The city had gone into a state of emergency. He observed that through his child outside the hospital, they had set up a decontamination unit outside of the emergency department in order to mitigate the number of contaminated people spreading the nerve agent inside and limit cross-contamination, though they hadn’t been able to locate a hot zone, Roxom thought smugly. It was past noon now, and the number of cases had swelled greatly as he and his progeny upped the dosage. Deaths had become more frequent.

Nearby him one such human gasped for breath, a high pitched, distressed sound, a hand on his trunk as it vomited onto his roots. Disgusting creatures, he thought, offended at yet another indignity. But this suited him quite well. He increased the nerve gas significantly, pumping it out until the human collapsed on the ground, seizuring. At last it drew its final breath, a shuddering gasping thing, fluids leaking from its face.

Roxom carefully lifted the body in his roots, dragging it closer and positioning it, long dark hair trailing behind in the dirt. It was a little small, he thought ruefully, but he would make due. He shoved his roots down its throat, searching for compatibility in their very different forms. Ah. Yes, a nervous system, electrical impulses flowing through them much like his own roots. He followed them all the way up to a large fleshy organ in its head. Yes, this would do perfectly. It was a bit regrettable he would be leaving so much of his plant body behind, but it was necessary in order to take on a human form. He poured his root system into the body, replacing its nerve network, the body bulging strangely under his ministrations. Finally, he was in, stuffing the body like a doll. Branches broke through its facial orifices, flowers emerging from its eyes, ears, and mouth. Much more beautiful, Roxom thought vainly. He couldn’t bear to wear a skin without his splendid crown of flowers. Butterflies fluttered and bees buzzed lazily around his head, continuing their pollination, unbothered by the disruption to his shape.

It took him a while to fully grasp the logistics of his new body, his initial attempts at a two legged walk were an embarrassment, and he was glad the star-beast wasn’t around to witness it. On the fourth try he got it, managing not to fall, unsteadily tottering around the near empty park. Humans had been advised to stay indoors, as if that could protect them from the repercussions of their folly.

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He walked and walked, gaining more stability as he went and spreading the gas throughout the city, checking in on his obedient children. They had the culling well in hand.

He circled the city, watching with a perverse satisfaction as his work brought the humans down. Around him humans too incapacitated to react to his newly wrought body writhed, dripping human fluids. Their kin tried desperately to care for them, despite experiencing the effects as well. Their struggle for survival, was it really so different from his own? Would he have cared for his forest companions with such attention, if he had been awake when they had taken down his home? The humans weren’t without some virtue, he thought reluctantly.

Suddenly it all felt very hollow. He had his revenge, he had his new body. What would he have after the genocide was complete? He would have nothing. No old forest friends, no humans traipsing around, admiring him, and his children were self-sufficient. He was unneeded, unappreciated. He had wanted them to pay, yes, but more than that he wanted their worship, he realized. He was their god, and they should honor him with tribute and adoration.

He adjusted course. It was time for a miracle.

He arrived at the decontamination tent, a wreath of horrified humans trailing after him from a safe distance, bewitched by the macabre sight of a walking dead. He entered the tent, hospital personnel in thick protective gear freezing in fright at the sight of him, a strange walking corpse, head a garland of flowers with bees and butterflies aflurry around it. He continued inwards, ignoring the humans’ panic, entering the area where most of the patients lay comatose, tended to by the staff.

He opened his hands, his arms stretched wide, releasing the antidote as a visible vapor through his human pores, so similar to his stroma. The cloud of gas dispersed to screams of terror, those still mobile scrambling away. But that was fine, it wasn’t those that he was aiming for. Slowly, as the gas dissipated, those incapacitated and on the edge of death stood up, miraculously healed. They knelt at Roxom’s feat, praising him. This. This is what he had wanted, what he deserved. He reveled in their worship.