Dark Sun

A pocket drone flies past the squad of soldiers, analyzing the route before them. Unseen beams of data penetrate city structures identifying threats and projecting information onto the soldiers’ Head-Up-Displays as they follow on foot, viewing their environment with the highlighted sense of augmented reality. If it’s green, it’s clean. If it’s red, it’s dead.  There aren’t enough colors in the spectrum to represent the possibilities in between.

The soldiers jog forward, crouching low, hugging the walls of buildings. They sweep their weapons, pivoting as corners near and scanning the ledges of rooftops, ready to unleash a thousand rounds per minute on any unlucky bastard dumb enough to peak outside.

Lieutenant Calley’s HUD flashes the red outline of baddies-with-big-guns when a whiz of bullets cracks heavy against the concrete wall above him.

The soldiers open up, concentrating fire on a single position just two blocks away and five stories up. The top corner of the low-rise complex melts away in a cloud of dust and sparks, pouring rubble and bodies to the sidewalk below. The soldiers’ displays go green. Electronic speak for, “Stop shooting. Move forward.”

They press on, following a virtual blue path that guides them down the city streets, optimizing their route for the safest passage to the biggest kill. The spheroid probe above them darts ahead, banking hard right between spiral glass towers of the city’s financial center. The soldiers form a single line, hurrying past the false protection of thirty foot windows and back-to-school-displays, checking their weapons in the brief lull before the immanent next contact.
Lt. Calleys’ display leads into a building one hundred yards ahead and nine floors up. Red lines trace the structure like a hell-wrought schematic diagram. He gestures to the others. “Check your systems.”

A sergeant sides next to him, peering through the dark tint of Lt. Calley’s protective visor. “That building’s hot, sir.”

Lt. Calley flips a mental coin. “Bluebeard says we go. We go.”

“Right.” The sergeant looks back and waves the men forward. “Move in.”
The squad shuffles past as Lt. Calley re-checks his display: Blue line up to ninth floor; building etched in red.

He readies his gun and thinks, “Fuck it,” following the others inside.

#

A little girl wakes to the far away sounds of artillery emanating from somewhere across the city. She isn’t scared. She smiles, throwing off her blanket and rushes to draw the curtains open. She wipes the moisture from the glass with a fragile hand and dries it on the length of her sleeping gown. The rim of the horizon is aglow with the fractal dance of plasma rounds detonating behind the clouds. Her window vibrates from the fading concussive waves.  A menagerie of color illuminates the night sky. She marvels at the display, teaming with wondrous thoughts.  Six years old and she’s never seen the sky look so pretty. She rests her elbows on the sill and her chin within her palms and whispers, “Beautiful.” 

She opens the bedroom door to see her father hurry past and into the kitchen of their modest two room apartment. “Can you hear it, Papa?” she asks, following behind, a grin stretched across her face.

He rummages through the cupboards, tossing food she’d never cared for into a large duffle bag on the table. His mini-phone blinks on the counter, a message being ignored.

“Can you hear the fireworks?!”

He looks back, startled to see her.  His eyes are bloodshot, his features tired. His daughter waits, delighted and anxious, rubbing her arms to fight the cold. He imagines this to be the last smile he will ever see from her.  He turns away, continuing to grab at food atop the shelves, his eyes awash with tears.
“Those aren’t fireworks, Elsa.”

A police vehicle flies past the bedroom’s fourth floor window--then another--then more.  Elsa turns at a run, her eyes wide with excitement; the room strobing with red and blue light.

“No!” her father yells.  “Stay away from the windows!”

She freezes in obedience as he rushes by, slamming the window shut and pulling in the curtains in one quick motion. He looks at her; still and confused. He has never raised his voice to her. She has always been a good girl.

“Is it the Sphere?” she asks, her eyes widening.

He places his hands on her arms for comfort, but she finds his tempo alarming. She can see his cheeks are damp from crying. She must have done something bad, but she can’t imagine what.

