Jazarah prayed. Ajit stood by solemnly, impatiently. Drones floated, rolled and trundled around them.
Jazarah had only ash to pray over. The Holy City had not been bombed but cleansed, though Ajit. The tentacled scavengers were gone. The flowers and trees were gone. The people were gone. Except them.
A heptagon approached him. He stroked it, running his fingers over the sigils precisely. It’s surface flashed like a cuttlefish.
“We have to go,” said Ajit. “More planes are coming, with soldiers.”
“Where,” whispered Jazarah. “Where would we flee?”
“We do not flee,” he said. “We go to answer the Inquisitor.”
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