Brussels, European Federation, December 2035
The following footage was sent to me by a former member of the Japan Ground Self-Defense Force (JGSDF), referred to as Hamada for anonymity. It had never been released until now due to Japan's strict military gag order on footage. The video was recorded from a GoPro during the Battle of Kyiv, after the destruction of the Kyiv Dam due to heavy fighting in the area.
A hand enters the frame, struggling to turn on the helmet-mounted camera before the soldier pushes open a door. Hamada is heard gasping for breath from exhaustion as he slams the door shut behind him. He trudges through knee-deep water, staring down a hallway ahead. The space is clearly below street level, with windows near the ceiling, now submerged by flooding water, sunlight streaming through them.
Hamada is seen checking the chamber of his Type 20 rifle before removing the magazine, attempting to gauge how many rounds he has left. His gaze shifts to his vest; all the magazine pouches are empty except for one. He begins moving down the flooded hallway, the cold water clearly taking a toll on him.
He pauses, throwing himself against the wall on his left, just beneath the window. Shadows can be seen moving through the windows down the hallway, as if someone—or something—is running up on the street, unaware of Hamada's presence below. Moments later, four more figures emerge.
Suddenly, Hamada's radio blares to life. He struggles to turn it off, all the while keeping his rifle aimed at the small windows. The windows, positioned at ankle height, are barely visible through the rising floodwater. But the footsteps outside sound too heavy and fast to belong to any human. He waits in tense silence, the sound of the running footsteps blending with the distant rumble of artillery fire, growing closer with each passing second.
The building shakes, and dust and chunks of cement fall into the water around him.
"Hamada, do you read me? Over," crackles through the radio.
"Loud and clear," Hamada responds, his voice strained. "I think I'm the only one who made it out of that ambush."
"Your whole neighborhood is infested with crabs. UAV has eyes on your vehicle and what's left of your squad. They're focused on it now. Wherever you are, head south or east. Don't stop, and stay inside the buildings." The voice pauses before adding, "And good luck."
Hamada moves cautiously down the hallway, finally reaching a staircase that leads up to a wall, with another hallway directly across from it. He ascends slowly walking backwards, his eyes flicking between the dark corners behind him, his rifle aimed at the blind spot atop the stairs.
He pauses at the top, his helmet and rifle the only parts of him visible to the hallway above. The distant rumble of artillery fills the air, but he remains perfectly still, listening intently. His senses sharpen as he takes a moment to assess his surroundings—he listens for any sounds, watches for any movement, and inhales deeply, taking in the musty scent of the flooded building.
His wet boots make barely a sound as he steps forward, the silence oppressive despite the distant gunfire, explosions, and the faint wail of a civil defense siren far off in the distance.
Lowering his rifle, Hamada moves carefully down the hallway, his eyes flicking to his right. A plastic-like mirror is set against the wall, reflecting distorted shapes. Around it, drawings of figures, a fire fighter, nurse, farmer , and even a cook missing their heads adorn the walls as if for the kids to see themselves in it.
"Hamada to Command," he says into the radio, his voice strained. "I'm in a school, heading south, but I won't be here much longer. Can I get some reinforcements?"
"War’s not going anywhere," crackles the response. "Negative on reinforcements. We don't have any men to spare. But I'll check with the Ukrainians and see if they have anyone in your sector."
Hamada curses under his breath. He glances back at the mirror, his uniform in tatters. His right jacket sleeve is shredded, and he notices a faint trickle of blood seeping from his arm.
With a sigh, he removes his helmet and inspects the wound, his fingers tracing the cut. As he looks up, his own reflection stares back at him, his eyes locking with his own for a brief, unsettling moment.
A faint sound from down the hallway snaps Hamada’s attention to the side. He spins around in an instant, raising his rifle. For what feels like an eternity, he stands perfectly still in the silence, waiting, his breath shallow. Finally, he slips his helmet back on, his heart still racing.
