The spirit who arrives to greet them appears equally cautious as they step carefully forward with hands clasped before them and look at the three. Only half the face is masked, for the other half is formed of long, unruly, restless tentacles that explode outward from the cratered cranium. Otherwise, this is one of the more humanoid spirits they've seen - tall, bipedal, with dry, cracked hands and bare feet and even a visible ear. The adopted clothing, an oversized but nicely-ironed suit, looks to be carefully cared for.
Perhaps then it is no surprise that such a spirit appreciates the neatness and precision required for origami. After studying the trio, they finally decide to bend down and collect the pieces, then stand again to inspect them. As they do, the paper blackens and crumbles to ash in their hands slowly, as if lit by invisible fire. They hold the star aloft, and the ashes blow to the three. Their vision catches at the corners; embers spiral wildly and the world curls and burns away, leaving blackness.
Sound comes before vision. Labored breathing, and a far-distant rumble as everything shakes. The light is so bright he swears he can see it through his eyelids, even though he knows this is a safe distance, and the protective shelter around him will filter out the worst of it. The power plant is one of the safest areas in town.
Not that it matters. They're all dead anyway. Bryson just wants to live long enough to see this through to the end. Whatever future this world has might not even have people left, so he slips his glove off, revealing red, rotting skin, and resumes his writing.
I've just heard the third volley. Should be the last. If that damned thing is still walking around out there then I guess we're all fucked.
I remember reading War of the Worlds when I was a kid. Martian invasion seems preferable to this. I always thought it'd be exciting, being one of the guys to fight the aliens, defend the world. Hero of humanity and all that shit. Now I just hope it was worth the price.
If anyone ever finds this, stick to what you know, all right? There's a reason we're born afraid of the dark. That shit out there ain't what the books and movies make it out to be. Aliens, gods, whatever you want to call it, we're just lunch to them and if the whole of humanity gets killed by some motherfucking alien having lunch on a Wednesday then...
Fuck, man. Then I don't know. I guess we're not all we think we're cracked up to be if that's what our whole species gets reduced to in the end.
Dan said it was always gonna be the cockroaches who'd live through this, so I guess if you're a cockroach that learned to read, congratulations. You win the big prize. Inheritors of the world. Glad we could hand it off to your capable selves. Because then at least you're here. At least then something survived.
Harder to write. My hand barely moves. Feels like my bones are burning. So here's Bryson Langstrom's last words:
Fuck you, Maridel Solis.
He tries to set the journal down but drops it instead. Fuck it, good enough. He's too full of rot and decay and death to worry about that now. He drags himself up onto his failing feet and peers out the window, across the open expanse of barren mountainside. Used to be a forest there once, he thinks. Used to be trees. Now it's just rock.
But with all the smoke, he can't see clearly enough to know if the launch worked. He turns, and his ankles collapse, so he drags his way to the radio, to the long-range monitors, to the cameras installed up on their towers that are close enough to see in the persistent twilight. There's a black stain in the middle of the crater, and all he can think is Thank God, it worked.
He leans against the console and closes his eyes.
When they open, Soldat, Misty, and Javert look at the spirit with its long half-face, who watches them back. It makes no attempt to speak - it doesn't even look like it has a mouth, really - but finally gives a deep and very formal-looking bow.
no subject
Perhaps then it is no surprise that such a spirit appreciates the neatness and precision required for origami. After studying the trio, they finally decide to bend down and collect the pieces, then stand again to inspect them. As they do, the paper blackens and crumbles to ash in their hands slowly, as if lit by invisible fire. They hold the star aloft, and the ashes blow to the three. Their vision catches at the corners; embers spiral wildly and the world curls and burns away, leaving blackness.
Sound comes before vision. Labored breathing, and a far-distant rumble as everything shakes. The light is so bright he swears he can see it through his eyelids, even though he knows this is a safe distance, and the protective shelter around him will filter out the worst of it. The power plant is one of the safest areas in town.
Not that it matters. They're all dead anyway. Bryson just wants to live long enough to see this through to the end. Whatever future this world has might not even have people left, so he slips his glove off, revealing red, rotting skin, and resumes his writing.
I've just heard the third volley. Should be the last. If that damned thing is still walking around out there then I guess we're all fucked.
I remember reading War of the Worlds when I was a kid. Martian invasion seems preferable to this. I always thought it'd be exciting, being one of the guys to fight the aliens, defend the world. Hero of humanity and all that shit. Now I just hope it was worth the price.
If anyone ever finds this, stick to what you know, all right? There's a reason we're born afraid of the dark. That shit out there ain't what the books and movies make it out to be. Aliens, gods, whatever you want to call it, we're just lunch to them and if the whole of humanity gets killed by some motherfucking alien having lunch on a Wednesday then...
Fuck, man. Then I don't know. I guess we're not all we think we're cracked up to be if that's what our whole species gets reduced to in the end.
Dan said it was always gonna be the cockroaches who'd live through this, so I guess if you're a cockroach that learned to read, congratulations. You win the big prize. Inheritors of the world. Glad we could hand it off to your capable selves. Because then at least you're here. At least then something survived.
Harder to write. My hand barely moves. Feels like my bones are burning. So here's Bryson Langstrom's last words:
Fuck you, Maridel Solis.
He tries to set the journal down but drops it instead. Fuck it, good enough. He's too full of rot and decay and death to worry about that now. He drags himself up onto his failing feet and peers out the window, across the open expanse of barren mountainside. Used to be a forest there once, he thinks. Used to be trees. Now it's just rock.
But with all the smoke, he can't see clearly enough to know if the launch worked. He turns, and his ankles collapse, so he drags his way to the radio, to the long-range monitors, to the cameras installed up on their towers that are close enough to see in the persistent twilight. There's a black stain in the middle of the crater, and all he can think is Thank God, it worked.
He leans against the console and closes his eyes.
When they open, Soldat, Misty, and Javert look at the spirit with its long half-face, who watches them back. It makes no attempt to speak - it doesn't even look like it has a mouth, really - but finally gives a deep and very formal-looking bow.