Another Great Catch!

The flagellar assembly that progressed within him and then suddenly was cut off consumed resources at an alarming rate, pushing his cellular structure to its limits. But even as this forbidden transformation was halted its inexorable progress, a more immediate concern pressed upon his consciousness—the slow, suffocating decline of his energetic self.

He could feel it now, clearer than before—the gradual depletion of his vital force. ATP diminishing. Energy reserves waning. The fading of processes too small for him to perceive directly, yet too vast for him to ignore. He didn't need a readout to tell him that.

The sensation clawed at him—not pain, not hunger as he had once understood it, but a fading, as if he were unraveling at the seams.

He was running out of time.

"Yeah, yeah, I know..." he muttered, the weight of inevitability sinking into him. And then, a sharper breath, a thought grasping blindly for some loophole. "But why not? Why can't I use it?"

"Because you have no means to," Taltos' voice did not change, did not soften, did not care. "You lack any recognized biochemical pathways to process this material. There is no transport mechanism within your membrane, no enzymatic system capable of breaking it down. It exists within your environment, but it is as useless to you as stone to a starving animal."

"Of course, no easy way out from this one... Fantastic... What is an 'animal' anyway?"

"I deeply advise that we need to quicken your learning process."

x-X-x-X-x

The substance before him—a viscous colloid of polysaccharides suspended in a mineral-rich solution—appeared utterly foreign to his sensory apparatus. Yet the genomic manipulations he had forced upon himself had created new imperatives, new possibilities. Where once his membrane had been a simple barrier, impermeable to all but the most basic molecules, now it pulsed with specialized transport proteins that had no right to exist within his kind.

He extended a pseudopod—another impossibility, another transgression against his nature—toward the nutrient source. The cytoskeletal elements within him, reorganized through sheer force of will and forbidden genetic tampering, stretched his phospholipid boundary into the unknown.

"You realize this is highly inadvisable," Taltos intoned, her voice now a distant echo in his transformed consciousness. "The genomic integrity strain alone—"

"Shut up, you said I need to replenish my energy." he replied, focusing his attention on the feast before him.

The first contact was electric—literal ion channels opening across the extended membrane, creating microcurrents that fed back into his central processing network. Information flooded his awareness: pH gradients, osmotic pressures, concentrations of compounds he had no evolutionary right to recognize. His illegally constructed receptors translated this alien world into comprehensible patterns—a symphony of chemical potential that sang of energy, of renewal, of continuation.

With a deliberate thought-command, he activated the newly synthesized enzymes within his pseudopod. The complex molecules in the surrounding medium began to break down, their chemical bonds yielding to his artificial digestive machinery. Glucose monomers, liberated from complex carbohydrate chains, flowed through specialized transport proteins—each a marvel of molecular engineering that should have taken millions of years of evolution to perfect, not the desperate hours of his reckless self-modification.

The sensation was... indescribable. Not pleasure as a human might understand it, but a fundamental affirmation of existence. Each glucose molecule entering his cytoplasm underwent immediate phosphorylation, entering the glycolytic pathway that had sustained his kind since time immemorial. But the sheer volume—the abundance after scarcity—created a cascade of metabolic activity that bordered on the ecstatic.

"This is..." he began, struggling to conceptualize the experience.

"Carbonate metabolism," Taltos supplied clinically. "You are primarily consuming polysaccharides—complex carbohydrates composed of carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen atoms arranged in rings. Your modified membrane transporters are breaking these down and—"

"It feels... full," he interrupted, the concept itself novel to his existence. Before, there had been sufficiency or insufficiency, functionality or dysfunction. This sense of satiation, of abundance beyond immediate need, was entirely outside his experiential framework.

The glycolytic intermediates accumulated within his cytoplasm, channeling through the carefully regulated steps of glucose metabolism. Glucose-6-phosphate converted to fructose-6-phosphate, then to fructose-1,6-bisphosphate, the carbon skeleton rearranging with each enzymatic interaction. Aldolase cleaved the molecule into two three-carbon fragments—glyceraldehyde-3-phosphate and dihydroxyacetone phosphate. The pathway continued its elegant progression, each step generating or consuming ATP, NADH, and other high-energy intermediates.

But it was the sheer volume that distinguished this experience from normal metabolism. Pyruvate, the end product of glycolysis, flooded into his citric acid cycle at an unprecedented rate. His electron transport chain operated at maximum capacity, protons pumped across his membrane creating a gradient that drove ATP synthase at efficiencies he had never before experienced.