With a slow, deliberate movement, he begins to make his way down the hallway. The sound of his wet boots slapping against the tile is the only noise he hears as he walks, the echo amplifying the tension.
His eyes flick to the open door on his left. Reflexively, he points his rifle at it, then begins to “cut the pie”—methodically shifting his body one foot at a time, inching toward a clear view. He scans the empty classroom, rifle at the ready. Last blind spot.
In one quick movement, he rushes inside, rifle aimed at the shadows.
Nothing.
He exits the room, back into the hallway. The next door on his left is closed. He moves quickly, feeling for the door handle. Locked. He doesn't waste time and leaves it behind, continuing his advance down the hallway.
Two more doors. Only seven meters to the next one. His rifle poised and ready, he closes the distance, the weight of each step heavy with anticipation. When he reaches it, he points his rifle at the half-open door and kicks it hard with his foot. The door swings wide.
Hamada takes a cautious step forward, still staying just outside the room, keeping his body hidden in the hallway. He peaks inside, moving inch by inch, ensuring he doesn't expose himself too much, waiting for any sign of movement.
He sees it. The ceiling, along with part of the wall, has been blown open, debris scattered across the room from an explosion that happened god knows how long ago. Through the jagged hole in the ceiling, Hamada spots it—two long, thick, spindly legs. They’re insect-like, spiked and struggling to climb, as the crab he’d just cornered in the classroom flees upstairs.
His grip tightens around the rifle, his finger poised on the trigger. He aims at the gaping hole in the ceiling, but by the time he's ready, the creature is already disappearing through it, vanishing out of sight.
Hamada curses under his breath, frustration mounting. He hurries to finish cutting the pie, clearng the last of the angles before entering the classroom. Rifle at the ready, he moves cautiously, knocking a desk out of the way with a harsh shove, ensuring no threats are lying in wait.
Satisfied the room is clear, he turns his attention to the hole in the roof, watching it warily as he circles under it, wondering how many more of those creatures might be lurking upstairs.
“Hamada, this is Command,” the radio blares once more, cutting through the silence.
“Send,” he replies, his rifle still aimed at the hole in the ceiling. The damn thing knew he was in the building now—there was no point in whispering on the radio anymore.
“I can get you out of there if you make it to the rooftop,” the voice on the radio says.
Hamada mutters a curse under his breath, the irony of the situation not lost on him. With one hand, he presses the push-to-talk button.
“Understood. Playing cat and mouse with at least one crab in this school. I’ll make my way to the ceiling ASAP. I have a red smoke.” His rifle remains trained on the hole, eyes flicking between the ceiling and the hallway.
He doesn’t hear it, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees it. Two black eyes, staring down at him through the hole in the ceiling. In a blur of motion, Hamada spins and aims at the eyes, firing a shot.
The bullet misses, tearing into the ceiling and sending chunks of broken cement raining down into the room below.
The radio crackles again, its message sharp and urgent. "Ukrainian black hawk is on station, but it can’t stay airborne forever. Get to the rooftop as soon as possible."
Hamada’s eyes scan the room, alert for any movement. He takes a step back, his attention caught by something on the floor—the blaster. The crab must have dropped it in its frantic attempt to climb.
Without hesitation, Hamada steps forward and crushes the glass container beneath his boot. The sharp crack of the glass echoes in the empty room as he deactivates the device with practiced precision.
Hamada strides toward the last door, rifle still at the ready as he carefully opens it. He’s immediately met with a staircase—narrow, dark, and leading up into the unknown. The air feels colder here, and the oppressive silence presses down on him. The stairs creak under his weight, but there's no time to hestate. His senses are sharp, rifle in hand, as he prepares to ascend.
He closes the door behind him, sealing off the hallway below before slowly making his way up. Halfway up the stairs, he stops. He glances at the door below him—it’s closed. But there’s no access to the rooftop from the staircase.
