The shell of the building shook. A racking, sobbing shudder. There was a sound in the air that smelled like regret. Rubble and dust shook loose from the ceiling and showered over the three men, two scruffy and one clean-shaven, huddled in one corner.
“What in the hell is that?” whispered the clean-shaven one as loud as he dared.
“Christ, where you been, man?” yelled the younger of the two others.
“Don’t worry, son,” said the third, laying a hand on the clean-shaven man’s shoulder. “It can’t hear us. Can’t see us, either, not even if we were right in front of it. If we’re lucky it will keep moving and stay in a good mood.”
“This is a good mood? It slaughtered my whole team! Destroyed our ship!”
“It doesn’t know that. Doesn’t know anything except what it feels. What it makes others feel. And yeah, for a Mote I’d say regret’s about as close as it gets to whimsy.”

The feeling in the air was fading and the shaking growing less violent, and the clean-shaven man was beginning to recover.
“I… My name’s Casey. 3rd and 8th,” he shook the older man’s hand. “What division are you? Do you have a ship nearby?”
“Afraid not, son. The name’s Deacon, and this here is Silver.”
“Holy!” Silver had been slow to catch on. “Division? Ship? You’re from Orbit!”
“You’re not?” asked Casey, confused.
“Surface, born and bred. I ain’t never left the ground. Never even seen anyone from above, before.”
“Surface? Nobody lives on the surface. Not anymore.”
“That what they tell you up there, son?” asked Deacon. “You look old enough, if only just, to remember the exodus. What do you think happened to those who got left behind?”