He used to be a city planner and he had made his mark here. His people were making a living for themselves. The dense markets of his design were bustling. On rooftops, in the middle of the streets, on the beach, independent store-owners (star chefs, musicians, craftsmen) would have full days and head home late at night happily exhausted.
He lived in a closet-size apartment, with a balcony facing the sea and a hydroponic garden hanging from the baluster. That's all he needed. His desk and the holo-meeting rooms were two stories below. Just yesterday, he was drawing on the walls for a new couple's to-be-opened restaurant. They insisted on having a wood stove and he told them he'll make something work. But this morning, he was frozen staring out of his tall bedroom windows, fear was getting a hold of him.
They had arrived at dawn without a sound. Floating like storm clouds above the bay, a blur of hot air behind them, they peppered the horizon. It wasn't the first time he saw one on approach but these had a few more engines, a few more cannons. The Net-feed was silent. His windows were rattling faintly and he felt a low murmur in his chest.
He whispered to himself: "So much for peace ambassadors..." And he wondered how would these disc-like spacecraft's living quarters be laid out. Do you give more volume to the cockpit or the kitchen? While trying to roughly calculate their body proportions, he half-absently noticed their cannons gradually taking on a blue hue, until he felt loud pulses coming from their direction. Suddenly, the sky got too bright for his retinas and, in pain, he raised his arms to his face.
He closed his eyes and thought of his daughter. At this time she was usually about to unlock the doors to her café on the street corner. She had asked him to fix her roof panels today. "I'm sorry Mya." is all he could say.