The flag at half-mast

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The flag flew at half-mast, clinging to a rusted pole atop a crumbling building coated in roots and vines.

When the invaders came, we were given a choice: fight, or surrender. We proudly chose to fight with all our might.

First came the drones, raining death from the above. Even on the sunniest of days, the clear blue sky instilled fear in the hearts of all who dared to leave their shelter.

Next were the soldiers. Their rallying cries echoed in the distance. The front line drew closer and closer to our homes, until they waged wars and held siege right outside our doors. Still, we did not surrender.

Then came the biological weapons. Yellow haze blinded brave men and women fighting for their nation. Clouds of emerald melted their skin and infected their minds. They lived on, in agony, until the morning of the red fog. Their blood boiled and evaporated, covering the landscape in a crimson steam.

The worst was the sabotage. We decided that, if we couldn't have our land, no one would. We poisoned the crops, killed the animals, and polluted the waters until there was nothing left, not even for our own survival. Our children were the first to die. Unaware of the danger, some ate tainted food supplies, others died of starvation, and some simply melted into our rivers of acid. The bodies we could find were buried in unmarked graves or thrown in overflowing ditches along unpaved roads.

Finally came the mushroom clouds, the last nail in humanity's coffin. They rendered the world inhospitable for the few remaining survivors. Before long, all that was left was a wasteland of bones and morphed shadows clinging to broken walls.

Turned white by acid rain, bleached by the sun, and worn by time, the flag continued to sway gently in the breeze. In the end, it was not a nation or its people that surrendered: it was humanity itself. And so, the white flag flew at half-mast for a species too proud to survive.

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