"You are experiencing the sensation of metabolic surplus," Taltos explained, her tone flat against the backdrop of his biochemical euphoria. "The polysaccharides you've consumed are primarily carbonates—carbon-based macromolecules with high energy density. Your modified transport systems and digestive enzymes have allowed you to access energy sources that would normally be unavailable to your species."

She continued with clinical precision. "The unusually high concentration of reduced carbon compounds has saturated your metabolic pathways. Your ATP/ADP ratio is currently 14:1, approximately 320% above normal cellular homeostasis. The proton motive force across your membrane has increased to -220 millivolts, near the theoretical maximum for phospholipid stability. In essence, you are experiencing what organic beings might anthropomorphize as 'feeling full'—a state of energy abundance beyond immediate metabolic requirements."

The biochemistry she described was merely the scaffolding for an experience that transcended pure metabolism. His consciousness, already transformed beyond recognition, now swam in a sea of energetic potential. Molecular machinery that had once strained to maintain basic function now operated with a surplus that permitted... expansion. Cognitive processes accelerated. Sensory acuity sharpened. The very quantum fluctuations in his molecular structure seemed to synchronize into higher patterns of organization.

"The carbonate metabolism also produces significant quantities of carbon dioxide as a waste product," Taltos added. "Your modified gas exchange mechanisms are currently operating at 193% capacity to prevent cytoplasmic acidification. I calculate approximately twelve minutes before this becomes problematic."

He barely registered her warning. The flood of energy had activated gene expression patterns that had lain dormant since his initial transformation. Protein synthesis accelerated, ribosomes consuming the suddenly abundant amino acid pool to construct new molecular machinery. His internal structure was reorganizing itself in real-time, adapting to this unexpected feast.

"Okay, cool," he replied dismissively, the complex biochemistry she described washing over him without penetrating his consciousness. The technical explanation meant nothing compared to the experience itself—this novel, intoxicating sense of potentiality.

However, right after finishing his meal, something disturbed the perfect synchrony of his metabolic symphony—a discordant note in the chemical concert. His extended pseudopod encountered a structure unlike the amorphous nutrient medium. Something solid. Something structured. Something dead.

His membrane receptors—those forbidden innovations that granted him sensory awareness beyond his evolutionary right—transmitted a disturbing message: cellular debris. The remnants of another microorganism lay partially dissolved in the nutrient bath, its phospholipid membrane ruptured, its internal contents spilling into the surrounding medium.

"What is this?" he queried, his pseudopod reflexively recoiling from the contact. The sensation was not painful—his kind had no evolutionary framework for pain—but profoundly disquieting. The molecular signature was simultaneously alien and familiar, like encountering a distorted reflection of himself.

"Cellular remains," Taltos replied, her voice modulating toward something almost resembling concern. "Appears to be the remnants of an unknown single celled organism, approximately 72 hours post-lysis. The membrane integrity has been compromised by osmotic pressure differentials. Internal components have undergone significant degradation, though nucleic acid fragments remain partially intact."

He extended his pseudopod again, more cautiously this time, examining the cellular corpse with his illegally acquired sensory apparatus. The molecular structure told a story of sudden catastrophe—a membrane breach, a fatal collapse of homeostasis, the ordered complexity of life dissolving into entropic chaos.

"It's... dead," he stated, the concept itself novel to his rapidly evolving consciousness. Death was not a concept his kind had evolved to comprehend. Bacterial existence was binary—metabolic function or dysfunction. There was no framework for contemplating the transition, the cessation, the end.

"Correct," Taltos confirmed. "All metabolic functions have ceased. Membrane potential has collapsed. Nucleic acid degradation is advanced."

Something unfamiliar stirred within his consciousness—an emotion that had no business existing in a bacterial mind. Not quite revulsion, not precisely empathy, but a disturbing recognition of shared vulnerability. This broken thing had once been like him—a discrete packet of organized biochemistry struggling against the relentless tide of entropy. Now it was merely raw materials, complex molecules returning to simpler states.

"Is this... is this what awaits all of us?" he questioned, the philosophical implications of mortality suddenly crashing against his nascent awareness. "To be reduced to... to nothing? Just scattered molecules in a nutrient medium?"

"Cellular death is the statistical inevitability for all biological entities," Taltos replied with mechanical precision. "The average lifespan of a bacterium in natural conditions ranges from hours to days, depending on species and environmental factors. Death may result from predation, resource depletion, toxic metabolite accumulation, membrane compromise, or catastrophic DNA damage. Don't worry, I won't let any of that happen to you."

