Last little bit I couldn't quite fit in. [spoiler]The day passed Moreau by, busy like it always was. A mad scramble from patient to patient, hurried talking, on the verge of shouting above the gathered and packed crowds. Mad dashes from here to there, scrambling to work on somebody as they were moved along in stretchers, or pushed along on hospital beds. The days were always like this. At the end of his shift, he could hardly stand. But still, he found it in him to consider walking back home. And walk he did, winding down in the night as old streetlights, those that were still standing, those that worked, came on, with some effort as they flickered weakly. Not that it made much of a difference in the dark haze of the night. Smog, ash, and dust still prevailed. But the city took on a quieter light. As people, and not just Moreau, called it quits for the day. He didn’t have to struggle so hard to pass through crowds now, as they thinned out for the night. But, even as the crowds thinned, life endured. The night life, speaking precisely. The usual shady sorts began to wake up for the evening, appearing in more number as Moreau made his way home. It was strange to him. How “normal” everybody tried to be. Like there was no dust. No ash. No ruins. Like the wars never happened. The disasters never happened. Life went on. But Moreau knew otherwise. Since the wars, and the fire. Since the great storms or the collapsing environment. There wasn’t much left. Cancer rates were skyrocketing. Mutations were occurring, more and more common, in the wake of lingering radiation and toxins. And through all of it, like the truest, darkest side to all of this. Old hatreds persisted. All this ruin and people still found the strength to throw life away, when now, more than ever, Moreau knew that every life counted. And then, in the middle of all the dying and the dirt, like some profound miracle, they came. Moreau stopped in his tracks as the wind howled and blew dust over him in the night, as a commotion in the streets rose, met with the shouts of some people, surprise or sudden terror. The wind picked up, blowing harder across Moreau’s face mask, as a whining sound like whirring metal broke out through the howl of the wind. Dust was pushed aside, along with people who fled the premises in the wake of what was descending upon them. Bright light and mechanical whirring blasted through the streets as Moreau stood still in the middle of the road, along with traffic or other people, watching as an immense building sized hunk of rock descended from the ash and fog, parting it in the wake of its powerful engines. Loud whirring persisted, shaking the street and swaying the lamp posts with heavy vibrations, and Moreau watched as a wall of orange light appeared, starting at the end of the street, before passing down along through everything, silently and easily gliding through whatever it passed over. Seeders. Moreau stood still as the orange wall approached him quickly, passing through him and the people around him effortlessly, before it finished its sweep of the street. Without a warning, the machinery embedded into the roughly one story tall, building sized dark rock that stayed suspended high in the choked air effortlessly ignited once more, wailing and whirring with impressive force as the broken and cracked pavement rattled at Moreau’s feet. Dust blew across the streets, as the engines ignited in full, and with one final push, the ship rose suddenly, disappearing into the night, leaving the small gap in the ash and dust choked streets to close up again. The usual sound of common wind picked up again. And slowly, but surely, with the return of normalcy, people emerged and continued about with their business. Moreau smiled under his mask, something laced not with happiness or humor, but that of quiet resignation. Some miracle they were. Not even first contact changed things. [/spoiler]