I snuck up on it and stabbed it in the back. There was lots of screaming and a little bit of gore. It died stubbornly, and when it had stopped twitching, I set it on fire and let it burn down to a pile of smoldering ash.
I had to; there was no other choice. It was the only way it could be reborn.
The manuscript was hideous. I couldn’t believe I’d written it, so bad was the prose. It reeked of high school campfire stories, where the storytelling was terrible even though no one really noticed. The goosebumps crawling up our arms had us all distracted.
I looked the pages over briefly, hoping to salvage _something_ from them. A valiant notion, to be sure, but only a fragment still glimmered. This I rescued with a bitter grain of hope, dusting off the soot and polishing it until it sparkled again.
It is the seed of new life, reincarnated into a new world. The people are different, yet the same. The view out the window is black and dark, but then again the deep recesses of space hold little light. The chain of events is going to play out differently, but the end result will look much like it did before – the terror of invasion will be unavoidable.