Numbers

The numbers where tumbling again.

A continuous cascade of random digits where causing havoc with his mind. Every night the same thing, numbers, with no reason or purpose just random. Then as he awakes the numbers stop, 1698717.

Every time.

James Reills, the man who dreams of numbers and nothing else. If the world wasn't a complete shithouse he would have felt rather sorry for himself. As life is now he counts himself one of the lucky few that actually dream, not just reliving the nightmare over and over again.

It has been seven years since the end of civilization, or rather the metamorphoses of civilization to something other. Being human was not something to be proud of anymore. Since they discovered us we have become a disease to be exterminated. The last remnants of a defeated enemy, the destroyer of worlds.

If only they left us a memo or something when we were abandoned on this world. nobody told us that we were seen as the greatest evil ever to walk the space ways. 

If you were wondering what the numbers meant, well that makes two of us. All he know is that they are burned into his eyes every morning when he wake up. 

The passageway reverberated with the heavy tread of a soldier. The reinforced titanium alloy armour that this brute wears weighed over a ton and the bastard moves like a ninja. If ninjas were mutant ape lizards with four eyes.

"Prisoner 44-1919."

"What?"

"Your lucky day, meat bag."

"Fuck sakes I don't want to go to the surface."

"You don't have a choice, regulation forbids a prisoner from staying underground for longer than a week, earth-standard."

Who would have guessed, conscientious conquerors. We truly live in a fucked up world. Unfortunately this is only the beginning; shit gets way worse from here.