NOVEMBER 21, 1995, 11:14 CET

  First came the smell. The sharp, nauseating stench of gasoline mixed with the cold dust of cooling asphalt. Then came the pain—not the sharp flash that had dropped him to the ground, but a dull, all-consuming realization that there was nothing below his waist. Only a dead, alien weight.

  Viktor tried to move his leg. His brain sent a command, clear and desperate, but it drowned in a void, never reaching its destination. He lay with his cheek against the cracked asphalt, and the world was overturned. He saw a soldier’s upturned boots, a gray sky choked with smoke, and his own useless legs, which had become merely part of the landscape.

  "Don't struggle," a voice said. Calm, almost polite, with a slight Japanese accent. "It’s useless. The bullet passed clean through. Your T7 vertebra is now a mess of bone and metal. You will never walk again. But you will live. I guarantee you that."

  A man in a long black coat knelt beside his head, managing not to stain his hem on the filthy asphalt. His face was smooth, devoid of emotion, like a porcelain mask.

  "You're probably asking: 'Why me?' The answer is simple. Your grandfather. He was a brilliant man, but a sentimental fool. He believed that science could be divided into 'good' and 'evil.' We, however, know that science is merely a tool. And he stole our best tool. My unit’s research. Our future."

  Viktor shifted his eyes. He saw them. His mother, her arms wrapped around his younger sister. Two soldiers stood over them holding red plastic jerrycans. Gasoline dripped down their jackets, soaking their hair. His mother didn't scream. She simply looked at Viktor, and her eyes held all the pain in the world.

  The man in the coat pulled out a silver Zippo lighter. He flicked the lid. The tiny, trembling flame reflected his mother’s terror-widened eyes and his sister’s distorted face.

  "I can't kill your grandfather. He hides too well. But I can take apart what he loves. I'll break his grandson. I'll destroy your family before your eyes. And I will make sure he learns every detail of your helplessness."

  Something tightened in Viktor’s head and snapped with a deafening crack. Sounds became flat. The smell of gasoline vanished, replaced by the aftertaste of ozone. The world narrowed down to the flame of the lighter in the Japanese man's hand.

  Kill him.

  The voice in his skull was not a voice. It was a vibration. A thought that did not belong to him.

  I can't. I can't move.

  You can't. But I can.

  "Please..." Only a strangled wheeze escaped Viktor’s throat.

  The Japanese man smiled, taking it for a plea for mercy.

  And at that moment, a cry rang out, furious and painfully familiar:

  "Hey! You bastards! Leave them alone!"

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Marko ran out from around the corner. His best friend. Lanky, awkward, with eternally disheveled hair. In his hand, he gripped a piece of rebar torn from the ruins. He ran, and there was no fear in his eyes—only the righteous fury of a teenager protecting his own.

  The Japanese man didn't even turn his head. He merely gave a slight wave of his hand. One of the soldiers standing by the women lazily raised a pistol. A shot rang out—mundane, almost boring.

  Marko froze mid-stride. A crimson dot marked his forehead. He collapsed to the ground silently, without a single sound. The piece of rebar bounced off the asphalt with a metallic clang.

  See? the voice hissed in his head. Your weakness killed him. Your helplessness. Give me the pain. Give me the rage. Let me in.

  The world in Viktor’s eyes began to bleach. The gray asphalt merged with the soldiers’ black boots. The red of the jerrycan faded to a muddy brown. Only his mother’s face remained.

  YES! roared inside his skull, but not a sound escaped his throat.

  The Japanese man had already brought the lighter to his lips, lighting a thin cigarette. He exhaled a stream of smoke into the frosty air, observing the boy's agony.

  A palpable heat began to emanate from Viktor’s body as he lay on the ground. He raised his head. The movement was impossible; it defied the laws of anatomy for a human with his injury. But he did it. His eyes, previously gray, filled with thick, liquid blood.

  "My turn," a voice rumbled from his chest. Low, vibrating, alien.

  The corner of the Japanese man’s mouth twitched into a semblance of a scientist’s smile whose experiment had succeeded.

  "Ah, there it is. The Seed. It has awakened."

  He made a brief gesture. A soldier stepped forward with something resembling a police baton. The dry crackle of an electric discharge rang out.

  The stun baton struck Viktor in the back, exactly at the site of his injury. His body arched in an inhuman curve. The red light in his eyes flickered and died. He went limp, and all the inhuman strength that had filled him for a moment drained away, leaving only the broken body of a boy.

  Ishikawa looked at the limp body with slight disappointment. Like an interesting toy that had broken too quickly.

  "Too bad," he said, flicking ash onto the asphalt. "But the experiment is over. The specimen showed the desired result."

  He nodded coldly to his soldiers.

  "Finish it."

  Two muffled, rapid shots tore through the silence.

  Ishikawa leaned over Viktor, whose consciousness was fading.

  "Now, let your grandfather admire what remains of his legacy."

  And then his figure, like the figures of his soldiers, withdrew calmly and without haste, dissolving into the smoke and chaos.

  A minute later, an old man ran out onto the deserted street. His grandfather. At the sight of the bodies of his daughter and granddaughter, the old man froze, the air leaving his lungs. His face turned into a motionless gray mask, and only his chin trembled slightly. Then he saw Marko. And, finally, his paralyzed grandson. The old man fell to his knees, and a silent scream tore from his chest. He was late. By only a few seconds.

  The smell of burning rubber and gunpowder dissipated, giving way to the pungent, sterile scent of antiseptics and old dust. He lay on a creaky cot in some shack. His legs still did not respond.

  His grandfather sat on a crate by the bed. The old man's face was like parchment, his eyes swollen from tears.

  "Forgive me," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Forgive me, grandson. I arrived too late. I did everything I could. The bullet... it turned your spine into shards."

  The boy stared at the ceiling. He didn't cry. The tears had ended back there, on the asphalt.

  "They're dead. Everyone. Marko too."

  The grandfather lowered his head, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

  Viktor turned a hollow gaze toward him. Everything inside had burned out; only ash remained. And one single question. The last thread connecting him to life.

  "Anya. Where is Anya?"

  The old man's face contorted with a new wave of pain. He looked up, and his eyes held a death sentence.

  "He knew about everyone. His people... they took her. Right from the house. They said they were sending her to Ishikawa’s camp. For 're-education'."

  The last thread burned away, turning to smoke. Viktor closed his eyes, sinking into the darkness that had now become his only home.