He hoped, more than anything, that he wouldn’t have to pass the crab that had set up shop in this building.
A sudden sound from below pulls him from his thoughts—a sharp clicking noise followed by a loud crash. Not from the floor he was just on, but from the basement.
How did the crabs get in through the basement? He wonders, his mind racing.
He peers down the stairs, his eyes widening as he sees three large figures slowly making their way up from two floors below. Panic rises, but Hamada keeps his composure. He raises his rifle and blindly fires downward, hoping to keep their heads down. The echo of his shots fills the air, but he knows it won't stop them for long.
His hand instinctively reaches for a grenade on his vest. Without hesitation, he pulls the pin and lets it fall down the stairs.
The grenade hits the stairs below with a final, metallic thud as he throws himself far away from the stair and against a wall before the explosion rips through the silence. A deafening blast shakes the building, the force rattling the walls and sending dust and debris tumbling from the ceiling. The sharp, concussive wave of sound hits Hamada like a physical blow, and for a moment, his ears ring with the deafening noise.
His vision blurs, and his body stumbles slightly as the shockwave reverberates through the stairs. He instinctively grips the railing, trying to steady himself against the tremors. The blast echoes through the building, the sound bouncing off the walls, shaking the very foundation beneath his feet.
Then, suddenly, there’s a heavy silence.
For a long, breathless moment, it feels as though the world has paused. The ringing in his ears starts to fade, leaving only the distant rumble of artillery and the eerie quiet that follows the explosion. Hamada listens intently, but there’s no movement, no clicking or chittering from the crabs below.
He waits, his heart pounding in his chest, rifle at the ready. His eyes flick down the stairs, watching for any sign of movement.
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Nothing.
The silence is suffocating, oppressive, and it makes his skin crawl.
Every creak of the building, every shift in the air, feels like a threat. Hamada’s pulse quickens as he carefully scans the space around him. There’s no sound, no movement—nothing but the oppressive stillness hanging thick in the air.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees it.
A small crack in the door to his left—a thin, almost imperceptible gap. Just wide enough to let something through.
He freezes, his body tensing, every muscle coiled with anticipation. His rifle tightens in his grip as his gaze snaps to the opening. Through the sliver of space, two dark, glistening eyes peer out at him—cold, lifeless, and full of malice. The same creature he had seen earlier, the one that had fled upstairs.
It doesn’t move, not yet. It’s just watching him, studying him from behind the thin gap in the door, its legs twitching with impatience. The air between them feels thick, like a standoff.
The silence is unbearable, but then it breaks.
Hamada's instincts surge. Without thinking, he pulls the trigger, sending two quick rounds tearing through the door. The sharp crack of gunfire echoes down the hallway, and the rounds punch through the wood with brutal force. He watches for any sign of movement, waiting for the telltale signs of the creature’s collapse.
But the crab doesn’t fall.
The small gap in the door remains empty, the creature nowhere to be seen.
Frustration boils over as Hamada raises his boot and slams it against the door, the impact echoing through the hallway. The door creaks open with a violent swing, and he immediately steps into the room, rifle raised and ready.
The classroom on the other side is vast—an expansive space that takes up the entire floor, long and narrow. The walls are faded and grimy, with peeling remnants of once-bright Ukrainian educational posters hanging precariously. A few broken desks are scattered across the floor, most of them overturned or damaged, creating an eerie and abandoned atmosphere. The room feels immense, far emptier than it should be.
Hamada’s heart pounds as he scans the room, muscles tense, pulse quickening.
And then, he sees it.
In the far corner of the room, near the ladder leading to the roof, the crab is cowering. It’s missing one of its arms, and the jagged cracks in its exoskeleton glisten with a sickly sheen. Blood—or something like it—pools around it, staining the floor beneath. Its legs twitch, scraping the floor as it retreats, clearly weakened.
