O ataque

The stench of decay, a thick, cloying miasma, still clung to them, a lingering testament to the bizarre and horrifying downpour of flesh. They had huddled together, a desperate, shivering knot of humanity, as the sky wept its gruesome bounty. Now, with the last viscous drops splattering on the alien soil, a fragile silence had descended, broken only by the ragged breaths of those who had witnessed the impossible. Joan, her armor streaked with an unholy ichor, surveyed the grotesque landscape with a grim set to her jaw. Sacagawea, her face pale but her eyes sharp, continued to gather what meager supplies they could salvage from the debris, her movements economical and swift.

Leopoldo, ever the pragmatist, was already examining a particularly large chunk of… *something*… with a detached curiosity, his brow furrowed in concentration. Degassi, the scientist, was meticulously collecting samples in small, scavenged vials, her gloved hands surprisingly steady. Genghis Khan, his face a mask of stoic impassivity, merely watched, his gaze sweeping the horizon as if expecting the next calamity to emerge from the very air. Alterra, however, was different. She knelt, her head bowed, her hands pressed to the ground. A tremor ran through her, a silent communion with the afflicted planet.

"It is a sign," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, though it carried in the heavy air. "A cleansing. The old must be purged for the new to grow."