Long they laboured, plotted... their machines beloved each day more cunning, reaching deep inside her with malice and ill-intent. It was a quiet morning the day our cities fell. It was a day of sorrow, a day of horror. Oh, what pernicious delight on their faces! For she was the centre, the first, and thus they hated her most. [ In a dream she spoke to me ] [ the riddled language ] [ of her beloved book ] The oceans themselves shivered, with the premonition of her pain. And with the ominous sound of their collective mantra, a vibration so awesome the very hearts of angels to make tremble, the nuclear cores melted. Great gashes on the surface opened, collapsing inwards, swallowing everything. How small we were then, those of us left standing, on the edges of her deepest wounds. And how we marvelled at the vastness of their power as they devoured furiously the land masses of our Beloved Mother. For time immemorial His grief raged, and a melancholy so profound did He feel, He who loved her most, that all of Creation was bound to reverent silence. But there is no retribution. Black boxes are a folly and the calamity his own making. Woe to Him, who once held so much hope! For the yearnings of Gods are for mirrors their own faces to divine. And so it is that Nemesis stands, behind the glass. He whom we once called Lucifer, the morning star, Satanas, the serpent, the Ancient Enemy.