Chapter One

Diana

            The fire rages before me. I stare, unblinkingly, into its destructive face. The boy is dragged across the broken ground, thrashing against the two men who pull him closer to the fires embrace. He begs for reprieve, a second chance, but fates in this universe are final and unwavering.

He meets my gaze, fear lining his light blue, pleading eyes. I look away, unable to offer this boy solace. As they lift his body from the ground, I’m forced to close my eyes, forced to drift away.

My hands trace the top of the wheat as I drift amongst the crops. Radiating downward, the sun soaks me, starting small fires on my skin. I don’t know where I am, or when I am, but small intricacies such as time are fleeting in my mind.

            The smell of honeydew teases my nostrils, and a smile pulls across my face. It’s a familiar scent. One that makes the body ache for home. I walk through the waist-high crops, pushing them aside softly as I maneuver. A quaint house sits in the distance, one that I can never reach.

            The screams snap me away from my mental oasis.  I watch the boy burn; his blonde hair cloaked by the fire that rages too close for comfort. Just another one to join those who have already fallen this week. The acrid smell is daunting, deceased livestock left out to rot. I much prefer honeydew.

            I watch his body thrash around amongst the brilliance of flames, sending ambers onto the ground. My heart aches in my chest, bile rises in my throat, begging for this boy to lie still and let the fire consume him.

            He’s still after a moment.

            “I thought we didn’t burn the living?” one man asks.

            “He made a wager he couldn’t honor,” says another.

            This is the month of the Harvest.

To distract myself, I empty my lungs before filling them again. I fantasize about the empty land, stretching leagues beyond my site, the quaint house, far away but full of light and life.  

            As horrors erupt before me, I often find myself retreating to this mental safe haven. I do not know where the farmland resides, or if it even exists, but I know it brings me comfort in the face of terror.  

            As I return to reality, my eyes remain fixated on the fire. Wind does not kill it; rain does not extinguish. It burns everlasting in the heart of our town, a trademark of destruction. Rumors tell us that the shadows of the dead give this place its name.

            The Shades are not a forgiving place. Children do not prance around the streets, laughing joyfully. The smell of a freshly cooked meal never wafts through the air. Love is rare, happiness fleeting. I am held captive by this inglorious enclosure.

            My mental oasis stands in stark difference with the Shades. Its endless borders stretch from sea to sea, no limitations disrupt one’s vision. There is no disdain there, no venomous mentality. Someone with more audacity might say that the people here are void of empathy, sympathy, only fueled by contempt and rage. I choose to be different, stand tall amongst the slouched. It doesn’t do much good.

            Looking at the tall wall that holds me prisoner, some say that it stands perfectly erect. As I look upward into the night, the wall seems to slant inward as it grows tall, threatening to fall and eviscerate that which is left of our depressed civilization.

            The wall has supposedly stood for decades and will stand for decades more. It was protectionary after our world grew cold, our nights long, and our people few. There are no exits, no ladders tall enough to reach the walls summit. I run my hand along its rough exterior as I walk slowly. It’s uneven and cracked, but my fingers are so calloused that I hardly feel the difference in each stone. My shadow dances around the prison wall, casted by the fire that doesn’t idle.

Leaning with my back against the wall, I look out amongst the Shades. Our town is misshapen. The fire illuminates the heart of the town, accompanied by the teaching facility. Our capital building used to stand beside it, but last year’s Festival encouraged a few rowdy inhabitants to burn it down.

The Western side of the city is the only source of food we have. Our dense farmland is inconsistent and provides us with rice, potato, and corn. Most of the effort is breaking through the rough surface of the dirt when it grows hard from the sun’s stare.       

            Houses held together with string line the Eastern side. They lean against each other for support as their foundations have long since crumpled. The wooden exteriors are rotten, covered in uncontrollable weeds and mold.  It is an ongoing effort to maintain one’s home. They must constantly worry of the possibility of their house collapsing, pinning them to the rough ground that we try to break.

The Harvest Festival rages on behind me. People fill the dirt streets, emerging from their homes to join together for the annual celebration. 

            People play instruments, singing songs of the past. The off-key melody floats ghostly through the dark night. No one minds the acidity of the air; the rotting flesh does not stop those around the fire from enjoying its blaze.

I stare into the vastness of the sky, trying to see the buildings that stand vacant beyond the outer wall. My friends never believe me, but I swear, with the right lighting I can see those phantom buildings, mausoleums of the past.          