“No, sweetheart.  It’s not the Sphere.”

He sees a growing fright in Elsa and smiles, caressing her arms and taking her hands in his. “I need you to put on your best coat and walking shoes. We have to leave.” He lets her go and eyes the room, pulling a satchel from beneath the bed. 

“Leave?” She watches as he tosses her clothing from the drawers and stuffs them into the bag. “Why?”

The steady drone of battle steals their attention. They can feel the floor beneath them trembling in subtle waves.  All the dangers of a distant world are surely at their doorstep.

“Please, Elsa. Put on your coat and shoes, and do it now.”

#

An explosion rocks the building. Lt. Calley looks up to see fixtures on the ceiling shaking loose, the plaster crumbling down in heavy chunks. His Heads-Up-Display works overtime, projecting visual cues of danger he’s already acutely aware of. He turns to flee and the floor collapses beneath his feet. He grabs at air. Caught in free-fall, the tonnage of concrete around him seems weightless like foam props of a vintage movie set. Down he goes in a perilous drop, from the ninth floor to the fifth.

Somewhere in the distance the pulsing thump of an energy cannon lets loose its fury on some unfortunate souls, turning solids into vapor and people into stats. Men with guns yell orders to comrades and those without scream for mercy or run. The electricity of battle sticks in the air and straightens out your natural curls.

By some incredible luck, Lt. Calley is alive. He blinks a few times to clear his eyes, seeing nothing but darkness through dust. He can move his fingers, but can’t sit up for lack of room and can only assume he’s lying on his back. Concrete and rebar make for a sturdy coffin. He can’t feel his toes moving--maybe they are, maybe they aren’t. There’s no space to move his legs even if he could. The helmet’s HUD ceased to project information, with not so much as a blinking red “Farewell, Lieutenant Calley”. He imagines telling this story years from now, responding, “What’s the hairiest situation I’ve ever been in? Well, that’d be the time a building collapsed on me and crushed my legs.” That’s a story he’d be happy to tell some day, spinning donuts in his top-of-the-line wheelchair. But for now, the rest of his life seems only moments away.

Tanks roll past, shaking the earth beneath their tracks. A heavy gun fires a ball of liquid energy that sounds like an elephant being stepped on by a dinosaur being blown-up by a meteor. Whatever was in its path is probably no longer there. Small-arms spew metals just added to the periodic table and drones keep a watchful eye, recording every detail for tomorrow’s situation room analysis. The only thing that hasn’t changed in a billion years is the sound of anything impacting flesh. 

Lt. Calley realizes he hasn’t felt any pain up till now and when the adrenaline wears off he’ll be looking at a world of hurt. 

#

A civil control vehicle moves steadily forward, hovering just below the rooftops. A voice from inside booms over the public address system, repeating warnings to stay indoors and return to homes. The defending force, it says, needs room to maneuver. “We cannot guarantee your safety,” echoes down the avenues.

Far below, Elsa’s tiny legs struggle to keep up with her father. The street lamps blink out in sequence, down every lane throughout the city.

People scurry en masse, fleeing the encroaching din of weapons and machinery.  Those who stay board their windows with whatever can be found. Armored vehicles cruise by overhead, their A-Grav engines rippling the air in concentric waves.
Elsa pulls her hand from her father’s and stops. “Where are we going, Papa? I’m tired!”

He whips about, his momentum having flung him several paces ahead. He hurries back and grabs her hand. A steady rush of people flow past them while gunfire snaps through the crowd. “We can’t stop, Elsa!”

He tugs at her, but she plants her feet. An explosion shakes the ground, freezing the crowd with fear. Pulse cannons erupt from above and the mass becomes a river. Elsa is knocked to the pavement, her father picking her up and rejoining the panicked fray. He runs with her in his arms, pushing past those too scared to move and those too hurt to continue. A vehicle falls from the sky ahead and careens through a blanket of onlookers with no room to turn. The crowd shifts as one, snaking past obstacles of fire and smoke, over faceless numbers beneath their feet and soldiers running wild-eyed to meet their fate.