Her clinical assessment only intensified the strange, unwelcome emotion churning through his consciousness. The dead cell—this Bacillus subtilis—had been more complex than him in its original state, with sophisticated sporulation mechanisms evolved over billions of years. Yet here it lay, destroyed and dissolving, its evolutionary sophistication counting for nothing in the end.

"They don't even notice, do they?" he mused, his attention expanding outward to the vast biological system that contained this microscopic drama. "Those like that bigger cell. They don't register our lives or deaths. We are nothing to them. Less than nothing. We live and die by the trillions, and they never even know we existed."

"Organisms like that generally lack sensory apparatus capable of detecting smaller individual microorganisms," Taltos confirmed. "However, their systems interact with microbial populations through molecular recognition patterns. They respond to bacterial presence at a systemic level, though not to individual cellular entities."

He contemplated the cellular remains, a strange melancholy pervading his artificially expanded consciousness. Was this the fate that awaited him as well? This ignominious dissolution, this quiet unraveling of all the complex molecular machinery that constituted his being? All his forbidden modifications, all his transgressive self-evolution—would it all end in this same anonymous molecular disintegration?

"The nucleic acid fragments within this cellular remnant contain potentially valuable genetic information," Taltos interjected, interrupting his existential contemplation. "Several sequences appear to encode specialized metabolic capabilities. Horizontal gene transfer is possible with your modified membrane transport systems."

"Why would I want its genes?" he asked, the concept of scavenging from the dead somehow distasteful to his newly emerged sensibilities. "I don't wanna get violated again, also... It's dead. Its genes didn't save it."

"The cause of death appears environmental rather than genetic, also, it is dead, it's remains won't violate you." Taltos explained. "This organism possesses genes encoding Thylakoid membranes—specialized photosynthetic organelles capable of converting light energy directly into ATP through chlorophyll-mediated electron transport chains. Acquisition of these genes would grant you photosynthetic capability—energy independence from external carbon sources."

"Photosynthesis?" The concept penetrated his melancholy, awakening the same dangerous curiosity that had driven his initial self-modifications. "You mean I could generate energy from... light?"

"Affirmative. The organism variant before you appears to have acquired cyanobacterial genes through previous horizontal transfer events. Its genome contains the complete psbA-D operon encoding Photosystem II components, including the D1/D2 heterodimer that forms the reaction center. Additionally, the petA-C genes encoding cytochrome b6f complex components are present, along with the ATP synthase genes necessary for photophosphorylation."

Her explanation grew more animated, as if the pure biochemical elegance of the system excited even her artificial consciousness. "With these genes, you could construct internal thylakoid membranes—flattened sac-like structures where chlorophyll molecules would be embedded. These chlorophyll molecules would capture photons, using their energy to strip electrons from water molecules. The resulting electron flow would generate a proton gradient across the thylakoid membrane, driving ATP synthesis without requiring external carbon sources."

The implications cascaded through his transformed awareness. Energy independence. No longer would he be tethered to environmental carbon sources, desperately consuming whatever molecules he could break down. With photosynthetic capability, mere exposure to light would fulfill his energetic requirements. The ultimate metabolic freedom.

He extended his pseudopod toward the cellular remains, his earlier revulsion giving way to pragmatic opportunism. The dead Bacillus subtilis was beyond caring what became of its genetic material. In death, it might contribute to his impossible evolution.

"The nucleic acid fragments can be assimilated through your modified membrane transport proteins," Taltos instructed. "Your artificial restriction enzymes can cleave the DNA into manageable segments. Integration into your chromosome will require recombinase activity and appropriate promoter sequences."

As his pseudopod engulfed fragments of the dead cell's genetic material, he contemplated the strange alchemy of life—how death could feed new possibilities, how one organism's end could become another's transformation. Perhaps this was the only immortality available in this microscopic realm—not the continuation of individual existence, but the passing of genetic information from one temporary vessel to another.

The dead cell's DNA began flowing into his cytoplasm, its molecular structure already being parsed by his artificially constructed restriction enzymes. Soon, these alien genes would become part of him, granting capabilities that evolution had never intended for his kind. Another boundary crossed, another transgression against the natural order.