            My mind wanders as it’s acquainted to do. I drift amongst the crop once again, the house growing closer with each stride. A faint voice calls for me. Diana, Diana, it’s time!  

            “Are you just going to stand there all night?” The anxiety in my chest relinquishes as I’m pulled from the dream. A dorky smile hangs on the boy’s face. He’s awkwardly shaped, standing at average height, skin pale, his physique isn’t sustainable for what this world will demand of him. I can always see him through the crowds, the light reflecting off of his broken, circular spectacles that can never seem to sit properly on his thin face. “You know there’s a party going on, right?”

            I walk up and pull him into a tight hug. His rough hand slides under my shirt, cupping my lower back. “I always appreciate your optimism, Quinn, but I suppose there isn’t much to celebrate,” I reply, more somberly than I intended.

            Pulling back, Quinn stares at me, adjusting his glasses. “That’s no attitude to have. Let’s get you a drink.”

            Grabbing my hand, he pulls me toward the festivities. We make our way through the tightly knit crowd. I can smell the dirt and filth that paints each inhabitant’s skin. The fire warms me as we grow near, tickling my skin with its outstretched hands.

            I walk by all the familiar faces. The parents sing and dance in circles, trying to engage the children in their party. Everyone wears similar robes. Dirty and torn, the grey clothing hangs from our bodies.

            “Doesn’t it just feel fake to you?” I ask.

            Quinn stops by a table lined with mead. He grabs a cup and puts it in my hand. “I believe that questions like that can wait until tomorrow.”

            His efforts to pull me out of my own mind make me smile. I’m not sure how he’s so positive, but I hope to emanate that feeling someday.

            I tip the cup back, drinking the sour beer. It stings my throat is it goes down. The harsh liquid coating my dry throat. I haven’t drunk anything since the day prior. Alcohol is plentiful in the Shades; we barely harvest enough wheat to be able to concoct it, but our people prefer deal with hunger in the desire for intoxication. Quinn laughs at my facial expression.

            Punching him in the arm, he feigns pain. “You know I’m not much of a drinker.”

            “That’ll change,” he says. We stand by the table in silence, watching the parents and children dance in the night. This energy will be short-lived, but people around here need this release. I just wish I could let go of the demons clouding my own mind to enjoy it as well.

            Ellie and Tobi walk over to us, both with eager smiles on their faces. Ellie tucks her blonde hair behind her ears as she approaches. She’s as thin as a pole, but almost as tall as Quinn, odd for a girl in this age. “Come, dance with us,” she demands. Her scratchy voice has a uniqueness that isn’t replicable. I initially thought it was due to dehydration, but it seems to be an inherent trait.

            Her secretly betrothed, Tobi, stands almost a head shorter than her. His face is youthful and his brown skin always appears smooth. With hair longer than most girls, the mop is tied needfully with a spare piece of cloth behind his head. “Let’s enjoy this night while it lasts,” he says with a high-pitched voice.

            “I’m really not feeling like-” I begin.

            Ellie grabs my hands, pulling me to the middle of the group as the music floats through the air. In the moment, I forget that we dance five feet away from the gravesite of a dozen people, swallowed by the flame. She twirls me around as Tobi and Quinn watch from the side.

            They join us eventually and we dance to the ghostly tune of the instruments. The energy of the group is the only thing keeping me going. Quinn pulls me to the side and dips me. The rushing feeling makes me panic as the blood rushes to my head and I grab his arm. It’s thin, but strong. The dense muscle will do nothing but coarsen over the next few years. He looks down at me cheekily. Pulling me up, I wrap my arms around him.

            “I can tell that you’re worried,” he says, concern lining his voice.

            “Aren’t you?” I ask.

            He shakes his head. “The Harvest isn’t happening for another month, Diana.” He reaches up, tucking my midnight hair behind my ear. “There’s no sense worrying about things you can’t control.”

            I don’t respond as he leans forward and kisses me. I sink into the moment and try to forget about the daunting reality that my future holds. His lips are coarse and rough, a stench of sweat and mead on his skin, but he’s better than most deserve.

            Commotion erupts from the mead table, snapping my attention in that direction.

            I watch as two adults fight over the last cup. They scream at each other in drunken slurs. It isn’t long before hurtful words turn to swinging fists. They roll on the ground fighting each other. Everyone watches, amused by the entertainment.

