WORLD: Xaweth, TIME: 2156, CHARACTER: Lyla

The last candle went out. It flickered with the last bits of will that remained, as if to show us that we should be fading away too, soon. And we all knew how very true that was. Silent music went on in my head, endlessly repeating verses that I have heard years ago, many years and maybe more, far away in another world it seemed. But truth was that the world that was coming to its end was not light-years away, distant and unknown, but it was our world, the cities in which we lived in ignorance and sweet happiness.

I looked out of the window, an empty hole of my hideaway's walls, onto the plains covered with dust and ashes, empty and lifeless remnants of metal and concrete ruins in which not a single rat moved, not a bird flew overhead. What have we done with our freedom, gained to decide over our own fates to burn out in wars' endless pain and suffering, when all that we should have done was do nothing at all, just hang on in peace and silence while constantly improving ourselves. We all want more and more still, more than we can ever grasp, until there's nothing left to gain and we die alone among the millions.

The few of us who have survived the self-inflicted mayhem were scientists taking part in the official resistance, a worldwide force against the new rulers repeating the old mistakes. We were the only ones who believed the end would come, who dared to foresee and warn the mankind, just to be burned on the stake one by one. Strangely enough, now we remain to keep the story for the generations that may never come after us, when all that is left outside is wasteland. We live for the memories that we treasure inside our hearts that would be dead otherwise, with no more tears to cry, no more songs to sing. We breathe to continue. We must.

Once beautiful, the planet Xaweth turned into ruins in a matter of days with the hi-tech weapons the leaders had commanded to be developed. Everyone had a last scream fading in the firestorm as the neon lights of the metropolis exploded in blasts of gas that melted the skin away.

Walking through the dusty ruins years after the gods had punished us for the last time, I see once more the wholeness of creation's reverse, how the world can die, how a life can disappear when there is no one to stop it, no one to care for the results of our doing. I walk on to find nothing, no hint of the old paradise that we have built with our own hands, in blood and sweat as we worked for our dream, while a few centuries later with the same hands we sweep it away like an unwanted layer of dust.

* * *

"Lyla! Lyla!"

Not alone. Someone is calling through the veil of my lonely thoughts. Outside I run through the decayed walls of the ancient skyscraper and onto the wasted highway of devastated grounds where nothing will ever grow again, between the mountains of trash that once used to be great buildings of marble columns and glass windows.

The last of our expeditions, daring for a hope as we fly over thousands of miles in search of other survivors, whoever it may be. Yet never have our hopes been answered, yet we seem to be truly alone, and if there is someone who survived the disaster we might never know because the fuel for the jet is running low, along with the supplies of food and water. This will be the last flight, the final search for anything or anyone to help us survive, or to lengthen the agony of surviving.

* * *

The jet rises above the clouds quickly and I get a disturbing view that I have experienced many times but still it chills my bones. The clouds are a black mass of poisonous gasses, almost as black as the ground far below, and the horizon a crimson line of fading sunlight which reminds me of the blood of the millions of unhappy victims scattered underneath the broken pillars of the towers. And in the utter darkness shadows come over me though these blackest of eyes have witnessed the ultimate suffering many times already.

I check the map to find a suitable place for landing, in an area so distant from our hideout that we have reserved it for the very last flight. There is no way to go back and maybe no reason to, even if we could. I descend rapidly, through the dark-green mists and grey gasses and depths of toxic rain.

* * *

A few flashlights cut through the darkness of the eternal night and we don't intend to spare them anymore, fighting the last battle in the series of life-long struggle. These heaps of broken stone and metal, dust-covered remains of cars and fallen traffic signs used to create some large city, sparkling with glory in the sunlight. Not even bones and skulls have remained intact to tell of their tragic fate, and carrying on through this death and emptiness we can feel the flashlights growing weak, just like ourselves. Hours upon hours we continue towards nothingness, never spotting a single movement except for the heavy poisoning rainfall.

"Look, there's something! There!" The team leader shouts and points across my shoulder. "That hole there! To the left!"

We quickly lead our steps towards the goal, which looks like an old well-preserved bunker right in the middle of the blasted and melted-down tons of metal.

Inside the heavy doors a few lanterns are scattered across the room, creating a soft web of dim yellow light that comforts all of us with a sense of peace and goodness. In the middle of the room a heavy trapdoor is lifted and uncovers a cellar, or an underground room. While I volunteer to stay guard the others pick up some lanterns and climb down to explore the lower spaces of the building.

* * *

"Lyla, wake up!" A voice speaks clearly right into my head. I turn around. From behind the cracks in the trapdoor a dim yellow light sparkles along with speech and footsteps. I hear the clear computerized voice again and then a figure appears standing next to me.

"Good job you've done here on Xaweth. Up to the last one," he says and gives me a hand. "Let's go now."

I look down to the depths under the floor where a few lanterns illuminate the space with weak orange light. How easily the life can die, how predictably they all wish for death when given a chance. To play gods with greed that is fatal while the real gods are just using them. But the grief that has been building up will remain long after I fly away on the blackest wings, whispering in my eternal soul that frequent, unheard, not again.

Meanwhile in the decayed world, the last candle goes out.