Mycelium Ex Machina (Chernobyl)

[Kaelan]

Kaelan heard the footsteps. Real ones. Sharp, measurable things that echoed or cracked ice or scuffed soil. The figure was just there, as if stepped through a seam in the air itself. One moment, the path was empty. The next, it wasn’t. The man stood in the ruins like he’d grown from them. His coat hung sodden and long, as though dipped in the marsh and left to rot. His skin had a sunless pallor, his eyes unblinking. Kaelan took an involuntary step back, then caught himself, stiffened his posture, tried to appear in control.

He recognized immediately: this must be one of the locals. The warning flared in his mind: Do not speak to the locals, but what did that mean, really? Locals. It suddenly sounded absurd. There weren’t supposed to be locals. He'd assumed the phrase was a euphemism for squatters, scavengers, deranged hermits sustained by mushrooms and madness. Not… this.

"You took Pushka," the man said.

Kaelan blinked, pulse thudding behind his ears. For a moment, he had no idea what the man meant. Then, suddenly, he did. The rock. The first one. The grinning face. He fumbled with his pack, pulling the specimen pouch free with fingers that didn’t feel entirely like his own.

“Oh! Yes, right—Pushka.” Kaelan forced a thin smile, careful, trying to shape his voice into something friendly, disarming. “I didn’t know he had a name. Here, of course.” He held the pouch out as though returning a pet rabbit to its owner. “I was just curious, you understand. I’m… collecting data.” His tone was academic, explanatory. Comforting. He even chuckled, weakly. “I’m a scientist.”

“I’m doing harmless research,” he added quickly. “On radiotrophic fungi, mostly. Looking for black spore colonies: CRF, possibly, or hybridized strains. They tend to thrive in wet, high-rad environments, so I was surveying this area for potential samples. That’s all.”

Kaelan pressed on, his voice strained but overly polite.  “I don’t mean to intrude. If you… happen to have seen anything fitting that description, I’d be—very grateful. If you’d be willing to share.”

Behind his mask, Kaelan’s tongue was dry. His lungs worked harder than he wanted to admit. He glanced at the path beyond them. If he turned and ran, would the man follow? Probably. Would he scream? Possibly. Would it be undignified? Absolutely.

No. Better to be polite. Safe. Predictable.