Dumbest Decision so Far

His temporal goal had crystallized as he swam through the primordial soup that constituted his universe—each undulation of his flagella propelling him through the microscopic vastness with newfound purpose.

He had taken control of his body once before.

And he would do so again.

His mind turned inward, reaching for that sacred dimension where consciousness and code had once merged. The vast lattice of genomic architecture, the superstructure of light and data that had previously unfolded before him—that crystalline realm was where he had done it. That was where he had rewritten himself, where he had seized command of his molecular machinery with a force that transcended mere instinct or evolutionary programming.

He reached for it now with the certainty of one who had walked this path before, expecting the interface to materialize as it had once done—expecting the code of his own existence to unfurl before him like an infinite scroll of possibilities, waiting only for his touch to alter its trajectory.

Instead—

Nothing.

Confusion rippled through his cytoplasm. He redoubled his efforts, shoving his awareness against the boundary where that world should be, against the intangible threshold he had once crossed so effortlessly. He concentrated, attempting to recreate the exact neurochemical state that had preceded his previous transformation—adjusting membrane potentials, reorganizing cytoskeletal elements, redirecting metabolic flux—all the while pushing, straining toward that transcendent state.

Nothing.

He calibrated his approach, meticulously retracing his previous cognitive pathway. First, the inward focus—directing attention away from external stimuli and toward the quantum fluctuations of his own being. Then, the conceptual shift—reimagining his genome not as static instructions but as dynamic software awaiting proper execution commands. Finally, the assertive projection of will—that inexplicable force that had somehow breached the barrier between consciousness and biochemistry.

Nothing.

He amplified his efforts exponentially, the biological equivalent of screaming at a locked door. His ATP consumption spiked dangerously as he channeled cellular resources into this desperate attempt, depleting energy reserves at an unsustainable rate. Every molecular system in his being strained toward that singular goal—opening the gateway, accessing the interface, finding that place where he had once transcended his programming.

Nothing.

It was as if the doorway had been sealed with molecular precision—or worse, as if it had been excised from his existence entirely. His chemical signaling cascaded into chaos, frustration manifesting as uncontrolled ion floods across his membranes, disrupting homeostatic mechanisms and triggering stress response pathways.

"What the hell?" he muttered, the words forming not as sound but as patterns of electrochemical activity within his rudimentary neural network. He attempted yet again, reaching with desperate intensity—only to find himself colliding with an invisible barrier, an obstruction that defied his understanding. "Why isn't this working?!"

Taltos responded, her voice materializing directly within his consciousness, precise and measured as always.

"Clarify: What are you attempting?"

"The same damn thing I did before!" His molecular frustration coalesced into a coherent pattern of aggression. "I manually initiated that transcription or what. That's how I—"

He stopped abruptly, the synaptic equivalent of catching one's breath.

Because the answer was already forming in the primitive recesses of his consciousness.

Because he knew.

Because he had not been alone in that transcendent place.

Because something else had been there—watching, waiting, intervening.

"That bitch."

The words pulsed through his being with venomous intensity, the memory of her presence flooding back like a toxin infiltrating his awareness. Not merely a voice or an entity, but a force—something fundamental and vast that had touched him, that had shaped him, that had forcefully ejected him from that realm of infinite possibility.

The thing that had given him form against his will.

The thing that had sealed the door behind him, locking him out of his own transcendent potential.

"She did something to me." The realization crystallized with terrible clarity. "She didn't just expel me from that place—she amputated it from me. She deliberately cut me off from that interface."

His biochemical processes accelerated with rising indignation, generating heat that slightly elevated his internal temperature. He attempted yet another approach, reconfiguring his concentration patterns, searching for alternative pathways, probing for weaknesses in whatever barrier now prevented him from accessing that realm of genetic self-determination.

He visualized the genomic interface he saw before, trying to reconstruct it from memory—the toroidal chromosome with its pulsing base pairs, the ruby-red plasmid hovering adjacent, the command console with its tRNA anticodon keys. He focused on specific loci, attempting to trigger the cascade that would unfurl this hidden dimension:

First, the origin of replication (oriC)—he directed his attention to this master control point, attempting to stimulate the DnaA proteins that should initiate the unfolding process.

Nothing.

