concrete. Marius slams into the shell rack, grunting.

"IT'S LOOKING AT US! REVERSE ! REVERSE!" the commander howls, hammering the side of the turret with his fist. The gunner starts to rotate the barrel—but it's too slow.

A sound like the sky tearing apart.

Then—impact.

The cabin jolts. For half a second, everything freezes. Then flame explodes through a seam near the engine compartment—violent, raw. A gout of fire licks across the back wall, lighting up the GoPro feed with sudden, blinding orange.

Marius yells, flinching hard, shielding his face. The fire suppression kicks in late—a burst of white fog and chemical hiss fills the frame.

Screams. The commander's voice is gone. Just static. Just fire. Just the sound of a steel beast dying from the inside out.

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[INT. COMMUNITY CENTER – EVENING – LOCAL TV CAMERA 1, WIDE SHOT]

The town council sits behind a folding table dressed in mismatched name placards and half-lit by the overhead fluorescents. A faded Long Island township seal hangs behind them, flanked by two limp flags, an American, a New York state and a recently added UNITED NATIONS flag, A bulletin board stripped of color flyers. The hall is full, but quite. No one speaks unless they have to.

[CUT TO CAMERA 2 – MEDIUM SHOT ON SPEAKER'S PODIUM]

Councilman Dent leans into a wired microphone, no amplification tonight. Just enough for the recording. His voice barely registers above the camera's ambient hum.

Then, movement, an audience member rises from the second row.

[CAMERA 3 – ZOOM TO WOMAN STANDING]

She stands awkwardly at first, then steadies herself. Cardigan buttoned to the neck, clipboard tight in her arms. Her voice cuts through the stillness, not loud, but certain.

"I'd like to ask what the council plans to do about the port alocations," she says. "Every time the shipments get delayed or rerouted, this town gets the rolling black outs. We're the ones running on half-power while the docks stay lit all night long."

There's a pause.

Someone shifts in their chair behind her. The camera captures it all, peeling linolium, the dull blue of emergency lights, the heavy breath of a room that's tired but trying to stay civil.

[CAMERA 1 – WIDE SHOT AS COUNCIL GLANCES AMONG THEMSELVES]

No one speaks right away. Councilwoman Reyes taps her pen once. Dent clears his throat. The silence stretches, not confrontational, but hollow. Like they've all heard it before. Like they know the limits, and so does she.

Someone shifts in their chair behind her. The camera captures it all, peeling linolium, the dull blue of emergency lights, the heavy breath of a room that's tired but trying to stay civil.

[CAMERA 1 – WIDE SHOT AS COUNCIL GLANCES AMONG THEMSELVES]

No one speaks right away. Councilwoman Reyes taps her pen once. Dent clears his throat. The silence stretches, not confrontational, but hollow. Like they've all heard it before. Like they know the limits, and so does she.

Still rolling, still watching.

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One of the conscripts sits outside on the step of a building, looking directly into the camera. The journalists move in closer, seemingly indifferent, stopping just a meter or two away. The boy's eyes never leave the lens. The faint trace of a moustache is the only sign of facial hair on his young face.

Nearby, the rest of his platoon sits along the side of the house as a British instructor continues speaking to them. The village, recently liberated and still bearing the scars of bombing, lies in the north of France. It has become a makeshift training ground for the forces stationed here.

"I gave you a first, second, and third warning. I've been here a week and I haven't seen a single one of you brush your teeth. You eat with your hands after spending all day in the field without even washing them. You were all issued alcohol gel. And you just relieve yourselves anywhere, even though there are porta-potties set up for that," says the Royal Marine. He's taller, more muscular, clean-shaven, and his eyes don't break from theirs.

The interpreter listens carefully, then translates the words into Urdu.

"Before we eat, we wash our hands. Everyone here knows how to live. We don't need him to babysit us. We're with him so he can teach us how to kill. We don't need him to be our mother," says one of the soldiers. He's squatting in front of a wall pocked with bullet holes, staring directly at the Royal Marine.

The Marine's face turns red, whether from the interpreter's translation or the hard looks coming from the platoon. He's about to respond, but his superior steps in, placing a firm hand on his shoulder as if to steady him.

"Listen, we're here to train you. We're taking time away from our lives, from our colleagues at the front, from our families back home, to help make you better soldiers. All of us want to go home too. We don't expect you to become commandos in two weeks, and that's alright. But we're not here to babysit you."

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The phone camera shakes slightly as it pans across the Belarusian school gym. On the wall behind, half-faded red letters spell out: "Peace to the world, land to the peasants, factories to the workers." The banner hangs crooked, like it's been there since another era.

The gym looks abandoned—dust on the floor, broken lights overhead—but it's alive now. A few hundred soldiers, Vietnamese, Russian, Chinese, Kazakh, all in mismatched uniforms or no uniform at all, have made the space their own.

The lens drifts past scattered Tsingtao cans, some crushed under boots, others still clinking as they're kicked around. In the center of the frame, there's a rough circle formed around a plastic table stacked with more cans, some cards, a speaker buzzing faintly in the background.

A shirtless Chinese soldier stumbles into the circle. The camera zooms in slightly as the crowd erupts—shouts in different languages, laughter echoing off the high walls. Someone off-screen yells something unintelligible, and the soldier raises his arms like a performer stepping onto a stage.

