A short drabble on a human's thoughts during the time of SR1
This is set probably sometime between Raziel's execution and his return from the Abyss. The character is female, probably around mid-thirties in age, too old to be hopelessly optimistic but still young enough to retain some hope. This is a very short piece on her musings and is quite depressing in tone.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Except my crisp sandwich and that will be gone by the time I've finished this.
THE HUMAN CITADEL
The Human Citadel. How is it that we have sunk so low as to call it the 'Human' Citadel? Was it an affirmation to ourselves of what we are, to retain some humanity in this godforsaken place? Or named in defiance, a testament to what we once were and will be again in the face of those who would call themselves our overlords? I will probably never know.
But what of us now? There isn't much to tell in these trying times. I was born into a world already dying and that is heading toward that death ever faster. The world suffers from the corruption and decay that the vampires cause.
We barely scratch a living from the parched earth, it is almost dead, useless. What manages to grow is weak and nearly asphyxiated by the smoky atmosphere, as we are too. The water is tainted and sulphurous, but it keeps us alive, for now.
I suppose I should feel lucky, at least I am free when many of our kind are not. So why don't I? Maybe because I know our lot is a sore one. I was told, as everybody is, the stories of how humans once were proud, dominant and above all, free. Though too many of us have become disheartened over the years so that they believe the stories to be no more than myth, something to alleviate the tiredness of the soul for a few moments.
I still choose to believe them. I try to imagine a world full of life, but it is difficult. What does a green field look like? It can be hard to imagine what one has never seen, especially in the face of the despair that now becomes more insidious with every passing year.
Some of the young people also have dreams born from these stories. They are optimistic, hopeful, brave and ultimately stupid. They are too young to realise that we are too weak in number and spirit to win yet. That the vampires, though not thriving now, still fare better in these polluted conditions than we do. So they lose their lives through the rash belief that they are the ones to change the world.
They are not.
The older generation is too world-weary. They have seen and felt too much suffering. It is etched upon their faces as they stare mistrustfully from grimy windows made dirty from all the smoke in the air. They know that despite our defences, we are not safe.
What will change the world? I do not know. But I do know that it will not be changed by rash young men with hearts full of anger, nor by tired old women who have seen too many of these young men die.
I know it will not be me.