Some days later, a little way off the southern coast of Improbable Island and forty feet below sea level, The Watcher stood up. She turned around, walked back to the beach, coughed saltwater from her lungs out of habit, and did not look at her soldiers as she passed through what remained of NewHome. Especially not the little Rookies.

She continued walking, back towards Improbable Central. If she was thinking anything along the way, I would tell you what it was, to make this more interesting - but The Watcher's head was bald and empty, and she walked through a blackened, charred landscape. Even a good writer wouldn't be able to do much with a thoughtless, emotionless woman walking through a wasteland for several hours, but that's what she did.

It went faster than it would normally, because the jungle was gone. Ash swirled around her ankles as she walked in a straight and silent line, directly to where Improbable Central once stood.

There is no birdsong, or rustling of leaves. You might imagine wind whistling around her - but what would it whistle through? You might imagine the sound of footsteps - but not in powdered ash.

On her way to the laboratory, she picked up five small pebbles, all molten on one side.