Centuries ago we hunted the ancients to near extinction.  We were angry, afraid, confused by their technology.  Jealous of their innate connection to Earth.  Junkyards remain, scattered monoliths sitting useless in open valleys, inoperable.  Squandered opportunities haunt us.     

Rumours of sightings filter in from fringe villages – colonial chunks still spooked by superstition and old stories of immortal giants.  I’ve seen silhouettes cast shadows in the twilight, red eyes reflect light like fish scales for an instant and then vanish… but the night is mad and likes to play tricks on tired, hungry folk, and in the rim countries we are starving. 

Out here, far from home, we are raised in dirt and shit and rage.  The radio plays happy songs on repeat, Lucy singing optimistic about long summers and slow-cooked stew and wine.  We know none of these things.  The man barking disembodied orders from the microphone has the same voice as the one before.  They say he lives out here amongst us little people, but no one really believes that. 

A mob marches through the town centre chanting spirit songs, churning the road into mud.  Later I watch them spitting froth and gibberish, chasing some dark hulking thing.  It lumbers frantic through the village, cradling in its arms a giant black cube.

It glances back towards the crowd, and I glimpse red eyes rimmed with fear.