Hunger

“… this is an abuse of power.” “Is it?” She tilts her head, genuine curiosity flitting across her face. By now you know that she’s a perfect actor. On the table behind her, far out of reach, a bowl of soup—your dinner—congeals. “Yes. There are rules for prisoners of war.” “Hmm. No, I don’t think so.” “It doesn’t matter what you—!” She shushes you. When you’re able to breathe again she continues, “the purpose of power is in its exercise. It doesn’t care how it’s used. There’s no platonic ideal that I’m twisting out of shape, no laws written that matter more than how they are enforced. All hierarchy is unjust. That’s what this is about, dear.” ...

It’s growing cold, little one. The fratricide-gorged false-sun miserly hoards its warmth, and its cold red light barely offers enough of a spark to light a fire. The sky is dim and grey, winter draping across the land with all of a funeral’s finality. What warmth there is comes from the earth: the swelling blooms of hydrothermal vents and frost-encrusted geysers, the self-destructive pulses of volcanoes popping like angry pimples. The last reserves of coal and oil, those old ghosts conjured up to suffer one last time. ...