Work Text:
Coruscant is dying.
Oh, the people live on, sure, most of them; the higher you go the more prosperous they are. But Coruscant is dying. The ground has been worn in with duracrete and stomping feet. The sky is filled with rising towers and revving speeders. The earth below has been dug up and whittled away to make room for even more levels to the endless city, stretching deeper and deeper.
The air is artificial. The day’s cycle is determined by machines. Every day is a perfect day because those in charge deem it so. The sun shines bright when they say it does, and the rain showers the planet when they say it does. The wind is never too strong, the snow is contained to sparse periods in select areas. The seas are dried and the mountains have fallen - only one peak remains and the greenery that surrounds it is beautiful and still artificial, its authenticity not guaranteed after being barren for so long.
Once upon a time, Coruscant was the proud home of blazing warriors. Its fresh earth was the battleground for a relentless war, and the rivers of blood watered the soil, feeding the planet. Homes were built upon solid ground, plants were tended to and animals roamed. The peoples of Coruscant, though they fought to drive each other away, cherished and respected the planet. There was an unspoken agreement to tend to their homeland, despite the war. In this way, through the passion of warriors united, Coruscant flourished, Coruscant lived.
Today, the peoples of Coruscant gossip in buildings far removed from the surface. They take in sunshine and rainfall and temperate weather all carefully controlled to remain as pleasant as possible. They do not feel ground beneath their feet. They do not touch plants growing freely. They visit aristocratic arboretums and pricey botanical gardens. They pay for extravagance and exotics. They do not care for authenticity. Their vanity has vacated the planet of the native life that once thrived. The vagabonds and vacationers care even less, only drawn to the sights the citizens high in the sky boast of, while the dregs trickle down, poisoning all that roam below.
Occluding the rich history of love and life, natural and genuine, are article after article proclaiming the many attractions to be opulent and plush, luxurious and lavish indeed. And yet, beneath the veneer of flourishing flora and fauna, the planet's artificial heart rusts. Its biomass has been slowly chipped away, replaced by carefully calculated cogs. Each piece has been matched perfectly, and yet - is this the same heart? Every piece has been replaced, one by one. How can we claim it to be the planet we once knew? Still, this heart beats on. It beats even as the life it once had drains away, it beats even as the rust builds, as the rot grows. It beats itself, in every sense of the word.
Coruscant is dying. The protesters on the streets do not make a difference - the atmosphere is forever ruined, the ground is forever poisoned, the people are forever uncaring. The stench of something rotten fills the air, but the odor is quickly filtered away. The planet is so used to the corruption not a single soul can detect the festering evil that lies within. Supreme Chancellor Sheev Palpatine sits in his office, a wicked grin on his face and malevolent machinations already set into motion.
Coruscant is dying. She’d rather be dead.