The creature’s dark eyes glint with malice as it backs further under the rusted ladder, seeking refuge. The ladder leads up to the roof, and Hamada knows that if he doesn’t act fast, the crab could escape to higher ground before he can make his way up.
“ARGHHHH!” Hamada yells, frustration boiling over as he tries to drive the crab away from the ladder. He moves quickly, trying to circle around the creature, avoiding the gaping hole in the floor as he attempts to herd the beast back down the stairs, like trying to guide a sheep away from a dangerous spot.
Hamada lifts his rifle, aiming down the sights, but then something stops him cold. He blinks—his rifle chamber is open and empty. The two rounds he’d fired at the door were the last in his magazine. His heart skips a beat as the reality hits.
Swearing under his breath, he slaps the magazine release button. The empty mag drops to the floor with a dull thud. His fingers scramble for the last magazine from his vest, a single lifeline left in this desperate standoff.
The crab, seemingly sensing the change in the air, grows bolder. It stands up slowly, no longer the cowering creature it once was. It’s massive now, easily towering over Hamada at nearly 2 meters tall. The gap between them closes, its dark eyes gleaming with malice as it rises, brimming with newfound confidence.
Hamada doesn’t have time to waste. His hands are shaking as he slams the fresh magazine into place, the metal clinking against the well-worn rifle. He quickly cycles the bolt to load a round into the chamber, his eyes never leaving the advancing crab.
Before he can even raise the rifle, the creature is upon him.
With a horrific screech, the crab lunges forward, its remaining arm slashing through the air in a savage arc. The force of the strike knocks Hamada’s rifle clean from his hands. The rifle goes flying across the room, the sling around Hamada’s neck the only thing keeping it from completely leaving his side. The weapon is sent skidding across his back , out of reach, as the crab’s sharp claws gleam in the dim light.
Hamada stumbles backward, his chest heaving with fear and adrenaline. The situation has gone from bad to worse in an instant.
His hands shake as he removes his bayonet from its pouch across his chest. The cold steel feels solid in his grip, a fleeting reminder of his training and the weapon he’s relied on for years. He and the crab begin to circle each other in the empty, broken classroom, both waiting for the right moment to strike.
The crab lunges at him suddenly, its movements awkward and uneven, hindered by the absence of one of its arms. But even with the imbalance, Hamada knows just how deadly this creature is. A single hit from those powerful claws could tear his throat open like paper.
Hamada dives to the side, just narrowly avoiding the deadly strike. The air rushes past him, and he feels the whoosh of the claw missing by inches. His helmet absorbs the blow instead, the edge of the crab’s claw scraping against the Kevlar. The impact jars his head, and the piece of cloth atop his helmet near the GoPro rips open, revealing the vulnerable material beneath.
The crab’s movement is sluggish after the miss, and it turns its back to Hamada, giving him the perfect opening. His heart pounds, but he doesn’t hesitate. With a swift motion, he thrusts the bayonet forward, stabbing it deep into the crab’s exposed back. The creature screeches, its legs spasming as the blade cuts through its exoskeleton with sickening precision.
The blood—or whatever thick, viscous fluid runs through the beast’s veins—pulses out in violent spurts, staining the floor beneath them in dark splotches. The crab thrashes in agony, its limbs spasming as the bayonet stays lodged in its back, but Hamada struggles to maintain his grip. With a final, powerful jerk, the creature pulls away, the knife still embedded in its armored shell.
Hamada, heart hammering in his chest, takes the split-second opportunity to bring his rifle back into his arms. Just as he secures it, the crab lunges forward with terrifying speed, its massive arm sweeping towards him in a savage arc. He blocks the strike with his rifle, the weapon creaking under the pressure as the claw slams against it. The sheer force of the impact sends a jolt through Hamada’s body, but he holds his ground.
The crab is now just inches away from his face. The grotesque creature’s eyes—dark, obsidian spheres the size of golf balls—stare at him with a cold, unblinking malice. Its long antennae twitch and sway like some twisted mustache, sniffing the air with a predator’s sense of purpose. The stench of its wet exoskeleton and the pungent smell of its blood fill Hamada's nostrils.