The camera pans to the far side of the circle. Another shirtless soldier, Kazakh, steps into the frame. He throws his arm up high, rallying the crowd. The cheers rise instantly, as if on cue. Kazakhs, Chinese, Vietnamese, Russians—everyone's in on it. The duel, if you can call it that, is all laughs and loose limbs, no edge to it.

The Kazakh soldier turns in a slow spin, flexing, playing it up. Across from him, the Chinese soldier shouts something in Mandarin, grinning wide. Whatever it was, it lands. The crowd bursts into louder laughter, some bending over, others clapping or pounding their fists on the table.

The two of them place their arms on the table and grip each other's hands, ready to annihilate the other in this impromptu contest of strength. Their elbows dig into the cheap plastic surface, the table creaking slightly under the pressure.

A Russian soldier in a blue-and-white striped tank top steps into the frame. He grabs both their clenched fists and leans in, shouting something in their ears over the noise. Whatever he says, both men nod. The crowd catches on, their voices rising again—some chanting names, others just yelling for the sake of it.

The Russian counts them in—three fingers up, two, one—and lets go.

Their arms tense immediately. The Kazakh, thick-built and solid, holds steady. The Chinese soldier leans into it, eyes locked on his opponent, jaw clenched tight. For a moment, it's dead even. The plastic table shifts under them. Around them, the soldiers are shouting over one another, pounding their fists, throwing hands in the air.

But inch by inch, the Kazakh begins to take control. His arm barely moves, just a slow, steady pressure. The Chinese soldier lets out a short grunt, his shoulder twitching, body twisting to push harder—but it's not enough. With one final surge, the Kazakh slams his hand down, pinning it to the table.

The crowd erupts. A few beer cans are knocked over in the celebration, and someone starts clapping in rhythm. The two men stay where they are for a second, breathing hard. Then the Chinese soldier breaks into a wide grin and offers his hand again. The Kazakh takes it, gripping tight, both of them laughing now, the tension gone.

The Chinese soldier reaches behind him and pulls out a six-pack of Tsingtao, still held together by thin plastic rings. He hands it to the Kazakh like a peace offering, or maybe a tribute. The Kazakh accepts it with a grin, then reaches into the crowd behind him and pulls out a sealed pack of dried sausages—dark, oily, probably homemade. He tosses it to the Chinese soldier, who catches it midair, still smiling as his colleagues erupt in playful mock boos. A few clap dramatically, others cup their hands to their mouths, pretending outrage at his defeat. Someone throws a crumpled napkin at him; it bounces off his shoulder and hits the floor. He laughs, raising the pack of sausages in one hand like a trophy, then cracks open a beer that the Kazakh offers him.

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

Rain fell in a heavy downpour. From the camera's point of view, the men didn't seem to care. It had taken them two days to clear this village. Now, as rear units rolled past, the Hotchpot infantry company—made up of Brits, South Africans, and New Zealanders—checked their equipment. The wounded had just been evacuated, the truck with the dead is about to depart

Rain washed over their uniforms and bodies, cleansing away mud, sweat, blood, and tears, though that was the least of their worries. The German village none of them could even pronounce had cost them too much. The dead would never learn its name to tell a loved one where their best friend had fallen.

A Kiwi officer stood talking to his British company commander in the center of the village. The commander nodded, and the Kiwi turned to gather his men, who continued cleaning brass from their vehicles, filling magazines, or staring blankly toward the horizon.

The New Zealanders, most of them native Māori, form a mob in the center of the village square. Rain still pours heavy, soaking their uniforms, running down their faces, dripping from their helmets and bare arms. But they don't flinch. They don't move to shelter.

Someone shouts for the truck to stop—the one carrying the dead, covered in tarps and rainwater. The engine cuts. The men climb down. No one says anything, but everyone knows.

One of them steps forward, chest bare, eyes sharp. He lets out the first cry. It cuts through the rain like a blade. The others answer, voices rising, bodies stomping, arms slapping their chests and thighs. The haka begins.

It's not for show. It's not for the camera still rolling from behind a shattered window. It's for the dead. For the brothers who won't get back up. For the land they've never seen but spilled blood to hold. The rhythm builds—feet hammer the wet ground, water splashes up with each step, voices shake in the air like thunder behind the thunder.

Their faces twist with feeling—anger, grief, pride. Not one of them hides it. The haka rolls on, loud and raw, until it fills the ruined village with something that feels alive.

The British and South African troops don't interrupt. Some stand still, heads bowed. Others watch in silence, rifles held loose. Some continue watching thousands of yards away. No one speaks.

When it ends, it ends all at once. No slow fade. Just silence, broken only by the sound of rain still falling, steady and cold before they return to their tasks.

One of them stays behind. He bends over, hands on his knees, his breath heavy in the rain. His tears mix with the water running down his face, falling to the mud below. His face is red—not just from exhaustion, but from everything boiling inside.

He stands up slowly. His commanding officer walks over and places a hand on his thick shoulder. The man doesn't say a word. He just lifts his arm and points at the truck as it starts moving again, carrying the bodies away.

Then he covers his face with both hands, turning slightly, as if to shield the others from seeing him cry. No one says anything. The rain keeps falling.