Something struck atmosphere in the distance, flared with light as it arced across the sky. Then the falling object seemed to reconsider its careening descent. Pieces broke off and fell away, but the friction-fired reds faded into the hot blues of gravitic field generators like the nozzle of a sooty torch clearing its pollutants.
The object was still falling, but it had slowed. There was a chance of finding something that wasn’t obliterated in the wreckage.
Fife observed this all from the crest of a ridge, looking out over the ocean, wind whipping her raven hair back dramatically. She leaned into the wind, her front leg atop a rock, one hand on her hip, the other on her brow.
Beryl limped up beside her, asked, “Does that stupid pose improve your vision?”
Fife grinned from her perch, said to the shorter, pudgy man, “You never know who might be watching. I’d hate to deprive an artist of their inspiration.”
Beryl dropped his mouth open in mock wonder. “And me without my brush and palette!” He patted down the pockets of his skyhook thread coat as if searching for artist’s implements.
Fife pointed an elegant finger at the falling object. “It’s a starship and it’s going to crash over land. Let’s break camp and investigate.”
Beryl batted a hand dismissively. “You probably expect it to be full of ravenous aliens to subdue and their techno-loot to pilfer.”
Fife’s grin broadened. She didn’t expect it, but there was always room to hope.
Haste Writing 
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