Night. They huddle together whispering while the stars smile indifferently overhead. Trying to comfort the crying one.

"Don't worry. Our boys will be here soon."

"They'll save us, you'll see."

"They'll never give in."

Other than that, quiet. Constellations rule the night sky, unafraid of snuffed out city lights. Nobody wants to admit, to realize.

The fighting's stopped hours ago.

A breath of wind flutters a poster briefly, stirs the branches of a burnt tree; in its last grasp it almost seems to reach up to the heavens.

And with a whisper, circles of light gleam on in the distance. Voices, the rolling of wheels, the crunching of boots. Slowly they scan the ground, scan the ruined walls, approach the huddled mass. And all fall silent as they look up at them.

Reapers.

They stand there in black, listening a moment to orders. Then weave noiselessly through the crowd, stopping only to shine flashlight on faces that struggle to hide. Every once in a while pulling somebody up and taking him with them.

And after they've gathered them, they move away.

"Why are you doing this?"

But there's no response. There never is.

Only the Wall.

And gunshots that ring out through dark night.