in the end it wasn't human kind that destroyed the world, it was

...consequences. Humans don't create consequences, in the great game of dice the univers is lodged in. They only create the interesting times, with some help from the ever present, lesser known, horsemen of, in alphabetical order, "ignorance", "let someone else handle it" and "we've always done it this way". 

Alas, the world didn't care. It imploded and then went away and had a little holiday, away from the pestering sounds of nuclear waste improperly dispossed of and a growing global economy. 

Holidays, however, end. That's why they're called holidays. Otherwise, each day would be a holy day and no rivers would be dammed for the benefit of global trade and suicidal beavers. 

When it returned and found the Sun still at its posting and the Moon still throwing shade - as per the job description - it decided to spot the last remaining humans. 

Now, let's see, where would they go? It's cold, so no need to start searching around the poles. Or is it? The world decided to send some spotters, equiped with a manual called "Humans - a spotters guide" and CO2 sensitive devices. 

"Mine doesn't seem to work", whines a suit. 

"You're holding it wrong. Grab it from the other end", answers another voice, coming from another suit. This one is slightly less grimmy, but a lot more grubby. 

"No, don't stick it into your own USB port unless it's charging."

The Grimmy suit looks up, slightly embarrased, and the lights that shine where eyes would be flicker slightly. 

"So, then, how do you use it? How's this going to help us find survivors? You can't breath the air and you can't drink the water, there's nothing left to eat and nothing to warm you up. This is stupid."

The Grubby suit sighs, but before it can answer another suit chimes in: 

"How many times do you need it explained, Grimmy?"

This suit looks like it wanted to be some major, in some army, so it can tell cool stories about dead enemies and feel important. But it went to some technical school - more money to be made, you see - and now that there's no more need for technical or amy, it just resortes to being the superior intelect. Ofcourse, everyone else just thinks the result is a twat, with a tongue long enough to get stuck in the backend of any superior rank that might be passing by. 

The Grimmy suit would blush, but that requires a rush of blood and it's not entirely clear that blood is in good supply here. 

"Look, humans produce CO2 when they exhale, right?", Grubby starts. 

"Yes"

"And humans tend to flock together, right?"

"They do? I thought the nice lady who taught us humans studies said only animals lived in flocks. I mean, I can clearly remember comprehension exercises about a flock of sheep and about a "flock wallpaper" and about using flock to fill a cushion, though I forgot what a cushion was. But flock of humans? I mean, I'm not that smart, but I ain't that daft either". This voice is slightly timorous, you can almost feel it doing its best to overcome an intrinsic stutter.

"Fine. They congregate then"

"They developed a new religion? This wasn't in the human studies syllabus" answers the Small voice. 

"How should I know? Look, whenever a human is alone it will start searching for other humans. They don't survive well alone. Remember when we had to watch Mad Max- Fury Road? Not even Mad Max was alone all the time, they always start some perilous journey to find other humans. And once they do, they usually start an even longer, more perilous journey to find even more humans, with the purpose of either mating with them or feuding with them, right? So when you have a group of humans who all exhale CO2"/

"But the machines are built on Nitrogen, sir", interupts the Small Voice.

"No, they bloody well aren't" interjects "Wannabe army- had to settle for engineer".

"I'm afraid they are. I read the manual on my break, before we landed" answers Small voice. 

"Yes, but the thing is that nitrogen is in high quantities everywhere. So the machine runs on nitrogen, yes, and it identifies carbon dioxide. Because a lot of humans will exhale a lot of carbox dioxide. And that's how you can find them. So point the bloody thing forward and downward and let's get a move on. I'm feeling peckish and I am almost sure we're having desert today. I want to be back by then".

The Grimmy suit stopped pointing it upward and the Small voice got a move on and the Wannabe army suit - gleaming on the outside and really stenchy on the inside - did its best to overtake everyone as if there was a finish line at the end and this suit really needed to get there first. 

The Grubby suit was last, stealing furtive glances into ugly corners of former life. It wasn't feeling peckish, but you can't say you have a bad feeling and go back to square one. It's not what we do- we have good feelings that tomorrow will just be that tinny bit better and that's why we get out of our pod in the morning. If you can call this morning. 

Alas, after thousands of those mornings in places that used to be warm, it was time to inch awat into places that used to be cold. Not because they were warm now, but because after you have eaten the corners of the brownie, you now have to eat the less crunchy, less satisfying part of the brownie. 

And, just like the brownie, these places were denser, with different levels of radioactivity, with different flavours of nitrogen and a lot more dark shadows in insinuating corners. 

"Who took my snuff box? Did you take it, Grimmy?"

"I don't even take snuff, Wannabe. check your other pocket"

"I did, Grimmy, and it's empty. Small voice didn't get its nose out of the manual and Grubby hasn't woken up yet- So there's only you left. And I don't take the snuff, I take the box. It has a better flavour than the regular stuff. " 

"Or maybe you just used it all up? You know you can't stop once you started, you just sit by it and use one after the other until the tin is consumed", murmured Small voice. 

"I didn't ask you"

"Now, now - we have a lot to do today. The blasted rain got into all our circuites and we still need to oil the hinges in the suits. Get to it and we'll scramble about your snuff when we're done, Wannabe. Who knows, maybe we'll even find you another snuff tin to be grumpy about" says Grubby with a half opened eye and a hunger for a coffee that no longer exists and that it had never tasted. 

They did find humans, up in the north. Preppers and survivers who ran to the bunkers when shit got real. It wasn't nice and they didn't get down to talking without a fight. Some preffered dying to rebuilding and just walked into the wilderness. Yet others preffered digging themselves even deeper bunkers to joining the pidgin world of the afterworld. 

Why call it afterworld? The world was the same one, it's place in the solar system the same. 

Humans, eh? They still think the world is all about them, even when the world showed them unequivocally that they aren't, it isn't and it survives. 

Grimmy, Grubby, Small voice and Wannabe were waiting on the main deck as the ceremony progressed. 

"Not even a medal" grumbled Wannabe. 

"Not even a mention", adds Grimmy. 

"Not even new, updated suits" sighs Small Voice. 

"Not even a new missions" whispers Grubby in the privacy of its own mind, for lack of a better word. 

The world didn't care. It never did. Not about small anomalies such as suits developing an incipient mind, not about monkeys developing a sentient experience, not about wolves becoming dogs and preffering belly rubs to hunting prey, not about the dessert blooming. 

It's only the suits that care, the humans, the dogs, the sandy desserts caressing a patch of growing colour like a mother cat licks her kittens to remind them the are, in fact, still kittens even if they get to stay out longer. 

The world didn't care. It just went on.