Kyiv, European Federation, March 2036

  "Dude, we had everything! Fucking barber shops, kids as young as 12 running errands for you for a small fee, the Chinese folks nearby set up a restaurant. It was just a huge tent, but they had a mobile kitchen attached and made some damn good food considering the situation! A handful of food trucks out back too. Kebabs, Burger King, all the good stuff. I think I spent half my salary on that shit."

  Oleh Shevchenko leans against the counter, his voice filled with a nostalgic energy as he reminisces. He runs the neighbourhood PC gaming café, a small but bustling spot in the heart of Kyiv. With salaries still far below Western European levels, most of the area’s gamers depend on places like this to get their fix. It’s a small luxury in a city still struggling to find its footing after years of turmoil.

  He hands a kid the key to the bathroom, muttering something in Ukrainian as the young gamer darts off. Then he returns his attention to me, running a hand through his messy hair.

  "You wouldn’t believe how things used to be. People would line up at the food trucks like it was the last decent meal they'd ever get. One week we’d be at the front, then the next we’d be in the rear, enjoying things like internet, TV, hot showers, and food that wasn’t half bad. War had dragged on for so long, and since the crabs lacked long-range capabilities, the rear lines were like a massive tent city stretching all the way from the Black Sea to St. Petersburg. The setup varied based on troop concentration. Ukraine and northwest Russia were similar. We had been pushed back to the east of the Dnieper, but we still held Kyiv. Those trenches? They were like the UN headquarters, I swear. Every nation you could think of was there, all looking for something to eat. In my sector, it was just us, the Chinese, and the Georgians. Occasionally, you'd see uniforms you couldn’t even recognize while waiting in line for food."

  His phone buzzes, and he glances at it before silencing it with a sigh.

  "As I was saying, we rotated—one week on, one week off. Our company would assemble, roll call, and do a quick check of our gear to make sure we weren’t carrying any crab powder or contraband. Not that they searched too thoroughly. Then we’d be off, marching down the line toward our position. First, we'd pass through the tent city and prefab buildings, then cross muddy fields, and finally make our way to the support trenches. My post was about a kilometer from the front. A dug-in room, maybe 20 square meters. We did what we could—hung old carpets on the walls and floor—but, let’s be real, it wasn’t exactly the Marriott. We’d spend anywhere from ten minutes to an hour getting briefed by the crew we were relieving. They’d fill us in on the strikes they’d carried out, the ones the crabs had attempted, equipment inventories, intel updates, weather reports, anything that could be useful. Then, they were gone. And we were left to do the same thing every day—count drones, check the FPVs, make sure everything was accounted for.

  We kept one drone in the air as long as the weather allowed. The generator was always running, powering the charging docks, the electronics, the lights, and a small heater. We didn’t bother hiding our heat signature—there was no point. You couldn’t exactly hide millions of men in trenches. Day in, day out, we’d fly our recon drones—mostly DJI models—just to confirm that all was quiet in our sector."

  "See anything worthwhile?" I ask, just as the kid from earlier almost shoves me aside, rushing back to his PC.

  Oleh pauses for a moment, watching the kid scurry past him before taking a slow breath and continuing.

  "See anything worthwhile? Nah. Not really. The occasional Crab here and there, some small movements, but nothing significant. The real action was happening further up north or down south, not really in our sector. I mean, we were just holding the line. The crabs didn't push much there, and if they did, it was just a few scouting parties, skirmishes and probing attacks. Our main job was just watching, making sure they weren't planning anything big. Routine stuff. Sometimes we'd catch a glimpse of some of the bigger machines—tripods moving in the distance, we'd radio those but nothing close enough to be a threat most of the time."

  He leans back in his chair again, running a hand through his messy hair before shaking his head.

  Mostly, it was just sitting and waiting. Watching the same spot for hours, scanning the same stretch of land over and over again. The weather was unpredictable—sometimes good for flying, sometimes not. But we always had a drone up when we could, just to make sure we weren't missing anything. Crabs digging themselves in, playing that weird game where one would spin around. We loved watching those. Generally, a crab wasn't worth dropping a mortar round on, but when we saw them mass together like that, we'd send up the heavier drone. It carried mortar rounds while the recon drone kept watch on the crabs. We’d fly high enough not to spook them, then drop fast and release a mortar round. Sometimes we'd drop a second or third to finish them off, but we often spared those and just left them to bleed out.

  Most of us slept during the day so we could work at night. The mood then was different; Red crabs were our top priority. You couldn’t miss them, even with thermals. They were often either much bigger or much smaller than regular crabs. It seemed like they picked their size for combat. The bigger ones carried heavier weaponry, while the smaller ones were shock infantry, sent into trenches first to take out the guys sleeping on watch. They moved fast, partly to stay alive in the cold, and partly because they were just that good.

  At times, we had up to four recon drones flying at once, monitoring the battlefield and watching for thermal signatures. One time, the guys were radioing in from a part of the trench five kilometers away, panicking because a noise had spooked them. We had three drones flying over their position, seeing nothing. I was the only one left monitoring another sector when I saw a speck of white light coming from a series of bushes. It was like an island of bushes in the middle of a field, about the size of a football field and around 500 meters from the trench line. I flew the drone over, but the radio masts we had barely managed to keep the signal going. I lost the drone a few times, and it would fly back to the last post with a signal.

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  What had started as one speck peeking out of the bushes soon became two, then three. Then the first speck made its way to the field, accompanied by another, while the other two stayed behind in the bushes. Dawn was starting to break, and I began to wonder if those were our guys coming back from a patrol. I didn't know why they’d attack so late. I had my CO radio in their position to that line of trenches, but then I realized the way the legs moved—they weren’t human. I couldn’t get too close, didn’t want to lose the signal or get spotted. Thank God we had the mortar bird.