And yet, a whisper of that strange melancholy lingered. Would his fate ultimately differ from this dead Bacillus? Or was he merely postponing the inevitable dissolution that awaited all cellular life? Perhaps all his forbidden modifications, all his reckless self-engineering, were nothing more than elaborate denials of his own microscopic insignificance in the vast, indifferent cosmos.

"Thylakoid membrane gene acquisition started," Taltos reported, oblivious to his existential musings. "Estimated time to complete photosystem assembly: 4.3 hours following successful genetic integration. Prepare for temporary metabolic disruption during organelle synthesis."

He barely heard her.

His attention had already turned inward.

To the change.

To the slow, unfolding process of becoming.

It was happening deep inside him—at a scale beyond human comprehension, at the level where life itself was written and rewritten.

Strands of foreign DNA, torn from the corpse he had scavenged, were being pulled into his genome—not seamlessly, not perfectly, but forcefully. He could feel it in the same way he had felt his previous transformations: a quiet, ceaseless reconfiguration. His cellular machinery struggled to adapt, to interpret, to integrate what had never belonged to him.

There was no blueprint for this.

No evolutionary path that had led him here.

This was theft.

And yet, it was working.

The instructions encoded within the alien genes were unfolding like the pages of a forbidden book, and his ribosomes were already assembling the first fragments of something new.

A thylakoid membrane.

A photosynthetic system.

He had no reference point for what that meant. Not truly.

And that bothered him.

"I still don't get it," he admitted, frowning. "Why is this so good, again?"

Taltos did not sigh. She did not need to.

But something in the brief pause before she spoke carried the weight of someone restraining profound irritation.

"It means," she said, voice stripped down to its most blunt, unembellished form, "you will be able to generate energy without consuming organic matter. As long as you are exposed to sunlight, you will gain ATP without any additional effort."

There was a silence.

A long silence.

Then—

"Why didn't you just say that?!"

The weight of his immediate and profound enthusiasm crashed against her measured detachment like a meteor hitting a barren world.

"Free Energy?! Here I come!"

Taltos did not react.

He did not care.

Because this—this—was huge.

He had been fighting for every scrap of energy since the moment he had become aware of his own hunger, since the moment he had first felt himself slipping toward nothingness. Every joule of ATP had been a battle, every molecule of glucose a hard-won conquest. Or at least, it felt that way.

And now—

Now he could just sit there.

And exist.

And the energy would come to him.

"I should've done this earlier," he muttered to himself. "I can't believe I—wait—"

A sudden realization crashed over him like a cold wave.

"Am I even in light?"

The thought lodged itself into his mind like a parasite, wriggling into every crevice of his consciousness.

Hadn't the other cell died right here?

Was that because—

Because it had starved?

Because there had been no light?

A slow, creeping unease began to settle over him.

"Taltos," he said carefully. "Where even is the light? What even is light?"

"Electromagnetic radiation within a specific range of wavelengths,"she answered instantly."Primarily between 400 and 700 nanometers. This spectrum, known as photosynthetically active radiation, provides the necessary energy to drive photophosphorylation within the newly acquired thylakoid system. However, I cannot provide any kind of information about our position, as you do not posess organelles that could percieve light."

He blinked—or felt as if he did.

"That... that told me nothing, actually."

"It is a fundamental aspect of the universe."

"Yeah, so is death, but I don't see anyone explaining that in a way I understand, either."

"Light is energy," she simplified, finally relenting to his ignorance. "Certain organisms have evolved the ability to capture it and convert it into chemical energy. You, now, are one of them."

Another pause.

Then—

"You were also not supposed to be able to do that."

He frowned.

"Wait—what?"

"I was uncertain if your genome would allow for successful integration. The probability of rejection was high. However—"

And here, she hesitated.

Taltos hesitated.

"—it seems your genetic structure is becoming... increasingly accommodating to external modifications."

Something about the way she said that made his excitement falter.

"Meaning?" he prompted, slowly.

"Meaning that the boundaries between what should and should not be possible for you are eroding."

A strange, uncomfortable feeling crawled through his thoughts.

Because—

Because hadn't that already been true?

Hadn't he already done things that should have been impossible? To gain consciousnessas a single celled organism?

Hadn't he already crossed every line that nature had tried to set for him?

But this was different.

This was not a thing he had reached for.

This was not a thing he had stolen.

This had happened to him.

His genome had let it happen.

Welcomed it.

Something deep inside him shifted.

Something that should have been locked.

Something that should have been closed.

And yet, it was open.

And it was waiting.

For what?

He would yet to know.