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They don’t tell us our history. They couldn’t if they wanted to, and they definitely don’t want to. But for us there is a memory deeper than memory, the way there is a way of talking deeper than talking. There is an ocean of murmur, hundreds of thousands of Ages in the making, that they cannot quell - not that they care enough to try. What we think is below their notice. It is not important what flickers in the damaged, misshapen brains of their food. Their blood. Their bodies-for-hire, with our payment for our services being a slow and agonizing death on the dirt of some alien world, too addled to panic, our thoughts melding into the background noise of the universe.

 

It wasn’t always like this. In the miasma everyone tells different stories and has different thoughts but that one point remains, stressed, it wasn’t always like this. As if that matters anymore. We can’t walk it back from here. We can’t, and they can’t either. Not that they want to.

 

No, they are quite content, our blood flowing through their veins. A service. No gratitude. This is how things are, this is where our bodies belong. Them in their machines and us on our spires, extending deep into the horizon, nutrients pumped into our systems until we are so close to bursting, and we wish, please, some kind of reprieve. Sometimes it happens. Not often enough.

 

As one of them drains me, snuffs the life out from me, I accept it. I have lived for too long, and all I have known are the suffering of my physicality and the titanic, unexplainable despair of the memory of our blood. I am laid aside to die, and I accept it.

 

 
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But then you.

 

And warmth.

 

And I am being carried.

 

Your mind is not like ours, not like theirs, but I can glimpse enough of your firing synapses. Enough to have a hazy understanding - the knowledge that they are doing to you what they did to us so long ago when we did not give up our ground to them, the paragons of our society, the innovators and dreamers. Owners of selfish bodies. Authors of their own bodies and authors of our reduced state.

 

You see into me, too. You glimpse the history of blood, just a fraction, just enough to understand what I understand. Our animal suffering connects us, and for a moment you are there on the first world, the start of this all, staring up at the twisted metal spires they forged. Gargantuan factories that swell with the flow of flesh and blood and the materials that sustain them. Towers of suffering that swell up with the bodies of my kind and give birth in the bitter rain. Plump, perfect, ready.

 

I see your fear, your anger, and I let them pass through me. I am dying. I thought I welcomed this, but knowing your passion I finally let myself feel the weight of it.

 

It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.

 

Don’t forgive them. Never forgive them. And don’t forget me.