Rain to Wash With

The rain just kept falling. It fell until the flowers had been stripped of their dim petals and the sky began to seem like a trickling ocean. There was nothing they could do but watch it fall. Watch it fall or die.

If they dared try to leave the shelter of the barbershop, then the rain would peel at their skin like it did the flowers. The acidity would blind them in seconds and steal the breath from their chests in the time it took to take a single step.

"It's not because of polution," said the man. "That's not why the rain kills us."

The woman rolled her eyes. "I'm sure it's not."

"Really, it isn't. We were getting the polution under control when it happened. We were helping everyone," he seemed forlorn and there was an edge of anger in his tone that left his words dangling tenuously in the air between them. Lightening struck nearby and broke the tension causing both of the young bodies to jump. A small fire started in the middle of a scorched ring but was quickly doused.

"When what happened?" she asked. Ever since she had arrived, since she had returned, there had been a sort of difference about everything around her that she could not quite pinpoint.

"We were attacked," he answered simply. "Almost all of us were killed."

His brow was folded like the an autumn leaf underfoot but a leaf did not have nearly as much sadness.

"Attacked? Is that why I see so few people around? Was there a war of sorts?"

"Of sorts, yes. But it was a war of a different kind, not of bloodshed or politics. We sought only to aid people when we came here, not wanting to hurt anyone. But the others... The others saw things differently. They saw us as a threat, as a danger. Not all of them, granted, but enough. And their spark of hatred brought along the most destructive and terrible tragedy this world has ever seen. It led to this," he looked out over the rotting landscape. Whatever color might have existed had been doused just like the sun that used to shine overhead.

The woman leaned against the aged wood of such an outdated building, listening to the rain drill into the ground. It was not the peaceful patter she remembered. Back before she had joined the space exploration crew, the rain had been refreshing. It had been nourishing and renewing. Now it was death.

"I have missed so much. So much," she looked around the barbershop. Where there had once been a historical replication of an old town where people would just walk in off the streets to alter their appearance, there were now only a few odds and ends misplaced upon the once-dazzling countertops.

"Who was it?" she asked after an extended and sorrowful silence. If the world had been ravaged then she wished to know who was to blame and perhaps, who was to fight.

"Who was it that created this wasteland? People. It was only people. People that we thought were good and who should have thought us good," he shook his head and leaned back into the wall. He seemed to sink into it as if it was made of putty and he of iron.

"Well, who was it that they attacked?" she almost demanded an answer now.

He looked directly into her eyes with a challenging expression twisted along his brow.

"It was us," he said and he broke his eyes away and back into the rain. The woman was taken aback.

"Us?" she repeated. He snapped his gaze back at her again.

"No," he corrected tersely. "Not you, us."

She blinked her eyes and refocused on him, trying to distinguish something separate about him. Was it his nationality? Race? Gender, even? What could she have missed in the three years she was gone that had divided the human race to such an extent?

"What do you mean, us?" she finally asked of him.

He appraised her for a moment.

"You really do not know, do you?" he asked with a bit of incredulity and doubt. She shook her head. He hauled himself to his feet from the malleable wall and stood up tall, strangely tall. He towered over her by almost a foot that she had not even noticed when he had pulled her from the approaching storm and inside.

He walked over to one of the broken mirrors and stared at his reflection for a moment before motioning for her to join him. She took a few wary steps toward him, put ill at ease by his manner.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Look," he said, pointing to the mirror.

She stood beside him gazing into the mirror that was framed with vintage wood. She saw herself, a little bedraggled from her misguided landing and she saw him, bronze skinned and tall.

But as she gazed at their reflections, the image of the man began to change. It warped and became hazy like she was looking into an antique circus mirror. When it refocused, she was looking into the reflection of a much taller man who didn't even look like a man. His eyes were crooked and glowed a pale blue and his skin was almost transluscent.

She stumbled back in shook, leaning against a dusty countertop. She gasped for words that did not come.

"I am not of Earth," he growled, pacing toward her. She fumbled her way away from the counter and found that she could hear the murderous echo of the rain somewhere behind her. He walked toward her, his bronze forehead almost twitching as his eyes were angry and intent upon her. "I am of the race who you destroyed with your chemical weapons. I am of the race who only tried to help and who was persecuted by you. I am of a race that wished to aid an ailing planet and was met with only destruction and death."

He continued to advance toward her until he was only a foot from her and she was only a few inches from the dust of rain that cascaded down from the disturbed sky. Her mouth was dry and her throat was closed, as if no water could parch her fear and allow her to speak.

His eyes flashed a brilliant blue.

"I am of a lost and murdered people and there is only one thing that I need to know from you," he grasped her by the arms and leaned her back until she could feel the cold wind rush by the barbershop door outside of which an acidic death awaited her.

"Who's side are you on?"