The lush green canopy and bright colors of what presents itself as a most peculiar jungle appear almost black in the still twilight, the giant leaves and fronds of the megaflora sopping wet from the rain cycle just ended. And amidst it all, nothing stirs, no insect, bird or animal—not even the machines tasked with its maintenance.
No animal save for the two of them, that is, their vantage point a clearing of neatly clipped grass glistening with a uniform sheen of water droplets in the fading dusk.
A deceptively young-looking couple, their complexion as much a misdirection as their retro-Edwardian garb, a century-old style reinvented for some supposed modern era, with only the subtlest of tailoring to reflect gender, given the practical trouser style, the hems soaked through from the wet lawn.
“A veritable garden of Eden,” the man says, a chirpiness to his aristocratic English accent. “Creation reimagined?”
“They see, and they do not see,” sighs the woman, her heavy European lilt laboring over the lament. “And I see only the folly of Man.”
“Of Man or of men? It is said that the female of the species is more deadly than the male.”
“The species of which we find ourselves part?” asks the woman, raising her eyebrows to counter what she considers to be an attempt at inappropriate jocularity.
“I believe the debate to be still inconclusive—”
“You play with words and sentiment, while all about us conceals a dark horror.”
“The horrors are below us. And we have seen far darker.”
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