Strangely enough, the emptiest place in this whole miserable giant city appears to be a playground directly beneath you. 'Strange,' you think remembering the always busy playgrounds on your own colony of Vocktar-Prime. Then again those yards were green and bright while this one lays in the shadow of tightly constricting brick buildings. Taking a closer pass at what must be around head height for these titans you notice that the swing sets and jungle gyms are rusting for lack of use. 'Perfect,' you decide, 'I need somewhere to think this through without being stepped on, and who knows what these giants are like.' You'd certainly seen enough of the beings from the air to know they looked human, and even if they were exactly so except for their size this was no great comfort considering the history of your species.
Guiding the craft nimbly between the bars of the jungle gym you drop ever more altitude, undecided on your exact landing space until you see an inviting tin can. It sits, jagged metal opening just poking from the shadow of one of the great buildings. 'That should do,' and it might even have the bonus of having some food still inside. The thought of subsisting on the discarded refuge of the giants gives you a shiver of revulsion, but you force yourself to remember what few rations you had along with you. You weren't planning on a pangalactic journey, after all, when you started out to the nearest star.
You coax the craft gently in using thrusters at full force to bring it into a hover in front of the can. You see a faded, peeling wrapper on its side. "Computer," you ask, still in hover mode, "Run a translation on the symbols." The process, not an easy request, takes the computer more than a moment and glancing down at your falling fuel gauge, drained mostly by the thrusters, you decide you can't afford to wait. Easing the stick forward, you bring the craft into the can at a snail's pace. Its a tight fit and you hear one wing drag on the port-side, wincing at the squeal of titanium on tin. Finally all the way in you detract the landing gear, their pads no doubt squishing into whatever residue remained stuck to the walls of the can. As you come to a rest the computer's silence attests to her having completed the translation algorythm. "Well," you ask impatiently, "what does it say?"
"Pork, beans," the computer replies without emotion, "and humans."
You almost vomit right there on the console, 'could they be... cannibals...' And what's more you actually considered eating what was left. 'If I hadn't thought to run the translation I might have...,' the thought conjures a new wave of nausea. Swallowing the taste of bile you turn to your computer's patiently blinking green lights. "Please," you say, forgetting even to be rude to her, "run a diagnostic on your linguistic circuits, you must be wrong."
A short humming, then, "circuits check out, Michael, there is no error." Your face darkens, of all the worlds you could have wound up on, you had to pick the one where you're on the menu. With masculine spirit you pull yourself together, 'there's no use cryin' about it like a gir...' A loud wheezing sound outside stops your thoughts,... the sound... of crying. Loud sobs certainly, loud enough to be mistaken for a meteorological phenomena on earth but sobs, none the less. Should you...
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