This old world ain't what it used to be. Humanity was just minding its own business when all of a sudden, spaceships filled the skies. It was First Contact. See the Drabs had been searching for a planet that was rich in Specularite (gray hematite for those unfamiliar with the term). It's a mineral they use for medicine and fuel. They'd come here to set up negotiations with us.
But there's an old earth saying, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. They brought with them Hyrotitus. A germ that was as common to them as the sniffles. To humans, it was lethal. Those who were young and those who were old, perished within days of contracting it. The only to survive were adolescents whose bodies were changing, and a handful of exceptionally strong adults. Somehow the germ mutated them, making them stronger, smarter... more lethal.
The Drabs could have saved us. They had the medicine and technology. Some of them wanted to and they had a small and brief civil war over it. In the end, it was decided that we weren't worth saving. That they wanted our planet and we were nothing more than a nuisance to them. Not worth their time or their resources.
Human survivors were forced underground as the Drabs began destroying everything that had been our proudest accomplishments-- our literature, our art and cultures. For a hundred years mankind has tried to assimilate or hide. We identify each other by quoting human text. If we say, "To be or not to be," and the person looks at us as if we're insane, we know they are a Drab. But if they counter with another quote such as "Quoth the raven, nevermore" then we know they are one of us.
Now we're through with that. Hiding is for the old and infirmed. We are the Scraps of the day and we're pissed. This is our planet, our world and we're taking it back. Drabs take note and take cover.
It's time to bring out your body bags ...
The virus ran swiftly on the hot summer breeze. Unseen. Unheard. Unknown. It swept through the entire earth in a matter of months, having mercy on no one. Young—old—it didn’t matter.
Brought to us by the Drabs, it was the last thing we expected. But the Drabs knew. They even fought a war over whether or not they should save us.
In the end, it was decided that we were diseased insects who were unfit to breathe their air.
So they left the human race to die a miserable death of agonizing pain. Left us with no doctors or medicine. Their plan was to rid the earth of us and to take our home as their own.
What they never expected was the change that would come after the plague. We didn’t all die as they’d planned. Those under the age of twenty somehow managed to survive the disease.
We managed to pull through it, even alone, and we learned to hide ourselves while our bodies changed. Still human, but now something else. Something more powerful. More intuitive.
More pissed off.
We’re still here, on this earth, and we’re not leaving. This is our home.
Drabs take note and learn to be afraid. You’ve had a hundred years here on earth, but now your time here is done.
You called us rodents. Insects. Diseased animals. The scraps of humanity—and that, my Drab friend, we certainly are. But what you should have realized is that you can’t kill a Scrap. Humanity isn’t dead. Not by a longshot. We still have our soldiers and we have our conviction.
Most of all, we have hope.
And we will win in the end. Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs. We won’t allow you to take our planet from us. So count your days, Drabs.
The war is on.