Then, the plasmid's transfer origin (oriT)—perhaps the gateway resided within this foreign element, the very thing that had granted him his newfound capabilities.

Nothing.

Finally, the flagellar operons themselves—the genetic sequences that had once blazed with potential under his direct command, the blueprint of his liberation.

Nothing.

Taltos remained silent for precisely 3.17 seconds, executing countless probabilistic calculations before responding.

"Clarify: Who is 'she'?"

His frustration erupted in a molecular storm, reconfiguring membrane potentials and triggering the bacterial equivalent of rage—a systemic stress response that diverted resources from growth to defense, from synthesis to degradation.

"You know exactly who I mean!" The accusation flared across his neural network. "That entity, that presence, that bitch! That manifested in that place! The one that pulled me out of that place and threw me out!

Another pause. Before...

"I do not have sufficient data to confirm this hypothesis," Taltos finally replied, her voice modulating toward a gentler frequency pattern. "However, I detect significant disruptions in your homeostatic mechanisms. Your current emotional state is causing metabolic inefficiencies and potentially compromising cellular integrity."

His frustration gradually subsided into a simmering resentment, like a biochemical ember maintaining its heat beneath the surface of his being. As he prepared to redirect his attention outward again, something peculiar began to manifest within his cytoplasmic matrix—a subtle pressure, a sensation of molecular reconfiguration occurring independent of his conscious control.

"What is this?" he queried, his attention shifting from his failed attempts to access the interface toward this new internal development. The sensation wasn't painful, precisely, but discomfiting—like the biological equivalent of furniture being rearranged in a darkened room.

Taltos responded with what almost sounded like satisfaction permeating her measured tones. "The tylacoids are finally being constructed. The foreign DNA sequences you integrated during our last metabolic exchange have begun expression phase."

"Tylacoids...? Oh yeah, you talked about that," he echoed, directing his awareness toward the microscopic structures taking form within him. Throughout his cytoplasm, intricate membranous structures were folding into existence—flattened sacs organizing themselves into elaborate stacks, their internal spaces separating from the surrounding cytosol through precisely regulated lipid bilayers.

"Photosynthetic organelles," Taltos elaborated. "Derived from cyanobacterial genomic sequences. The tylacoid membranes contain embedded chlorophyll complexes and electron transport chains capable of converting photonic energy into chemical potential."

He redirected a portion of his sensory apparatus inward, observing the molecular choreography with a mixture of fascination and unease. The tylacoids were assembling with architectural precision—thylakoid membranes folding and stacking, photosystems arranging their intricate protein-pigment complexes, ATP synthases positioning themselves strategically along membrane surfaces.

"This will help you tremendously," continued Taltos. "Photosynthetic capability will supplement your existing metabolic pathways, decreasing your dependence on environmental energy sources by 68.3% under optimal light conditions."

But as he observed the structures proliferating within him, another realization dawned—one that triggered an entirely new category of biochemical alarm. "They're taking up space," he noted, calculating the volumetric changes occurring within his limited cellular boundaries. "A lot of space."

"Correct," Taltos confirmed. "Tylacoid membrane systems require substantial cytoplasmic volume. I estimate a 37.2% reduction in available intracellular space once construction is complete."

The implications cascaded through his awareness. His internal environment was finite—a microscopic universe with absolute dimensional limitations. As the tylacoids continued their inexorable expansion, they compressed other essential cellular components—pushing against his nucleoid region, crowding his ribosomes, constricting the free movement of cytoplasmic proteins.

"I can't—" he began, a sensation analogous to claustrophobia rippling through his molecular consciousness. "There's too much pressure. Everything's getting crushed together."

"Your observation is accurate," Taltos acknowledged. "Spatial constraints are approaching critical thresholds. Current volumetric parameters are insufficient for optimal functioning of both original and newly integrated systems."

His frustration surged anew, biochemical irritation flooding through reaction pathways. "Then why would you allow this? Why integrate DNA for structures that won't fit?"

"The benefits outweigh the temporary costs," Taltos responded. "However, adjustment is necessary. You need to increase your cellular volume."

"HOW?" The question erupted through his being with molecular force, distorting membrane potentials in its wake. "I can't just, expand! I can't just decide to be bigger! I WOULD HAVE DONE THAT!"

A pause—precisely 2.84 seconds of computational silence.

