chewing through your wimpy dreams, they eat without a sound

Mother Earth. That was what the humans - mims, now - had called their former home. To them, the fertile rock floating in space was a sympathetic creature, loving and cherishing of their existence and company thereupon. A romanticized reciprocal relationship, they had had, but one they had abused nonetheless, in deed if not in word.

Mira is...nothing like that. The Grexes tear mims' arms from their sockets just the same as if they had been hewn of sinewed flesh, rows upon rows of ruthless teeth biting into deltoids and carving out and around acromions with more of a tear than a snap. Ciniculas stomp, Xiphias soar, Adseculas buzz, and they are the bluntest sneak-thieves Elma has ever seen.

But Elma isn't from Mira or from Earth. It's a sick kind of altruism, to keep going when everything that had been hers, everything she had made her own after arriving to this mobile cataclysm, humanity in motion, was surely destroyed. Because everyone has goals. Because everyone wants something.

Does this planet want something? Does this planet want to give something back, still, when all the invaders have done is take, take, take?

Does this planet crave restoration, just like they do?