Hamada’s pulse races as he realizes the creature’s sheer proximity. There’s no more time for careful movements. In a desperate bid to create distance, he kicks out at the crab’s leg. His boot strikes with all his remaining force, and for a brief moment, the crab recoils, its body shuddering. But it doesn’t back off. It’s like hitting a wall of solid muscle—it refuses to budge. Had it a mouth, Hamada imagines it would have tried to bite him by now, snapping its jaws in a final act of aggression.
Thinking quickly, he decides on another tactic. He lowers his head and uses the weight of his helmet to headbutt the crab’s exposed antennae. The impact reverberates through his skull, but it’s effective. The creature seems momentarily stunned, its antennas—likely acting as delicate sensory organs—take the brunt of the blow.
The crab falters, its body recoiling as it shakes its head in an apparent attempt to regain some focus. It stumbles back, disoriented, as its antennas, now seemingly damaged or blinded, twitch erratically. For the first time, the beast seems uncertain.
Hamada, heart still pounding in his chest, doesn’t hesitate. He lifts his rifle, aiming with practiced precision as the crab stumbles away, disoriented from the headbutt. His finger squeezes the trigger four times in rapid succession. The rounds tear into the creature’s body, each shot sending it jerking back in a flurry of movement.
The last shot hits the crab squarely in the torso, and it collapses to its knees. It struggles, twitching, before finally crumpling forward and tumbling into the gaping pit in the floor below. Hamada hears its body crash with a sickening thud against the rubble, the sound reverberating through the quiet room.
His breath comes in short, labored gasps as the adrenaline begins to wear off. His hands are shaking, but his focus remains sharp. He listens—ears straining for any movement in the building. The silence is thick, suffocating.
Then, he hears it.
The whir of a helicopter growing louder, unmistakable now, cutting through the tension in the air. It's getting closer, the sound echoing in the distance, maybe coming from the rooftops. Relief washes over him, but it’s quickly replaced by something far more urgent.
The pounding footsteps on the stairs. Heavy, fast, and determined—more crabs, more of them, coming from below.
The footsteps grow louder, a rhythmic pounding that makes the floor beneath Hamada’s boots tremble. Two crabs. There’s no time to waste.
The door to the classroom bursts open with a deafening slam. The first crab enters, its heavy legs clattering against the floor tiles as it charges forward. Its remaining arm reaches out, clawing through the air with a sickening, predatory instinct. Without hesitation, Hamada lifts his rifle and fires. The crack of the gunshot echoes through the room, followed by the sharp thud of the bullet slamming into the creature’s head.
It staggers back, the shot piercing through its exoskeleton, but it doesn’t fall. Not yet. Hamada fires again, and the creature collapses to the ground, its massive body twitching in a final spasm before going still.
Hamada exhales sharply, but his relief is short-lived. As the first crab crumples to the ground, he hears the second one outside, its movement just beyond the door. The sound of its legs scraping against the floor is followed by a deep, mechanical whine.
Before Hamada can even react, the second crab opens fire. A high-pitched, whirring sound fills the air as a stream of liquid-like energy shoots from its blaster. It’s not explosive, but it’s deadly in its own right. The beam strikes the wall near Hamada, and the material sizzles and boils on impact, the liquid quickly turning it to a molten, disintegrated mess.
Hamada instinctively ducks behind cover, a lone empty desk sideways on the floor. Hamada fires a few rounds towards the blaster firing blindly at him in the room.
The blaster’s beam hits the floor beside Hamada, sending a shower of sparks and disintegrating a nearby desk with a loud, sizzling crack. The wooden frame, once solid and sturdy, is now nothing more than smoldering splinters. Hamada’s heart skips a beat as he realizes just how close he was to being caught in the blast.