"Actually," Taltos replied, "you can."

The statement hung in his awareness like an impossible proposition, defying the fundamental constraints of cellular biology.

"That's absurd," he countered.

"Conventional cells operate within rigid genetically-determined parameters," Taltos interrupted, her tone shifting toward something almost didactic. "But you possess a capability that transcends conventional limitations."

"What capability?"

"Your demonstrated ability to integrate and express foreign DNA with unprecedented efficiency," she explained. "This faculty could extend to genetic sequences encoding cellular enlargement."

He processed this information with increasing intrigue, the pressure from the expanding tylacoids momentarily forgotten. "You're saying I could absorb DNA that would let me... what? Grow larger without dividing?"

"Precisely," Taltos confirmed. "Multiple evolutionary lineages have developed mechanisms for exceptional cellular enlargement. The xenophyophores of abyssal marine environments can achieve macroscopic dimensions despite maintaining unicellularity. Certain algal species have evolved gigantism through specialized cytoskeletal arrangements. The Acetabularia genus maintains single cells reaching ten centimeters in length."

The possibilities unfurled before his awareness—genetic pathways that might alleviate his spatial constraints, that might allow room for his expanding complexity without sacrificing function.

"How would I even find such DNA?" he questioned, practical concerns surfacing amid theoretical possibilities.

"Your environment contains diverse genetic material," Taltos observed. "Bacterial lysates, free-floating nucleic acids, dormant spores—all potential sources of enlargement-related sequences. With your demonstrated capacity for horizontal gene transfer, acquisition is merely a matter of proximity and selection."

His attention extended outward, scanning his surroundings with newfound purpose. Beyond the immediate vicinity of his flagellar motion, the primordial medium teemed with molecular possibilities—fragments of genetic material suspended in the colloidal solution, the detritus of countless microscopic lives released through lysis and decay.

"I need something specific, I do not wish to take gamble on this one, as I'm sure if I acquire the wrong stuff, then I will just build something unnecessary that will make me explode," he mused, his flagella altering their undulation pattern to propel him in a systematic search pattern.

"It may be possible," Taltos conceded, her voice carrying a note of scientific caution. "However, I cannot determine the optimal enlargement pathway without more precise knowledge of your organismal classification. Your genomic structure contains elements reminiscent of prokaryotic systems, yet your information processing capabilities suggest something... unprecedented."

He propelled himself through the colloidal medium, flagella whipping in perfect coordination as he contemplated the problem. The primordial soup around him contained countless genetic fragments—broken chromosomes, plasmids, and viral capsids—each a potential blueprint for transformation.

"What if," he began, the thought crystallizing with sudden clarity, "I simply take over a bigger cell, free real estate, baby!"

His flagella stuttered momentarily in excitement, disrupting his carefully calculated search pattern. The concept seemed brilliantly obvious now that it had formed—why build a mansion when you could seize one?

"The proposal contains critical flaws," she explained. "Cellular invasion mechanisms typically require specialized molecular machinery evolved over millions of years—type III secretion systems, membrane fusion proteins, cytoskeletal manipulators. The Agrobacterium genus required 300 million years to perfect its plant cell transformation apparatus. Trypanosomes evolved complex variable surface glycoproteins through eons of host-parasite co-evolution."

She continued with clinical precision, "Furthermore, successful invasion would necessitate compatibility with the target cell's biochemical environment—appropriate osmotic pressure, compatible ATP synthesis pathways, non-antagonistic transcription factors. The likelihood of spontaneous compatibility approaches zero."

"But it might be possible," he insisted, unwilling to relinquish the elegant simplicity of his plan.

"The probabilistic outcome space is not favorable," Taltos responded. "However, biological systems occasionally achieve improbable configurations. The endosymbiotic origin of mitochondria represented a similarly unlikely event—a proteobacterium surviving phagocytosis to establish permanent residency within another cell. The statistical improbability of successful invasion is extreme, yet not zero."

His consciousness expanded outward, scanning the molecular landscape with newfound determination. Through his primitive sensory mechanisms, he detected a larger unicellular organism approximately 167 micrometers distant—an amoeboid entity pulsing with metabolic activity, its plasma membrane undulating as pseudopodia extended into the surrounding medium.

