The High Architect’s ship didn't flee because it was defeated; it fled because the crop had gone "sour." To the Architects, we were no longer a clean, efficient source of energy. We were a virus that had infected their multi-million-year machinery.
The liquid mercury of the massive ship began to reorganize, the mile-long hull twisting and folding until it formed a massive, three-eyed face that stared down at the city with a cold, clinical curiosity. The voice that followed didn't come from the air; it came from the earth itself, vibrating through the very foundations of the buildings and making the stones beneath my feet hum.
“The yield is tainted,” the face spoke, its "eyes" glowing with a dull, dying purple. “The Sovereigns have merged the livestock with the light. The energy is no l
