'Cities means civilization,' you reason. 'That'll be the safest landing port.' Confident in your reasoning you fire up the boosters and let the stars fly by. While watching out the cockpit you order your wench of a computer to play some speed metal, your favorite variety of music. She suggests three poser albulms and you select the one which sucks the least. As you listen you reminisce about your flight school days when you had just discovered the rush of both flying and hard-rock.
After a while you decide the quiet darkness of space is far more metal than anything your ditzy computer could conjure up so you tell her to shut it and stare out into the black for the larger part of the journey. The silence is broken finally by you as you whislte at the sight of a gray polluted orb. "Atmosphere 30% CO2, 12% O2,..." The computer droned on listing off a number of chemicals, many toxic, which lingered in the tainted astmosphere. It prompts you to strap on your breather. A compact but useful device, the breather could strain out toxins and since it stored oxygen at the subatomic level it provided nearly infinite amounts of breathable air.
"Begin descent," you tell the computer through the breather sounding much like an alien yourself.
The ship dips down into the gray clouds. The atmosphere is black and roiling and toxic. You pass through radioactive winds that would have mutated a cockroach and acid rain storms that threatened to dissolve the glass of the cockpit. Finally the smog clears and you drop into a shadowy gray cityscape, drab and destitute on all directions. The buildings that tower over the endless slums leave no doubt in your mind of your relative size in this world. If there is any remaining it's chased away by a pigeon as big as a jet liner that nearly broadsides your ship. "My God," you say aloud, words muffled by the pounding of its wings. "I'm, like, an inch tall."
This dawning realization is interrupted by the ship's alarm. "Fuel leak detected," the computer explains. Looking down you watch in horror as the bar representing the fuel line drops. 'The acid must have melted one of the fuel lines.' It begins to drop even faster, 'or all three'.
"Oh well,' you think, not for the first time. 'Looks like its time to crash.' You scan the city scape below finding to your chagrin nothing but concrete, steel, and charred brick steam-stacks, not even one patch of grass is visible. 'Where to land?'
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