Mr. Quick was the first to fall at the hands of John Murdoch. We think of him now as we burn in the light of a newborn sun, dead meat posing little defence against the light. We scream, but not as humans would, unheard by the rest of us through the droning of our own machines.
Odd that we should think of him now. So many of us are dead or dying, and Mr. Quick was no more or less than those before or after him.
No more Mr. Quick.
There was a murmur amongst ourselves when we were told. Rash and fractured as we are today, we shared our surprise with alien voices, in a language not our own. We had not felt his passing, not in this new state of enforced singularity. Still, another aspect of us was lost, never to be a part of us again. It is quiet now, so hard to tell what the rest of us are thinking.
“Poor, poor Mr Quick,” we said, for we remembered being him, and him being us. We still wonder why we were the only part of us that spoke.
We are dying, and it is quicker now than we had thought, yet not quick enough to be painless. We twitch on the ground helplessly, as do our vessels, their nerves plucked for a final time before we’ll leave them for good.
Poor Mr. Quick, we think, for he was us, as we were him.
This is the end for all of us.