A Balanced Equation

I sit near the edge of the Transform, watching the aliens convert green grass and tall trees into computational substrate, ash grey limned in lines of fluorescent blue. It’s pretty, in its own way, though they won’t stop until they’ve turned our planet into a giant processor.

Sylar says they see the universe as a mathematical problem, and they’re trying to solve for God. Maki says they are a cancer, and must be destroyed. 

I don’t know if either of them is right. God I’m not familiar with; cancer I know all too well.

I fold my clothes into a neat pile, and place my shoes on top. I stand and walk across the dividing line, and feel my feet tingle as the aliens set to work. For too many years I’ve felt like a problem—I look forward to becoming part of the solution.