Weeping Sky
Archivist's Note: The following is a journal believed to date back to the Second Renaissance in the aftermath of the machines' final victory over humanity on the surface. Although tarnished by the elements and time (oddly enough, dating indicates it is over a century old despite our war with the machines having only lasted about this long), we restored the journal to its original form to the best of our abilities. A digital version has been stored in Zion's library.
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Entry 1: March 30th, 2139
Shall I compare this to a summer's day? Shall I write the eulogy of humanity? Standing in the ruins of what was once New York City, I feel compelled to do so.
And yet, Lady Liberty laughs at me.
Entry 2: April 4th, 2139
It's snowing now. The first snow I've seen in...well, ever. Funny how I always wanted to be in snow and now, in the end of all things, the machines have given it to me. If I'm not killed by radiation, a Sentinel or something else, maybe I'll live long enough to enjoy it.
I'm sitting by a fire. No, it isn't Christmas and if it wasn't for the warmth it provides, I'd leave in an instant. The machines are thorough in rounding up stragglers but they're also messy. It's as if they can't stand the thought of any record of human history being left on Earth and they want to remove any evidence of our existence. The fires spread through the ruins of this city. The only remaining warmth in this world.
Entry 3: April 11th, 2139
I saw a ship today. One of ours, still operating. I don't know why it flew over this ruin of a city-I can only assume that whatever body of leadership may still exist is hoping that survivors can still be found in this ruined world. As one of the largest cities on this planet and the seat of what used to be the United Nations (or, at least what nations still existed before the nuke went off) I suppose New York would be a good place to start.
Problem was, the machines recognised this as well. Turns out Sentinels are just as good at taking down air targets as they are with scooping up survivors, taking them towards God knows what. Regardless, the aircraft didn't stand a chance and even if it had, why would it have come after me? Every radio in the city's been fried by the nuke's EMP and even if I had been rescued, what then? Lie on a bed and wait to die from radiation poisoning?
Then again, my hair isn't falling out as fast as I thought it would. So if I'd been rescued, perhaps I could at least have been spared from starvation or water poisoning.
Entry 4: April 18th, 2139
Sometimes I wonder why I write this journal. True, it keeps me sane, but I can't help but wonder who will read it? In this day and age, I doubt many survivors will be particularly interested in history. And the machines? Well, if they're capable of humour, I can only assume that they'll point and laugh at my corpse and ignore the journal altogether.
At least I won't be burning it. All the fires have gone out, courtesy of rain. Acid rain that is, as black as the coal we once relied on before moving on to sources of energy such as the sun. Maybe we should have stuck with it.
Entry 5: April 30th, 2139
One month of hell. There won't be another. Spring has become winter, one that will last forever.
Right now, as my stomach rumbles while I cough up blood, my thoughts turn to those that the machines took. What if I had gone with them? Would I have been able to escape from this reality? I can't imagine what alternative the machines could provide, but right now, I'd be willing to chance it. Pride kept me in this damn city, the same pride humanity possessed for decades before being cast down by what we created. In the end, we destroyed not only ourselves but the world around us. Even the sun in a sense. It's been so long since I last saw it.
As I look up at the dark sky, I see that it's snowing, as if the sky is weeping. And although we do not deserve its pity, I can't help but ask that if there is a god up there, that he spares some tears for us.
I for one have shed all of mine.
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