Elsa is too confused to scream, absorbing the horrified faces of those around her as she holds fast to her father, arms wrapped tightly around his neck, carried backwards in his arms. “Don’t be afraid, my love,” he says, struggling to run with bags and child. Screams erupt behind them.

They tumble to the ground. Lighting rounds of machinegun fire pepper the crowd and push it past a panic. The distinct mirage of A-Grav engines curve the air and leave it cold. The magnetic wake makes Elsa’s hair stand on end. She lifts her head, her scalp moistened with sweat and thickened with blood. Her father lies like laundry in the distance, motionless beneath the pressing heels of those too scared to notice and encouraged by bullets to run.

#

The stars can be seen through a narrow fissure between the broken concrete slabs and steel girders that pin Lt. Calley down, lying somewhere between the fourth floor and the fifth. The rubble against his back jabs at him and keeps him from trying to struggle. He steadies his breathing, steeling himself against the pain of a crushed left leg. He’s certain it’s bleeding but he’s unable to lift his head enough to peer down past his chest. His helmet obstructs his movement, boxed in on all sides by heavy debris. Blindly, he clears chunks of concrete from his torso, moving slowly to avoid worsening his precarious situation; the rubble still seems to be settling, threatening to end his days if the bleeding doesn’t end them first. Each motion of his hand loosens tiny bits of building that sprinkle on top of him, diminishing his sight and stifling his breathing. He imagines being buried by pixies with tiny golden shovels. It’s cold, but sweat is filling his ears. If only he could lift his visor.

He glides his fingers over his utility belt, feeling for a familiar contour under the dust. He scrapes the dirt from the creases and flips open a small compartment, revealing a button just beneath his fingertips.

With a press, a beep sounds and a red light blinks at a continuous interval giving Lt. Calley a snapshot glimpse of his predicament in between two seconds of terminal darkness. His situation is dire. Trapped beneath tons of steel and concrete, this innocuous tracking device his only hope. He considers the odds of bleeding out before a search drone can pick up his signal.  And how many others of superior rank will fall tonight and call for help within the felled remains of city spires? There could be hundreds by now and the battle just begun. Drones are sent for generals and diplomats or sinking ships with all hands down, but lieutenants and their lost platoons are far from care and never found. 

“Jesus,” he says aloud. A coughing fit ensues, the dust disturbed from within his lungs. What about my men? The pain in his chest is dreadful, his lungs at odds with air. He tries to yell out but can’t. The sensation of a hammer pounds his chest. He remembers his men were on the lower floors when the bomb went off. He remembers a shout, then a moment of scuffling boots. What of them? They must need my help. The red light of his tracking device continues to blink every two seconds. What does it matter?, he relents. They are probably already dead.
Close by, he hears the unmistakable sound of a little girl crying.

#

The city burns in the distance, its orange flames illuminating the sky like an artificial sunrise. Refugees bleed from the suburbs and blanket the hills by the millions seeking asylum from an enemy they never sought to fight and once considered kin. Their movement becomes coordinated, an innumerable band of single mind, converging in a valley below the stars and far enough away to feel the din of battle fade behind the rolling contours of the land. 

They huddle close, encamped beneath a massive floating orb that seems to block out half the sky. Two miles wide and two miles up it levitates without a sound, reflecting all the eyes can see, offering the illusion of a world within this world. Nearly a dozen years since first it came to settle here from unknown parts beyond the stars; a citadel, a question mark, a source of strife and wonder.

#

Elsa sits bunched in the corner, both arms wrapped around her knees. She wipes away her tears with the sleeve of her heavy coat and looks up, past where a concrete wall was just hours before. She hasn’t yet noticed her father’s blood on her favorite walking shoes. She clears her eyes again and contemplates the stars as only a child can see them; decorative twinkling bulbs, just beyond her fingertips.