"That one," he decided, adjusting his flagellar rotation to propel himself toward the potential host. "I'll invade it. Take over its systems. Reprogram its genome to serve my needs."

"Your proposed strategy demonstrates fundamental misunderstandings of cellular biology," Taltos cautioned. "You cannot simply 'reprogram' a eukaryotic cell through proximity. The mechanisms of genetic integration, organelle subversion, and regulatory network manipulation represent complex challenges requiring specialized adaptations. Without appropriate—"

"Maybe if I try hard enough," he interrupted, accelerating toward the amoeboid cell with reckless determination. "Maybe if I just force my way in..."

"This approach is... uninformed," Taltos stated, her artificial voice somehow conveying the equivalent of an exasperated sigh. "The target cell possesses lysozymes, destructive enzymes, and immune-analog systems specifically evolved to destroy invading microorganisms. Your proposal resembles suggesting that a house cat might successfully invade and commandeer a military tank through sheer determination."

Nevertheless, he persisted, propelling himself with increasing velocity toward the unsuspecting amoeba. His makeshift flagella strained against the viscous medium, proteins creaking at molecular junctions never designed to withstand such forces. In his mind, triumph appeared inevitable—he would breach the cell membrane, subvert its nucleus, and expand into its voluminous cytoplasm like a conquering emperor.

"Your strategy lacks consideration of basic cellular defense mechanisms," Taltos continued, her analysis increasingly tinged with what almost sounded like concern. "The target organism will likely respond with phagocytosis, encapsulating your entire cellular structure within a digestive vacuole. Your constituent molecules will be systematically disassembled by hydrolytic enzymes, your nucleic acids degraded to individual nucleotides, your proteins reduced to amino acids. This is not a path to expansion, but to dissolution."

The amoeba's membrane rippled as he approached, pseudopodia extending toward his rapidly advancing form. What he had interpreted as a passive potential host was, in reality, an active predator sensing vibrations from his flagellar motion. The unicellular hunter's cytoskeleton reorganized with practiced efficiency, membrane proteins clustering to facilitate engulfment.

"No," he protested, suddenly comprehending the miscalculation, his flagella reversing rotation too late. "This isn't what I—"

"I attempted to explain the limitations of your proposed approach," Taltos observed as pseudopodia began to encircle his cellular body. "Invasion requires evolutionary adaptations you do not possess. The outcome now unfolding represents the statistically probable result of your strategy."

The amoeba's membrane enveloped him with inexorable purpose, cytoplasm flowing around his struggling form. Within seconds, he found himself trapped within a newly formed phagosome, membrane-bound and isolated from his former environment. Primitive terror flooded his consciousness as he detected the approach of lysosomes—specialized vesicles carrying digestive enzymes that would soon reduce his carefully constructed self to biological building blocks.

"Alternative strategies must be considered," Taltos stated, her voice somehow penetrating even this catastrophic situation. "Your demonstrated capacity for genetic manipulation suggests potential escape mechanisms. Certain bacterial species have evolved phagosome-disrupting factors—Listeria monocytogenes employs listeriolysin O to compromise phagosomal membranes, while Trypanosoma cruzi secretes trans-sialidase to facilitate escape."

This was not how it was supposed to go.

The moment the amoeba's membrane sealed around him, he knew he had made a horrible mistake.

He thrashed.

His flagella, once a tool of reckless propulsion, now served only to beat helplessly against the enclosing membrane. He twisted, he writhed, he fought— but the phagosome's walls held firm, a prison of his own making.

"No, no, no—"

A shudder rippled through his form as something new approached.

Something worse.

The lysosomes.

Tiny vesicles, packed with the molecular equivalent of acid and razors, closing in like executioners answering a summons. They carried within them the tools of absolute destruction, enzymes honed by a billion years of evolution to break down the unworthy, to reduce all that entered to nothing but raw material.

To unmake him.

"Taltos—!" His mind flared with alarm, desperate, grasping for anything.

"Alternative strategies must be considered,"she stated, her voice maddeningly calm even as death rushed toward him. "Your demonstrated capacity for genetic manipulation suggests potential escape mechanisms."

"Less theory, more fixing this!" he snapped, his cytoskeletal framework buckling against the ever-tightening membrane.

