She huddled against herself in a dank corner, the dusty furniture and objects scattered about the floor made for a barrier between herself and the rest of those in the complex -- made her feel safe, even if they would do nothing to stop an attacker. It was the nth day of the end of their lives, that's what everyone said. She had long since tuned out the drone of the comms relay, endlessly preaching about the ceaseless march of the Cosmic Navy against the pathetic invaders and, simultaneously, the horror stories of another system captured by the Affini. How much of what was said was true seemed entirely immaterial to the Accord.

The nth day of the end of their lives. It was hard to say that was exaggeration, not when a simple look out of any crumbling windows would show buildings barely standing, a ceaseless gray expanse that stretched as far as the eye could see. There was no movement, there was no sound. Millions of little bugs, desperately hoping it wouldn't be their rock that was overturned. She was surrounded by some of those millions, she could hear their hushed arguments through the thin walls. It echoed in the almost preternaturally still air of the near-empty apartment.

It wasn't hers, she had no connection to it. It just so happened to be the closest building she could flee to when the alarms sounded indicating a fleet was closing in. She assumed their orbital arrays were quickly dispatched, given that last night the alarms had conspicuously silenced themselves and the drone of the comms had mercifully quieted to nothingness. Still, as much as she was happy not to hear the faux excitement in the voice of the Spin Doctor in Chief from Terra -- or wherever the propaganda department was operating now -- she couldn't very well celebrate on the eve of the invasion.

Her eyes drifted from the window where an ashy rain had started, spewing the rancid scent of pollution, to the only other person in the room. He was a middle-aged man, probably no more than forty Sol-years old. She hadn't bothered to learn his name while they sat in waiting, there was little reason to. Suddenly, his head rose to meet her eyes, his irises a striking crystal blue. She felt a pang in her chest for never bothering to connect with him in what would surely be their last moments; his desperation shown through so clearly, his demeanor no more composed than that of a small child realizing with great despair and panic that their mother wasn't returning.

His lip quivered as he whispered to her as loudly as he dared, "We were gods." His tone was raw, so full of unrestrained emotion that she thought he might combust into a whirlwind of tears and rage-fueled screams right then and there. She kept herself composed, and decided that she would await clarification. There was no telling what might set him off.

"We were gods..." he opined again, "we could have done anything we wanted. Everything was in our grasp. My father told me about the Rinan, I saw firsthand our prowess. Have you ever seen a dreadnaught? Have you ever beheld the supremacy of Strike Command?" His voice wavered, nearly breaking under the brutal weight of his own conception. He finally broke eye contact and let his head fall, staring mindlessly at the floor.

"Then they showed up..." he trailed, and the room was silent again. The ashy rain plinking off the window now the only sound that could be heard. Moments stretched in pure silence, her mind processing his words. He obviously had a connection to the Cosmic Navy, a firsthand account would make sense if his father -- the same father who supposedly informed him of the subjugation of the Rinan -- was a member, perhaps even an officer. If she had to guess, the reverence with which he said 'Strike Command' indicated exactly what branch he would have served in as well.

Sensing he wouldn't talk again without prompt, she decided to coax him into divulging further, "The Affini?" Her voice was raspy, unused. She hadn't spoken in three days. His head snapped up, meeting her gaze with a renewed intensity, "The monsters! They ripped through us, taking any who survived as slaves!" His voice started to raise. Her eyes widened and she broke from his gaze to stare out the window. At any moment they would descend on the slums, it was best to keep their voices down. Yet, the man across from her was whipped into a fervor and already paid her clearly worried face no mind. "They kill and enslave and have the gall to call us the evil that must be purged. Have you not listened to the comms? If it weren't for the Cosmic Navy, we'd all be in breeding pens or under the influence of their cruel doctors' drugs. They come to us! They come to us demanding our subservience! They claim that species innumerable have accepted their role already, that we should submit to the will of their hegemony. Never! That's what makes us human! We will never give in, no matter how much they torture and enslave and-"

His rant was suddenly cut off by a grizzled man walking into the room, a carbine hanging from a strap on his shoulder. His finger idly rubbed against the trigger guard, a tendency of his she'd noticed whenever he was nervous. "Jameson!" he whispered, the authority in his voice slicing through the feverish rant and commanding immediate acquiescence. Jameson looked into the man's eyes for a mere moment before averting his gaze. The footfalls of Captain -- as he styled himself -- rung against the sill quiet. With every step closer, Jameson seemed to shrink more into himself. By the time the Captain arrived, she assumed he would be a small maggot on the floor. Insect to insect, not much changes, she mused to herself.

Captain knelt in front of Jameson, the clinking of the carbine's barrel against the hard floors a potent, unspoken warning. "If I have to inform you one more time," he started, his voice the same steel as a knife, "that we are in hiding from what you call the monsters, then I will personally break my own rules vis-à-vis silence when I eject a round into the back of your head. Capice?"

She had gathered before that Captain liked old movies from when humans were still bound to Terra. As much as she would have found his use of anachronistic phrases amusing or endearing, the icy chill that underlay his words proved more than enough reason to take him seriously. The barely contained shaking she saw from Jameson confirmed that he thought much the same.

Captain held his position for moments after his point had been made, ensuring that Jameson would think thrice before another outburst. She knew it wouldn't help, though. Something was wrong with Jameson; she knew that before she even knew his name. He had something inside of him, something had broken on the first day of the end of their lives. She didn't know what that was -- she had never asked -- but she knew it was there. Captain slowly stood, taking a deep breath before instantly regretting it, presumably from the smell of rank pollution that had filled his mouth.

He took a cigar out of his vest pocket and lit it, providing the only real light in the room apart from the dim gray light that just barely broke through the clouds enough to illuminate faint silhouettes. She nearly laughed at the irony of Captain smoking to be rid of pollution, but she felt it wasn't exactly the time to be laughing. Now standing, he turned his head to her. He looked about to say something, just barely on the edge of words. His mouth opened then shut itself. Once. Twice. Finally, he managed, "Try not to provoke him." Without waiting for her response, he walked out of the room.

She didn't blame him for not knowing what to say; he still hadn't figured out how to talk to her. No one in the complex had, and she preferred to keep it that way. She wasn't here out of choice, this wasn't the time for friendship and commiseration. She intended to survive this invasion, no matter what. Even if they enslaved her, all that did was steel her resolve to escape. This would not be the end of her, she would not allow it.

The day seemed to lighten with her resolve. For a split second, she was ecstatic in that primal way that the outer world was reflecting her inner thoughts. She could resolve actual details on Jameson's face, his poorly-trimmed beard and the bags under his eyes. She could see the ripped polyester lining of the couch she was sitting next to. The elation drained away quickly as her thinking faculties caught up.

Her eyes immediately darted to the window where the sun was shining bright behind the clouds. Brighter than midday. Brighter than she had seen before. The sky erupted into flame, and she knew that this was the last day of the end of their lives.