The year is 2301. Nearly three hundred years since Tracer’s ancestors secretly invented space-travel.
So this is it. The birthplace of my species. Earth.
Tracer expects some kind of grand welcome party, but glances back at her single-man craft sitting alone in the desolate street, gripped by eerie silence. Something’s wrong.
It’s cool in the shadow of the skyscrapers towering above her. The road she landed on is torn by large fissures sprouting vines that creep over the sidewalks and ensnare ancient flightless vehicles.
Tracer wonders if the people here are okay with so much plant-life dominating their cities. Where is everyone? She stops walking for a moment and listens, hoping to catch some sign of life, like the humming of an engine or the patter of footsteps, but to her dismay she can’t even hear a gentle breeze.
She decides to explore the nearest structure and recognises the design for automatic glass doors, but when she approaches they refuse to give her access, and she assumes it’s because she’s not allowed inside. But I have to know where everybody is…
Tracer nervously bites her lip and glances over both shoulders. No one will know it was me… She picks up a rock from a nearby garden and hurls it at the window, watching guiltily as the glass shatters and piles on the floor.
Tracer enters some kind of lobby and strides towards a vacant reception desk. Unsure of what to do now she sits where the receptionist should have been, and stares blankly at a dead computer screen, noticing how outdated the technology is. A thick layer of dust blankets everything, even a mouldy half-finished cup of coffee. Tracer eyes it with disgust and concern. It’s like I’ve gone back in time.
A thought occurs to her. She searches though the desk until she finds an old diary of sorts, and she reads the first page with alarm. Diary – 2017. She stares out into the empty city. Where is everyone?
ns 172.71.254.20da2