            “People are such animals,” Quinn says.

            “Shouldn’t someone stop them?” I say, watching as the fight turns more vicious.

            Quinn shrugs. “It’ll end as it always does.” His nonchalant attitude towards violence sends a shiver down my spine. Every day in this miserable city yields worse results.

            One man gains ground on the other, punching his opponent repeatedly. Blood covers the man’s face as he lies on the ground, moaning in pain. The aggressor rises and stomps on the man’s throat, delivering the lethal blow everyone was waiting for.

            “Is he-” I begin to ask, but my question is answered before I can ask it. The drunken man stumbles away from the corpse, eagerly grabbing the last cup and downing it in one gulp.

            As the man walks away, a few other adults move to the body. They pick him up and toss him into the fire that rages at the heart of the festival. The smell amplifies.

            Everyone watches, no one intervenes. Some look on horridly as the man burns, but attention diverts after mere moments, as if nothing ever happened.

Chapter Two

Diana

The food is ice-cold, and its depressing tastelessness makes my throat pinch as I force the rough texture down. I’m not sure what it is exactly, but I know it’s cheap and I know that I’ll survive if I eat it. I know that it’s the best I can do.

The lunchroom hugs those who reside in it. The school is made of a few rooms that pass as lecture halls and several courtyards filled with brimstone, to practice mining. Long tables line the lunchroom as our class sits silently, staring into the acrylic bowls of bland food before us.

            Eating is no social occasion. We don’t really speak anymore since there’s nothing to talk about other than the school we’re being forced to endure. They teach us different rock faces, different ways of farming certain crops, and where we have to place them once we’re done.

            The festivities of the night prior have faded quickly in our minds. After the corpses burnt, people returned to their homes. It was too harsh a reminder of our true nature.

            Our very future is detrimentally bound to our ability to endure slavery to hard, unresponsive ground. If we do not harvest, we do not survive. We’re simply bound here. We abide by the rules of the ground, even as we dig into it.

            People pretend that the Harvest is a wonderful time of year, that we are free to choose our own outcomes, but the Festival was created to distract people. It’s just another reason to get drunk and forget that we don’t really have purpose.

            Then the Harvest will commence, the Visitors will come, as they do every year. One hundred children, each eighteen years of age, will be removed from the Shades and never returned. We do not know where they enter, or where they exit. The Visitors appear in their ghostly attire, removing loved ones from families.

            I have one month left. One month of school before they come. Anxiety has been high as we approach the Harvest, especially amongst the youngest of us. Our group of misfits doesn’t stand a chance in this world. None of us are physically fit enough to fight off the Visitors, and we have no idea what fate lies ahead if we’re taken. Many think death, a relief to most.

            Some people toy with the idea of venturing off to a superior civilization. They project that the one-hundred eighteen-year-olds stolen every year are handpicked and often the smartest, most physically fit teenagers. This delirium continues to implant itself, its roots always weaving their way around the minds of the kids. There are many parents that train for this very day, hoping their kids will get taken.

            They praise the Harvest, treating it as a religion.

            Calling our group logical thinkers might be a slight overstep, but we are realists. We know the outcome, we know the risks, and they just don’t add up. “Let’s promise each other something,” Quinn blurts out, startling me and the others. He wears the same robes as the night before and shuffles in his seat at the creaky, wooden table.

            His eyes peers up through his cracked spectacles, a scared deer in the eyes of a train. “If any of us do make it, we come back for the others.” I can hear the quiver in his voice. The slight uncertainty as he comes to the conclusion that one of us might be gone for eternity in less than a month’s time.

            It makes me smile. His slight optimism steers the realistic side of my brain and allows me to fantasize an outcome that doesn’t end in death or endless slavery. “I suppose I could come back for you three. That is, for a small fee,” I wink as I speak. The energy of the group picks up as all four of us exchange ludicrous ideas of payment for the chance at living in a utopia, some bordering on the edge of obscene.

            The laughter dies after a few fleeting moments, as it always does, and we return to our depressing entrées. “We’re a lost cause, aren’t we?” Ellie asks, furrowing her brow and giving voice to a thought that we’ve all had since being informed of the Harvest.

            “We best get used to farming,” Tobi says with a solemn half grin as he toys with a loose piece of brown hair that is still strapped behind his head. His high-pitched voice is hard to decipher, but I’m pretty sure it was a joke rather than a morbid realization. Perhaps it was both.