He doesn’t waste a second. Instinct takes over. Hamada stands up, pivoting to circle around the classroom while keeping low and using the few remaining pieces of cover in the room. His rifle is raised, eyes locked on the door where the second crab remains. The doorframe rattles as another blast of liquid energy strikes, but Hamada keeps moving, firing in quick, controlled bursts.
The doorframe itself is beginning to melt, the structure around it warping under the intensity of the beam. With a sudden, sharp intake of breath, Hamada spots it—just the leg of the second crab, visible through the disintegrating doorway. It’s a perfect shot. His finger pulls the trigger, and the round rips through the air, finding its mark.
The crab’s leg jerks violently, a screech of pain echoing as it collapses in the opening of the door. The creature crumples, half its massive body now immobilized, its blaster arm now resting uselessly against the doorframe.
Hamada doesn’t hesitate. With quick precision, he raises his rifle and aims directly at the creature’s exposed head. His finger pulls the trigger. The shot rings out, and the round finds its mark, tearing through the crab’s skull. The creature’s body convulses, a final thrash before going completely still.
Hamada holds his breath for a moment, watching the lifeless creature slump against the doorframe, now just a heap of twisted, inert limbs. The room is silent except for the distant hum of the helicopter overhead.
The Black Hawk, ts sleek black and blue frame adorned with a massive Ukrainian flag painted across its side, descends rapidly onto the rooftop. The roar of the helicopter’s rotors fills the air, creating a vortex that whips the red smoke Hamada had deployed into a chaotic whirlwind around it.
Hamada sprints toward the helicopter, the cold air biting at his face, his boots still soaked with water pounding on the rooftop. His eyes are focused solely on the chopper, the only escape from the hell he’s been trapped in. His mind isn’t on safety protocols, or the proper way to board a helicopter. No—his sole concern is getting the hell out of this nightmare, before more crabs arrive or the entire building collapses beneath him.
He leaps for the open door, not waiting for any further instructions. As he jumps inside, one of the crew chiefs reaches out, grabbing him with a firm grip, pulling him into the belly of the Black Hawk.
With a heavy thud, Hamada lands inside, his heart still pounding from the chaos of the battle. He barely registers the crew chief shouting commands to the pilot. The helicopter’s engines roar louder as it starts to lift off, rising above the war-torn city.
Hamada, exhausted and covered in dirt and blood, slumps against the wall of the helicopter. His mind races, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. The city beneath them is a blur, and the further they get from the rooftop, the more the weight of what just happened settles in.
Kiev sprawled beneath the setting sun, a broken city caught in the grip of war and chaos. Streets were flooded, the murky water reflcting the pale orange glow of the horizon. Buildings, once standing tall, now bore the scars of constant bombardment of yet another war—windows shattered, walls torn apart, and the skeletal remains of structures sagging under the weight of destruction. Cars were abandoned, some half-submerged, others overturned in the debris-filled streets.
The air was thick with smoke, a haze drifting over the city, lingering from fires that had been burning for days as tracer rounds ricochet into the sky. Distant explosions rumbled, the sound carried by the wind, echoing off the crumbling buildings. Streets that were once bustling with life were now eerily quiet, save for the occasional sound of crumbling concrete or the wind howling through the ruins.
Floodwaters crept through the city, flooding low-lying areas and seeping into buildings, leaving behind a stagnant, putrid smell. The rivers had swollen, breached their banks, and now spilled over into neighborhoods, submerging streets and leaving cars half-sunken in murky pools.
In the distance, the golden domes of churches could still be seen, their once-gleaming surfaces now tarnished, their spires jutting up like silent witnesses to the city's collapse. The sun, dipping behind the horizon, cast a dim light across the ruins—too distant, too weak to offer any real hope. The city's heart still beat, but it was the death rattle of a place on the edge of collapse, its once vibrant pulse from its night clubs, rich culture and millions of ordinary people living in it drowned out by the sound of war as the helicopter carried Hamada east.
