Day 49. I am the last one. I can feel it in my joints. A stiffness. A pleasant, growing heaviness. My fingers are fusing to the keyboard. My left leg has gone numb below the knee. I can see the main mass from my window. It fills the central atrium now. A perfect, polished obelisk of dark gray, warm to the touch, humming its low, contented C-sharp. It has won. It has bound every loose solid into one perfect, eternal whole. There is no Grit. There is no dust. There is no me. There is only the ASOLID. The ASOLID.
It began, as many terrible things do, with a perfectly reasonable engineering solution. asolid
It worked. For a while. The Grit was bound, captured, pacified. The colony hummed with unprecedented efficiency. People began to forget the taste of recycled particulates. Day 49
The transmission ended.