Her stomach growls, reminding her she hasn’t eaten since yesterday and that her father’s bag was taken by strangers. A tank rolls past outside shaking loose the rubble. The building across the street is on fire. She climbs further up the broken remains, hiding in the safety of the shadows. The smell of burning synthetics irritates her nose. She can feel the residual violence of shells exploding in the distance, the shattered structure around her shaking and shifting with every closing impact. Men run past outside shooting their weapons at targets that zip by above. Bullets stray near, ricocheting around her head, bouncing off metal and chipping concrete into dust. She pulls her coat over her head and muffles a scream. If they find me, they’ll hurt me. She waits for the shooting to stop then edges further back into the darkness.
 
Across the room she can see the faint blink of a red light from beneath a pile of broken concrete, flashing every two seconds like the message beep of her father’s mini-phone.

#

Lt. Calley hears the curious steps of tiny feet climbing lightly onto the fallen walls that surround him.  

“Hello?” he calls out in a coarse whisper, careful not to scare her off. He shortens his breath, the debris loosening with each perceived foothold. Broken fragments of rock tumble down within earshot. He tunes out the muted noise of artillery and nervously rubs his fingers against his sides. He stares intently through the narrow fissure before him. Stars twinkle in the chilled night sky.
“Hello?” responds the tender voice of a little girl.

A glimpse of eyes... and then an ear... and then a wisp of hair.

#

Three men in civilian clothes run down the thoroughfare, the rapid bolts of pulse rifles flash past them from behind. They fire their weapons blindly to the rear, skirting the buildings and keeping pace, retreating from the soldiers moving in from down the way. A drone zips by overhead and they blast it out of the sky.

A soldier’s bullet finds its mark, and now the men are two.

“This way!” one shouts, leading the other between the spiral glass towers of the financial district.

#

Lt. Calley hears the heavy stomp of boots entering quickly from the street below. He covers the blinking red light of his tracking device with his hand. The footsteps move through the rubble on the lower floors, shifting the ground beneath them. He imagines them stepping on the bodies of his fallen men. 
He hears the girl jump down and scurry to some unseen place.

He sighs and clenches his teeth.

“Up there,” one directs, his voice deep but young. He sounds no more than twenty-five. A trickle of dislodged debris indicates they’re climbing closer, making their way up a broken staircase. They move about the building, stopping then proceeding; their actions indiscernible to Lt. Calley’s ear.

“Did you set the charges?” he hears the same man ask.

“Yup,” the other starts, with a distinctively older voice. “If they come up here...” he continues, presumably finishing with a gesture of assured destruction.

“Are you ok with this?”

“Would it make a difference?”

Their footsteps move closer, seemingly within the same room.

Where’s the little girl? Lt. Calley wonders, hearing only the footfalls and voices of men.

“Get down!” one urges in a loud whisper, his voice indistinguishable from the other. The building begins to quake. The debris that traps Lt. Calley shakes and threatens to collapse and crush him. The menacing rumble of a heavy tank presses near followed by the dark electric hum of its turret swiveling slowly to the side.

#

Elsa puts her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming, still and unseen, waiting from the shadows as a tank rolls by outside. Its big gun turns toward her, sweeping past in search of hidden targets. She watches the two men sit themselves unaware of her presence, nervously, their backs against the wall.
The older takes a heavy breath as the tank moves into the distance. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers, wiping the dirt and sweat from his face.

The younger shows his daring with a grin and checks his weapon for ammo.

“Poor Jeffery,” laments the older. He pauses to think for the first time in hours. “He never got to see his girls.”

