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[Power - 1]
I press my fingertips against the smoked glass. It's cool to the touch, smooth. My reflection looks back at me, mute. His eyes are full of accusation, and a hint of some sort of pain. He is vague, indistinct; he looks as if a simple breath of air will blow both him and the smoke inside the glass away. I know how he feels.

I focus my eyes beyond and behind him, force myself to stop considering the meaning of my own face. That does mean, though, that I have to consider what lies beyond. The city's dark. Completely dark. Outlined against the orange glow of the setting sun. All of the lights have gone, and I don't know if they're going to shine again. The neons, the streetlights; they're just dead arms, sculptures. A metal forest, a useless testament to our love of light.

We've run out of light, out of power. We've been cut off.

And I did it.

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