Why? Why are the humans so destructive? They bled their own world dry and claimed ours to do the same. Now . . . my daughter. My beautiful, perfect daughter: a weapon. How dare they? She only volunteered for the sake of the rest of us. She didn't want to be chosen. No one would. Yet there she its. She is a true Winged. It should have been someone else, anyone else, anyone at all. They should have used their own species. But Onsai have no rights. We are just dumb slaves to those gluttonous fools. They treat us like animals.
Now they're dying, and we're dying, for no matter how they persecute us, no matter how they put themselves on a pedestal and force us to kiss their sickening feet, we still all die the same. Alone. I realise it now. Despite the people around me, I will die alone. For everyone is alone when they know they are about to die. Alone and desperate.
My poor Loanaea. My poor, poor, Loanaea. She must still be inside that dreaded machine, going under torture, her soul trapped by those cursed black walls.
A dome of death extends from that awful machine, sending wild panic through the crowd. I reach for my son, clutch him to me . . . it isn't him. This child in my arms, it's a stranger. I shove him away; he hits the ground with a yelp but I do not care.
"Granaem!" I scream, desperately searching for him. My son. I barge people out of the way, humans and Onsai alike. I don't care anymore. My son.
Suddenly I find myself pinned against the shore, helpless. Onsai cannot touch salt water. It is acid to our skin. My son.
Then I see.
My slave driver, the rich, cowardly, pot-bellied fool, is holding my son before him, as though he thinks that sacrificing my child will spare him.
Then they are gone.
In an instant.
My little boy.
Curse the Deities that the human ever invaded our once-peaceful planet.
I dive into the ocean rather than be consumed by that horror.
I'm sorry, daughter.