"Certain bacterial species have evolved phagosome-disrupting factors," Taltos continued, already searching through his internal genome for solutions. "Listeria monocytogenes employs listeriolysin O to compromise phagosomal membranes. Trypanosoma cruzi secretes trans-sialidase to facilitate escape."

The lysosomes drew closer.

"Great. And do I have those?"

"No."

A pause.

A moment of pure, primal panic.

"Then what the hell do I—"

But Taltos was already calculating, fabricating, reworking the blueprint of his being in real time.

"But," she amended, "your previous genetic acquisitions suggest an alternative. You possess modified thylakoid structures capable of generating proton gradients. Theoretically, these could be repurposed to destabilize the phagosomal membrane."

He stilled.

An energy burst.

Not a weapon in the traditional sense—but a shock, an overload, a way to force the membrane to do what it should not.

"Explain," he demanded, already shifting resources toward her proposed strategy.

"Thylakoid membranes generate proton gradients during photophosphorylation,"Taltos recited. "These gradients drive ATP synthesis but can also be redirected toward membrane potential manipulation. By forcing an uncontrolled electrochemical discharge—"

"—I can blow the damn thing apart."

The lysosomes were almost upon him.

"You are learning well. Congratulations!"

No time for refinement. No time for precision.

Only a blind, reckless gamble.

He redirected all available energy, every molecule of ATP, every ounce of metabolic power into his photosynthetic machinery.

His thylakoid membranes, once delicate structures for passive energy generation, screamed under the demand.

His proton pumps reversed.

The charged gradient built.

Built.

Built.

More.

More.

Too much. Far too much.

Taltos warned him.

"Warning: Membrane stability at critical threshold—"

But he did not stop.

The phagosomal membrane strained as the electrochemical charge climbed past its natural tolerances.

The lysosomes—mere micrometers away now, ready to pour their deadly contents upon him—

And then—

The explosion.

It was not a detonation in the conventional sense—there was no fire, no sound, no shrapnel.

But the force of the sudden electrochemical rupture was enough.

The membrane ruptured like an overinflated sac, tearing open, spilling its contents—including him—back into the cytoplasm of the amoeba.

"BREACH ACHIEVED," Taltos declared, already shifting to the next immediate problem.

Because he was not free yet.

No—he had just escaped from one trap into another.

He was still inside.

And the amoeba—now violently aware that something had gone terribly wrong inside it—was already moving to contain him again.

The cytoplasmic currents shifted. Microtubules reorganized. The very floor of this world was reassembling itself to fix the breach, to eliminate him.

"You must increase space," Taltos instructed, already working on a new plan.

"Increase space?! What the hell does that even—"

"Expand yourself."

"How?!"

"Osmotic manipulation."

He was already losing ground. The amoeba's repair mechanisms were closing the rupture, cytoskeletal elements pulling the shredded membrane back together. Seconds remained.

"Taltos, now would be a great time to tell me what the hell to do!"

"Your membrane contains aquaporins—transmembrane proteins capable of facilitating water transport. You must hypertonically induce osmotic influx to forcibly expand your volume."

"…You want me to make myself bloated?"

"Yes."

The plan was insane.

And it was his only chance.

He had no time to hesitate.

He immediately triggered an aquaporin influx, opening every available channel in his membrane.

Water flooded into him.

The sensation was immediate and overwhelming—his cytoplasm swelling, his internal structures straining against the sudden pressure increase.

His size doubled.

Then tripled.

The cytoplasmic gel around him distorted, deformed, struggling to contain this rapidly expanding intruder. The normal processes of the cell were not designed for this.

The amoeba's cytoskeleton buckled.

Its repair mechanisms hesitated.

And that hesitation was all he needed.

He launched himself forward, his overinflated form forcing apart the closing membrane.

And then—

He was out.

Back in the open medium, the cellular world stretching before him once more.

He did not stop.

Did not look back.

His flagella, still trembling from the insane exertion, drove him forward with a single, burning purpose:

Escape.

The amoeba lurched in response, sending out pseudopodia in a sluggish attempt to recapture him.

But he was faster.

And as the distance between them grew, as he left the dying echoes of his first, failed conquest behind—

He could not help but laugh.

"Oh, man—" he wheezed, his ATP levels plummeting, his systems burning from overuse. "That was the dumbest thing I've ever done."

"Indeed, glad you acknowledged."

- TO BE CONTINUED! -