Elsa remembers her father’s smile.  She remembers how happy he would be to greet her after school. How he gave her anything she asked for, and how he cooked strange concoctions made from kale and unpronounceable foods. She imagines Jeffery’s girls to be her own age and wonders if she might know them. Do they go to my school? She would certainly know them because she has so many friends. Do they like the same games or wear the same clothes? If she only knew their names she might find them and become like sisters. She figures they’re kids, and kids are always kin. Her only certainty is that they’re lost without their dad to cook them food they can’t pronounce and answer all their silly questions. She notices her blood stained shoes and wipes the tears from her eyes.

#

The younger man blows the dirt from his barrel. “His girls are safe. That’s what matters now.”

The older man nods, unconvinced, staring down into the gaping hole that used to be the fourth floor.

“How do you know they’re safe? How do you know they made it to the Sphere?”
The younger lays his weapon across his knees, placing a hand on the other’s shoulder and says, “I just know these things.”

#

Elsa looks to her left at that pile of concrete and steel, not fifty feet from where the two men are sitting. To her dismay, the red light beneath the rubble has stopped blinking.

#

A pair of fighters circles the Sphere at a radius of ten miles, the closest they can come before some invisible field would disrupt their electronics. The massive orb hovers silently above the valley as it has for a dozen years, protected by a force that defies all earthly comprehension. Thousands in the encampment below observe as the fighters circle twice, then depart toward an unseen base beyond the horizon.

“Why do they even bother anymore?” a refuge asks another.

“They’re just beating their chests, letting us know who’s still in charge,” another replies, as ten thousand campfires illuminate the Sphere from below.

#

There is no safety in the Sphere, Lt. Calley thinks, knowing that his brigade would challenge the dissenters with sticks and stones if that’s what it takes. These people, he knows, are delusional. We aren’t the enemy, it’s that thing in the sky they should be afraid of! “Benign” doesn’t equate to “benevolent”. He wants to yell out to those men and tell them that the world is not theirs to forfeit, but here he is trapped between the floors of a shattered building.

He considers his situation and works to calm himself. His leg, crushed beneath a pile of concrete and steel; his breathing, shallow and quick. The pain he ignores takes a backseat to the fear of dying; young, unaccomplished and unsung. But these are not the men to call out to for help. These are the cowards who put him here and would see him to his end. He can feel the liquid warmth of his blood puddling up around his waist. He struggles to keep his wits, the life draining from his body. He thinks of the wife he never had and the family he never cared for; of the men he lost this day and the world they fought to save; imaginings of childhood friends and neighbor’s pets and memories of mostly stupid things. A life that he may never lead plays center stage, a hopeless show in the darkness of this solemn crypt.

And he thinks of the girl.

She must be clever, quiet, hiding in the shadows, careful not to give herself away. She must be scared, separated from her family, lost in a city under siege. He could call out to her and tell her to run, but if these men don’t stop her, their bomb certainly would. He hears nothing now but distance sounds of battle muffled by a burning urban labyrinth. He would give anything to talk to her, to comfort her and have her comfort him. He knows she must be near; smart and staying low.

He can hear the closing sounds of troops moving along the streets outside. The occasional shot of rifle fire pops and fades away, quieting the shouts of desperate men. He knows full well his battalion is coming to finish what others have started.

Something changes. The red light of Lt. Calley’s tracking device has turned to blue beneath his palm. Salvation, if luck is on his side. He knows blue means a drone has picked up his signal, ready to relay his coordinates to the nearest available squad. A ticket home, but less then whole. His troops will follow the virtual scent and paint this building red, forcing down the two dissenters to pay the toll for their sedition. They will unleash their hell upon the broken walls around him and leave it ground to dust.  They are men and men deserve no less.

But what of me?  Trapped inside this grave of stone, subject to the same barrage of arms to come. What of my own life? What of home and better days and friends who wait with warming fires and tender words?

His eyelids weigh heavy. He struggles to remain conscious. It doesn’t matter, he concludes. Our soldiers have a job to do.