            I sink into my own mind. What will happen if I’m taken? Will I be able to recall these conversations? Will my friends become a memory?

“I’m sure this is difficult for you, isn’t it Diana?” Ellie asks. I give her an inquisitive look. She clears her throat, trying to keep her tone upbeat. “I was just-,” she pauses. “I was thinking of you rbrother and all. The odds are much higher that you will be taken since your brother was.”

I nod my head, internally refusing to answer. Of course, I had been thinking of my brother. It’s only been six years, but it felt like it was a lifetime ago. In merely a month, I could be walking out these doors, mirroring his footsteps. Or my friends could be. It’s a tough pill to swallow and a bridge I’ll be forced to cross, one way or another.

            A loud burst of excitement resonates from a table close by, disturbing my introspection. Five people sit there, a table of pure strength, everyone at it has trained their whole lives just to be worthy of the falsified myth of a utopia. Knowing their odds of actually making it, I’m surprised they’re all friends.

            We call them the Hopefuls. All the individuals who imagined they were destined to be taken. They are mirror reflections of each other. Tall, strong, and arrogant, they sit at the table willfully ignorant to the alternate outcomes that could be possible with the Harvest.

            I hear Zayn speaking loudly, his boisterous attitude coming off nothing short of obnoxious and entitled. The boy is built thicker than the wall that surrounds us. His black hair cropped short, dark eyes always menacing. “All I know is that if anyone gets in my way out there, I’ll put them in the ground.”

            He’s met by the cheers of his fellow Hopefuls. My group just ignores them. Their banter is annoying and useless. Truthfully, none of us have any clue as to what will happen. We have no idea if they fight each other, or if they’re too busy fighting whatever lies in the daunting abyss outside the walls of the Shades.

            Page steals a bite of food from Zayn’s plate. His skin is a unique shade of brown, darker than anyone else who lives in the Shades. He scratches his shortly cropped, black hair as he chews on the food. “Best be taking it easy on the food there, my friend. The Visitors don’t want an indulgent pig.” Zayn says, pushing Page back.

            Something flashes in Page’s eyes. I almost miss it, but the competitive nature of his group has him chewing at his own anger. “We’ll see what happens,” Page says with his normal deep, demanding tone. His composure breaks as he laughs and pushes Zayn, relieving the tension.

            If the Hopeful’s theory is correct and I was a Visitor looking for the most malicious, able-bodied of the group, they would be my first two choices. In terms of mental strength, that’s a different story, but from the vigorous training their parents put them through, I wouldn’t be surprised if they went undefeated in hand-to-hand combat against anyone in the Shades.

            “I’d rather not fight either of them if I get chosen,” Quinn mumbles, sounding more inferior than ever.

            I lean my head on his shoulder. His shirt is still damped from his time in the courtyard before lunch. “I’d put money on you, big guy.” I try to not sound too demeaning. After all, Quinn is more intelligent than both Zayn and Page combined. The only downfall would be his size and strength. The kid doesn’t weigh more than a pickaxe.

            “Easy for you to say, Diana, you come from a family that’s already been picked. You might actually have a chance.” Pulling back, I see the envy in his face and it tells me a story that he never would. He wants to leave.

            I guess we all do in one way or another. As much as being torn away from my misfits and my family would ruin me, I can’t imagine the grueling life of a farmer. I can’t imagine pounding away on the dense ground for the rest of my life. To live without purpose is to live without clarity.

            “That doesn’t mean I’m going to be chosen. In fact, I hope I’m not. In case you haven’t realized, I’m not trying to die.” I point at Zayn and Page as I speak, making Quinn grin as he scoops more tasteless slob into his mouth.

            “You know the odds are higher, Diana,” Tobi says with a mouthful of the grub.

            I already know the odds. I just don’t want to acknowledge them. A pit settles deep in my stomach. The anxiety begins to chip away internally, wearing my down like water through corn crop. “The odds don’t matter, I’m not leaving.” I try to sound determined, but something in Ellie’s eyes tells me that I’m not as convincing as I hoped.

            “Would it really be that bad of a thing?” Ellie says, avoiding eye contact and playing with her matted blonde hair. “You’d get to leave the Shades forever.” A sense of longing stirs in her voice as the words leave her mouth. It fills me with remorse, but a part of me knows that there’s nothing I can do to help her.

