InsaneJournal

000 - landing
Begin here: a vast circular ribbon, spinning gently in space. It is lit starkly from the center by a tiny, bright light, white and impossible to focus on. The outside is grey, and the inside is blue with patches of white and green. The ribbon is narrow, but not impossbly narrow; its width can be seen from far off. Closer in, it begins to dominate the field of vision.

Close in to the spot. The bright light at the center is a backlight now, and the white patches are more clearly visible: on the edge, mountains, and in the center, cloudbanks the size of mountains. The blue patches, now clearly visible as oceans, glitter and catch the light. Ragged edges of green and grey coastline appear, and here and there are glittering, tiny bars, the shapes of bridges as long as countries, arching across the ocean wherever it becomes narrow enough, connecting islands to the mainland and continents to each other.

The bridges are not the only evidence of civilization. Curl in closer, and glide toward the ground. This is far slower travel now, although it seems faster as the ground skids by impossibly fast. On the coastline are cities, marked by tall metal skeletons. It is hard to tell from this distance just how much disrepair they are in. The steady shadows cast by the pinpoint light above do little to hide the streets, but they do enough.

Overland now, leaving behind the coastal cities for a fertile plain, criscrossed here and there with cultivated plots, even rows of grain spread out like playing cards tossed onto a table. The farms are not contiguous. Each one is dotted with a little ring of buildings, huddled together as if for warmth, the fence surrounding tthem ike a jacket. Here and there are small towns, fenced in as well, stern and forbidding.

Shift trajectory a little, and go diagonally; the foothills are near. Even the foothills are dusted, in shady spots, with snow. The mountains are high and empty and unmarked, but in the foothills there are still villiages, tiny bright rings that hold back the forest with thin round fences. High overhead the light is fading and turning a little golden. The sun is going out for the night.

But there, spinning lazily like a leaf, is a machine. Slow down enough to follow it, as it skates high over the hills, fluttering and trying to keep distance. It is not going that quickly now; its wings flex and try to catch the air. It skips up as it hits an oncoming breeze, then down again. The grey steel of the tail spreads out exactly like a bird's tail and the machine turns sharply, heading away from the edge, into the plains. Follow closely now. It's not going to make it to the plains.

There is something desperately wrong with the left wing. The pilot is skilled and wrenches it back and forth, trying to keep stability as it loses altitude, but in the end there is nothing to be done.

Stop now, and watch as it turns into a tiny spiral, and the last rays of the fading light from above glint off the wings as the machine dissapears into the trees. From here there is no noise, just a sudden dark spot in the branches.

Look just a little distance away, where a town is beginning to glow with firelight.

The gates are not yet closed. If the pilot lived, they could probably walk to the town before full dark.

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