  We called it the Stork. It was a huge thing with four tubes, each holding a mortar round. It was slower, but you didn’t want that thing to zero in on you. I gave the command of the recon to the new guy and took over the mortar bird. We took turns, watching both the recon and the Stork.

  Our CO, trying to help, kept pointing at the thermal specks, as if I hadn't already seen them ten minutes earlier. It was becoming frustrating, but I didn't have time to argue. I got closer to the target. The thing was lying down about 100 meters from the trench, waiting for its friends to catch up. Our CO was doing his best, screaming into the radio at the guys who couldn't spot them. I told him to let them know they were about to see what was left of the crab in about 20 seconds.

  I positioned the Stork above it, maybe 200 meters up. The crab was still laying in the mud, trying to keep still, but I knew it heard me. It was doing its best to look up, but it was too late. I opened one of the tubes on the Stork and released a mortar. I watched it drop gracefully through the air, and then—BOOM—it hit the ground about a meter from the crab. A massive explosion of mud and dirt erupted, and when the air cleared, I could see its body split in half. The shockwave from the blast had done its job, but the sight that followed was even more gruesome.

  One of the other crabs, a taller one, was about to catch up to its fallen comrade. But just as it neared, it was quickly thrown off course by the blast. The explosion had sent shrapnel in every direction, and I saw the crab stumble before it regained its footing. It didn’t stick around for long. It retreated back the way it came, leaving behind a trail of warm blood in its wake—like breadcrumbs on the thermal sight.

  I was doing my best with the new guy to position the recon, keeping a steady eye on the thermal feed as I moved the Stork further. It took a lot of focus, trying to predict the crab’s path. I had to be quick; the thing was running now, and I knew I had only a brief window before it reached cover. I calculated the distance—about forty meters between it and the bushes—and I made my move.

  I opened the tube, and another mortar dropped gracefully through the air. Time seemed to slow as I watched it descend, the target still unaware of its impending fate. Boom. The explosion was massive, and the air vibrated with the shockwave. The crab was sent flying, thrown off its feet by the blast. The heat signature disappeared for a moment, but I knew the damage was done.

  As the sun began to rise, the last two crabs we had been tracking from the bush island remained elusive. We had been refused artillery earlier, but I guess the artillerymen had woken up from their nap and decided to get an early start that day. We called in the strike, moving our drones back to a safe distance, and then we waited for the thunderous roar of the 122mm artillery to land.

  In the meantime, we started preparing the FPVs. We weren’t green; we knew how this game played out. The moment those shells hit, we expected the crabs to retreat farther and scatter out of the bushes. Football field-sized or not, a 122mm shell would tear through that brush like paper. Those bushes weren’t going to protect them.

  “Serhiy, get the goggles on and double-check the motors,” I called out to the short, stocky guy who had been glued to the FPV for hours now. He gave me a quick nod, his hands already working with a mechanical precision. Serhiy was a seasoned drone pilot, both from this war and the last one with the russians, known for his cool head under pressure. He was always the first to suggest when to go full throttle or when to wait for that perfect moment. His Transcarpathian accent, heavy with years of combat, was sharp when he spoke. “I’m good. Just need a minute to get everything calibrated.”

  Next to him, Oleksandr, taller and quieter, was already checking the camera feed. Oleksandr was the team's tech guy, meticulous and always planning five steps ahead. He wiped the sweat from his forehead as he worked, and I could see the strain of the past few days in his eyes. But when it came to getting the FPVs in the air and doing the job right, there was no one better.

  The two FPV's got on station right after the artillery landed, we had called for just one fire mission of three shells. And they took the bait right after the last shell landed, they sprinted out of the bushes and tried to go west.

  Oleksandr had the FPV goggles on his eyes, but we also had a feed going to one of the monitors. He seemed to lock in on the back of one of the crabs. By then, we could see the red paint reflecting in the sunlight, and we were glad we hadn’t wasted shells on the seafood fodder. Oleksandr gracefully flew the FPV towards it. We saw the top of the RPG shell and the two metal cables. You had to force-bend them out of shape, making a loop around the other cable that wouldn’t touch in flight. And once those two babies hit a target, each other, and sent an electrical signal, the RPG shell would explode.

  I guess the crab heard it coming because it spun around just as the FPV was five meters away. We saw that dumb look on its face, two black eyes, like a shrimp staring at the shrieking metal bird of death coming toward it. Lost signal, obviously, when the drone hit, but my eyes were already glued to the recon drone, and I saw that baby explode. There was no torso left, like in a cartoon, there were just its two legs, one laying in the mud and the other just standing there.

  Oleksandr had already connected his FPV goggles to the second FPV waiting in standby overhead. The last crab was panicking, not knowing whether to go back to what was left of the bushes it had come out of or risk continuing to run. Its legs, normally no problem traversing mud, seemed to fail it now, missing its footing every few seconds. It didn't know whether to run on its legs or go and sprint on all fours like a malformed dog. Oleksandr circled around, waiting for it to tire down to make sure he wouldn't miss, vaping in the meantime.

  He did one run, before going off course at the last second as if to bait the crab. It was trying to throw mud at the drone by then.

  "Stop playing with your food!" My CO, Pasha, said.

  "Can't hear you right now," Oleksandr said, taking another drag from his vape.

  He circled around one last time, and the crab attempted a pirouette or something.

  "Alright, alright, let's wrap this up," he said as he chuckled.

  The crab was out of breath, couldn't run anymore, and was just sludging its way back. I don’t think it could conceive what was hunting it. A lot of crabs were like that, not realizing our birds were the ones causing their destruction until they saw their friends blown to pieces. Oleksandr pointed the drone towards it, and the screen froze with "NO SIGNAL" as we saw the crab’s black eyes.