And what of the girl? If the soldiers come, with their powerful guns and single minds, her life would doubtless be in jeopardy.  Trapped in the surge of weapons and men, she would never live to see her family, if her family still lives to see her. Bullets will fly and bombs will explode, and she, left another lost corpse of a war she can’t possibly understand. Lt. Calley considers this a moment, fighting to take in air, then slides his hand down from the blinking blue light, disabling it with the press of a finger.

#

Elsa coughs and gives herself away; the two men jump to their feet with weapons drawn.

“Who’s there?!” the younger asks, peering into the shadows across the room.
She struggles to hold back another cough, her throat too dry with dust. 
“Come out or we’ll shoot!” the man continues, moving in with weapon ready.
Elsa emerges from the dark, tears in her eyes, holding back a crying fit that makes her body shake.

The men step past her cautiously, peering into the corner shadows, over broken desks and dangling office fixtures. 

Troops can be heard running past outside.

The younger man turns and looks Elsa over, pacing a circle around her. “Where’re your parents?”

She cries into her sleeve, unable to respond.

“I’m sure if she knew that...” the older man begins, lowering his weapon and removing his finger from the trigger.

The other follows suit, strapping his rifle around his shoulder. He seems disturbed by the mucus that covers the girl’s lip; her sleeve glistening like the wet crawl of a snail. “Well, she definitely can’t come with--”

A device around his wrist beeps, drawing Elsa’s curiosity. She stifles her crying as the man manically pushes virtual buttons on the device’s display.

“They’re coming. We need to get to the roof,” he asserts, moving his gaze to the older man, glaring at him intensely. “The kid stays.”

The older man leans down pulling his sleeve over his hand and wipes Elsa’s nose dry. He takes her arms gently to comfort her.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

She glances at the younger man who checks his weapon for the umpteenth time. She knows he doesn’t like her and it makes her scared.

“Elsa.”

The older takes a knee, careful to keep his arms at length. “Well, Elsa, I need you to stay here and wait a while, okay? Maybe a long while, until it’s safe. Promise me you won’t go outside, alright? Wait here until somebody nice finds you and can help you get home. Do you promise?”

She wipes her mouth with a sleeve. “Okay.”

#

Lt. Calley suffers an unbearable chill; his body trembles uncontrollably. His heart pulses with the hard, slow beats that precede a man’s life flashing before his eyes. He hears the footfalls of the two men making their way up the stairs, pushing open doors until the final shuts hard behind them.

Close by he hears the shuffling little shoes of the girl, followed soon by hazy a glimpse of cheeks, hair, then eyes peering down at him through the cleft in his concrete tomb.

“Hello?” she calls down with a hush.

Lt. Calley struggles to lift his hand to her, hoping for a simple touch. “Elsa,” slides from his lips, too soft to pass his visor.

“Hello?” she repeats, turning her head, placing an ear to the fissure.

His fingers slide, frail and torn against the rough stone, edging up toward the faint light of the stars. The air whispers gently across his skin. He knows now, he is nearly free. A stretch of measure more, then the feel of her soft hair.
She startles at his touch, turning back to peer inside. “Are you there?” she asks, reaching down with a fragile hand. “Papa?” she cries, the jagged crevice scraping at her arm. 

“Yes,” he whispers, reaching her delicate fingertips. 

She begins to cry at the feel of his callused skin. Her tears drip down like raindrops onto his visor, clearing away the dust.

He can see the stars behind her, dimming with the dawning sky; a faint orange glow, creeping in to arrest the night. He can feel the warmth of her breath floating down to mend his tainted soul and lift him from his mortal bonds. He can see her naïve eyes peering down toward him through darkness, wanting for her father’s smile.

“Be brave, little angel,” he says, his fingers slipping away into the deep.

#

A beastly vehicle approaches from the northern sky, whipping the air into violence; a dark green dragon with spinning blades and a deafening roar; a battle machine from a primitive age. It swoops in low, hovering just inches above the rooftop, spitting fire from its sides to the streets below.