            “I’d never see you three again,” my voice cracks as I speak. We’ve had this conversation numerous times; all three of them believing our goodbye is coming toward us like a wagon without brakes. Soon I’d be ripped away, tossed into an unknown fate.

            We sit in silence for a moment. “It would suck a lot, and I mean totally suck, but hear me out. Maybe it would be for the best,” Ellie says.

            I allow the internal struggle to fade from my mind. It’s becoming overwhelming. The sound of metal clanging against bowls fills my ears. I don’t have a reply for her, so I refuse to hear it. I block out the possibility of my world being flipped upside down, more so than it already has been. I block out the possibility of following in my brother’s eager footsteps, only to come up empty handed and alone, without my family or friends to support me.

            Tobi reaches out and covers my hand with his. A boy of sweaty palm, it’s something I’ll always remember about Tobi. “We have a month still, Diana. We have time to say a proper goodbye.” He must notice my face drain of color as he says that. “If it even happens at all. Like you said, there’s a fair chance that none of us get picked.”

            At this point, I don’t even care if he’s lying through his teeth, I appreciate the gesture. I rub my hand over my dirty face, taking in a few deep breaths of the dry air, trying to relax my mind.

            Something stirs in the back of my mind. I can’t relax. Something has awoken at the thought of meeting these mysterious Visitors that is begging to be released.

            I settle myself as we all get up from the table, going back to the front of the room to dispose of our dishes.

            I still have a month, I tell myself, repeating the phrase over and over again, steadying myself with each repetition.

            The door to the cafeteria blows inward as a figure comes bursting through it. He raises his hand and exposes a piece of paper. I feel tiny daggers dig through me and rip me apart from the inside. He holds it high and with a firm hand.

            His words come, each syllable puncturing me in the gut, just as his entrance did. “The Harvest Happens This Week.” He reads confidently, but his words are dulled by the voice echoing inside my head.

            My knees grow weak and a cold sweat overtakes me. Blackness plays at the edge of my vision, teasing me with the bliss of unconsciousness. I was supposed to have a month, thirty days with my friends. Now tonight might be goodbye. The thought is too overwhelming. I faintly hear someone, perhaps Tobi, ask if I’m alright, but it’s a lost cause.

            We leave the cafeteria quickly, heading our separate ways to go inform our parents. Our fates will be decided soon, and there’s nothing we can do about it.

Chapter Three

Rogue

            Rats under a microscope squirm when focused on, even though they don’t know they’re being watched. They just go about their day, acting normal while we manipulate their lives, constantly changing their circumstances. They flinch when we roar, they die when we please. We’re able to completely manipulate their lives with the push of a button, the flick of a finger.

            I lean over the projected hologram of the Shades, watching the children run around in my created universe.

I’ve been called sadistic before. They call us false gods, the rulers of a planet that we don’t even understand. They’re rats, those mortals, useless bodies that do what we please and die when we wish. I suppose I could go by the name they’ve awarded us, “the Visitors”. It’s bland and lacks anything even resembling creativity, but what more can you expect from vermin?

I laugh as I set the man on fire. He is merely an added color to my painting, a small intricacy of my grand design. The children believe it to be real, and that’s all that matters.

            I remember when I swore my life to the cause, my parents were so proud. It took me five years to prove myself. Rising in rank and earning the respect of the elders was one of the hardest things I ever had to do, but I had never been prouder.

            I stare down at my world. I watch as the hundred kids react to our false variables as if they were reality.

            The Shades. I’ve always hated the name. You’d think someone who’s smart enough to build a simulated universe that tracks mental psychosis and cognitive ability would choose a name that’s less cynical.

            But I guess you can’t be hundreds of years old without forming some sadistic inclinations. Years become minutes; decades feel like days. My kind is undying and eternal.

            I walk across the control room. It’s a circular chamber, made fully of metal and computer screen. It smells of spring, a pleasant aroma for the horrors we commit in this room.

Stopping in front of a mirror, I stare at my perfect reflection. A stranger would assume me human. My features mimic that of the lower race, but I am most certainly of the Divine. I keep my hair neat, as is our kind. The light brown strands are delicately styled atop my head while the sides are trimmed short. I trace a soft finger over my cheek. My skin is growing a paler shade of beige than I prefer, an unfortunate side effect of running this simulation.

The white robes hang from my shoulders, more vibrant and fresh than any other material available on this planet. Gold trimming lines the white attire, the sign of royalty. My mother and father sit on the Divine Council and have done so for three hundred years.

