Cicada Dreams

He landed, as he often did nowadays, roughly and with a grunt. Old age played its tricks, after all, even at the weight of a penny. The timer ticking off at the flare of his joints.

And yet.

After finding solid purchase on the ground, paid for with the coin of breath, he stood still. Took measure of his surroundings. This Where smelled of dog; a mixed breed of spoiled upbringing. That would not do. Dogs were notorious for their slobbering, their “What’s this? I’m gonna put it in my mouth!” way of looking at the world.

No, this Where would not suffice as a scientific outpost. Wasn’t secure enough to defend the Entirety (what we humans call Earth) from what was coming. Maybe, if they could persuade dogs to join their cause. . .but that was foolishness. Even if they had the time, dogs don’t have the inclination.

Back to the original plan, then. Finding a Where that could withstand a Windshed Port. No easy feat, to be sure. But, he was bred for “not easy”. Difficult was in his DNA. He’d move on and stake a Where that would work, building and then opening a Windshed Port, doing his part to defend the Entirety from the sickness that was evident, and that which had yet to arrive.

Just once he caught his breath.

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