“Get in!” the gunner calls.

The two men move in, hunched low for fear of losing their heads. The rising sun casts their shadows from the east. They climb into the mechanical behemoth, worried and disheveled. It’s impossible to imagine a contraption like this could ever fly. The older man looks back from where he came to find Elsa standing in the sunlight, her hair blowing wildly in the wash of the rotor blades. She lingers, staring not at the terrifying machine before her, but at the morning sky to the west. The men follow her gaze with theirs, beyond the city towers and past the rolling hills.

The great Sphere looks like a second sun, low on the horizon, reflecting the early light. They’ve seen this sight a thousand times, but like the sun itself, it never fails to impress. But today brings something new that seizes their attention. The great Sphere, it seems, is rising.

The hot liquid rounds of a plasma cannon breaks their attention. Elsa screams, covering her head with her coat and dropping to her knees. The helicopter wavers and rolls, the men inside holding fast to any solid fixture.

An assault vehicle nears, gliding between the buildings, letting loose a shower of molten rounds.

“Elsa!” the older man shouts, reaching out to her from the open door as glowing plasma shots whiz between them.

She jumps to a run toward the beckoning safety of the hovering green beast, listing and pulling as lightning fast rounds impact its frame. She cries out with fright, arms extended, hoping to be caught.

A bomb explodes in the building below her, its concussive force lifting her off her feet. She lands hard, face down, her tiny hands breaking her fall. The rooftop cracks and threatens to collapse.

The helicopter swivels; the gunner fires furiously at the armored craft. The fifty caliber rounds bounce harmlessly off its plating.

“We’re leaving!” the pilot shouts, pushing hard against the throttle, lifting the dragon into the sky.

Elsa cries, pushing up from the ground, watching as her saviors abandon her. The helicopter pivots toward the north, rising above the spires. Black smoke trails behind it. Plasma rounds chase it down. It spins and rolls then drops behind city the skyline.

The armored craft turns toward Elsa, hovering a hundred feet away. She can see the men inside looking at her from behind their windshield. They seem unsure of what to make of her; a little girl standing there on the rooftop, staring back at them defiantly.

But Elsa is too scared to move and too tired to cry.

The craft moves toward her slowly, distorting the sky around it. A soldier inside fiddles with controls.

“Hey kid,” he says, his voice blaring over a public address system. “Stay right there.”

His voice alarms her, snapping her out of a trance. She steps back as the vehicle approaches, agitating the soldier inside.

“Don’t go back inside, it’s too dangerous.  That building is falling apart. Hold tight and we’ll send a hover to pick you up.”

She turns again to the Sphere far in the distance, now much higher in the sky. Its reflective surface fades, like an inkblot against the blue horizon. Wisps of cloud seem to be drawn to it, coalescing around its perimeter like the rings of Saturn.  The sky behind it seems to bend.

“Holy shit!” blares over the public address system of the armored craft.
It lists back and down, struggling to keep control. It slides across the air, wobbling and turning, landing hard but intact on a rooftop across the way.
Elsa watches as the two soldiers climb out, the vehicle teetering from the building’s side. They brush themselves off and turn their attention to the great sphere above the hills.  They make their way to the western ledge, curious as children, standing together without a word to pass between them.

She gazes at this new black dot in the distance with its wondrous and terrifying possibilities, sucking in the sky around it. She thinks of dolls and rainbows and flowers and all the things she loves. Everything nice has colors. She sees nothing new but a big black hole and shrugs, her attention quickly waning. It’s not very pretty, she thinks, wiping her hands against her sides. Her stomach growls. She scratches at an itch on her leg. She looks around and realizes the city is quiet. She slips off her shoes and wiggles her toes, feeling a cool relief.  She removes her heavy coat and sits, looking over a ruined city, appreciating the warmth of the morning sun.