            A mortal boy once asked me what it was like to live forever. I didn’t have an answer for him; I do not often answer the sheep when they speak. It’s a future that he couldn’t even imagine.

            Fingers fly over keys in the control room, echoing the sounds of execution. Everyone has a role, some control the crop, some the people. Others read the vitals and monitor the psychosis of the children. I simply monitor their progress, make decisions, and play god.

            Walking to the only window in the small, circular room, I stare out at our creation. The sky is bluer than most thought possible. The sun radiates over the green landscape with the perfect amount of luster. I take a deep breath and feel a tingle deep in my chest that isn’t often felt from within. After all this time, all this effort, we truly have mastered this planet.

Alaria stands strong and resourceful. The city is a masterpiece designed by my kind, layered in circular tranches around this building. It is designed to mirror the circular paths of planets in a solar system, revolving around the most important star, the Institute. The circular divider around each section acts as a guard between the Divine from the abhorrent mortals. As you move outward, through the tranches, the division and structure become apparent. The Divine control the inner circles, living in large, luxurious homes and condominiums. The mortals reside in shacks and dirt holes in the middle, circular tranches. To ensure that the mortals follow our orders, the members of the Divine Council and other noble folk inhabit the outer edges of Alaria in large estates and old, renovated castles that we took from the mortals. We have them surrounded on all sides and they abide by our wishes.

            Water is cleansed and brought in by large stations that we have residing a few miles from the main hub. We live off the land, forming large areas of vegetation and forest just outside of Alaria. Meat is hardly a part of our diet, but when it is, we genetically engineer it using machines we brought from our home planet, Aegasia. Animals do not suffer beneath our ever-loving hands. We hold their precious ignorance in a much higher regard than the mortal, human filth. They are just tools to us.

            Closing my eyes, I can compare our creation to the wasteland it once was. Riddled with radiation, death, and war, the area was uninhabitable. This world was broken before we assumed power. We fixed the system on the backs of those who broke it, yet still they have so little regard for us.

            Their greed, their arrogance had to be rectified. They had to be held accountable.

            Returning to the control panel, I click a few buttons, changing the weather of the Shades. It’s a small variable, but the dark, looming sky will increase the depressed mentality that I’ve perfected.

            I return to the overview of the simulation, looking down at the projection.

            Sometimes I almost feel bad. When another mortal dies, it makes me think of the plausibility of my own death. Our life spans last infinitely longer than the swine we rule over. Their lives are so short, utterly meaningless. They don’t have time to make a true impact, to fully adjust their vision and refine their focus. After all, their lives are nothing but a faint flicker quickly extinguished. They age quickly and become incompetent within the span of a few decades.

            Watching the Shades typically only serves to irritate me. It truly is an agonizing simulation. The children run about our crafted world, unaware that they are really sitting in chairs, completely still, painfully alone.

            They don’t question why no one leaves the Shades or why people carelessly farm plentiful crops that have been deemed useless and of excess in reality. A lot of the people within the simulation have only been placed there to put stress on the children. They’re crafted to make their lives a living hell. The mind reveals plenty while under stress.

            “Sir, the transition is scheduled for tomorrow. The General wants to know if you are prepared.” The interruption of my mental flow angers me, but I allow such petty human emotions to slide.

            I smile kindly at the lower officer. “Of course, I am,” I answer boldly. That’s how we address one another; confidently and full of tenacity.

            The officer grins back, bowing slightly and tipping his hat towards me before turning and walking away. His white robes are trimmed with grey, the symbol of a ranking officer. Our vertical hierarchy requires order. Although we truly take no physical power over one another, we respect the way things are. It allows us to live harmoniously with one another while avoiding a power struggle. We aren’t rats fighting for scraps of cheese.

            I walk back over to the simulation overview. I lean over the hologram and stare at it intently. A story my father used to tell me rings loudly in my head, echoing endlessly throughout the chasm of my mind. He would tell me of our first visit to Earth in a thousand years. He would explain to me the disgust of our people. How the humans had tarnished the planet we had so graciously given them. Their greed and lust for power had made them blinded to the image we’ve crafted. They had deteriorated the planet to a critical point.

            It was then that my family and several others decided to permanently inhabit this planet.  I stand obediently running this operation. My parents gave me their command and I’m here to ensure the efficiency of it.