Chain of Order

Yesterday, Nina was taken to the port.

She cried too much for my liking – it made me want to cry, too. She made us sweets and left them on the counter with a note blurred and softened by tears; it was just like her. She did it despite the beating she earned for show and harboring of affection.

Nina was evacuated. Lucky.

The rest of us stay here, on Earth, at home, awaiting the attack like dumb ducks. Responsibility is mine. The little ones look up to me now for explanations. I have none. Who would?

We have been left behind: we are of the Older Generation, and thus imperfect.

I’ve seen pictures of the new planet, from the television – glimpses of blue and green and otherworldly spaces. We here at St. Sophia’s humble orphanage will never see it up close. It’s a place that, according to the Guard, is not fit for lowly, weak creatures like us of the Older Generation.

Newer, stronger specimens have evolved, sloughing off weaknesses.

Mercy, remorse, guilt; compassion? Weakness.

Love? A thing of myth.

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