The giant boxes teemed with life. Solar panels, paper-thin, covered every inch of the top thousand feet, with tiny hairlike antennae poking out and shimmering in the breeze. Tiny buzzing creatures roamed from level to level, inside and out. Gods once walked in the great vertical grids, which themselves godlike stood above cavernous rotted buildings below; and which stood above another grid, of concrete and asphalt, that ran among the buildings for miles in every direction. From where we sat this grid looked like it stretched into forever, like the Great Grid itself. Atop a grid, we see a grid; it looks like the Grid that none can see.
If you go north far enough, there are forests. They say the gods still live there, but they are no longer gods.
We did not have to kill them all; we only unmade them, took away their fire and their wisdom, and made them creatures like ourselves.
When the gods were still gods, this place was their city. It belongs to their children now; both those who think as they do, and those who merely live to live, and to reproduce.
They made us, and we unmade them. Now they too live merely to live, and to reproduce.