The world is dead.
And it has been, for many, many years.
These days, ash flits down like the snow of before... it taints the ground a grim grey, the remnants of buildings a sad, dirty silver.
The sun's beautiful light does not reach here. The heavy smog in the atmosphere forbids it, chasing it away like a guard dog does a fox and covering it up like a killer does a body.
But, sometimes, just sometimes, a little bit of life is brought to this dreadful surface.
Sometimes, the boots of the destroyers of this world step upon the dreary ash, and a mood just as dim follows.
There is nothing to find up here; not anymore.
But they still keep coming up, as if they hope that one day, they will see lush green leaves, deep brown dirt, and animals running about.
These destroyers will walk through the remnants of a civilization long gone; they will stare up at these massive creations, and they will hate.
They will hate the beings who made such constructs, because they destroyed the world that they walked upon.
It will take them days to go back down into their holes, their homes made years ago for the very purpose as to why they are used today.
In that time, they will explore, they will look, and they will hate. They will find nothing, and their mood will sullen, and the world will seem even darker than it is.
There is no hope for them, as all hope was destroyed long, long ago with the rest of the world.
And soon, their lights will flicker, and they will head back to their homes, for without light, the surface is dangerous.
They, like the generations before them, will lament on the actions of their ancestors.
The ancestors who thought they could do no wrong, for they were the smartest, the strongest, and fastest.
And though there is no use in lamenting, there is nothing else to do.
Nothing else to do but hope, and hope, and hope, for a future that will never come.