Defeat

He pulled his cape around his shoulders. It felt thin and did little against the cold. It had never been a very practical article, he had never been about practicality, but winter had come. The once bright red cloth, now faded and tattered, fit him too well to be replaced. He remembered when he first put it on, glancing at his reflection a moment before flying off. It felt right—it was right, he reminded himself. Was…

Trudging through the snow, he gazed up at the alien sky and the terrible and silent saucers, their shinning surfaces and unblinking lights appearing and disappearing as the omnipresent brown clouds flowed over them like watery sludge. Memories of clear blue summers and starry nights broke his heart, of days spent amid the white and billowy clouds—no more. He dare not fly. They had taken the sky.

The transport platform hummed. It was ready for him. With a leap, he glided up to its surface. He gave one last, despairing look at his home, at the withering trees and frozen mud. There was nothing left. He felt the warmth of the transporter building around him and knew this was the last look he’d ever have.

In that dim reality between here and there which scientists assured him was unreal—”It’s instantaneous,” they’d explain—he wondered if in the strange lands of earth he’d find a home.