Icarus had woken up with tears running down his face. He had another dream. A dream where he was thrown out of the kingdom and forced to fend for himself against them.
He sat up, wiped his tears, and reminded himself that something like that would never happen. He was a citizen who worked just like everyone else, he payed his tax, and he did his biweekly cleaning of the street he lived on. There would be no reason to throw him out. Right?
He got out of bed and prepared for his job by putting on a heavy trench coat, a mask, a hair cover, and gloves. He was a grave worker. A body burner. There was a plague that had been spreading. A plague that evolved to infect humans from the evolution of the insects. Known as the "fall of a lesser species." That "lesser species" refered to humans.
His kingdom had vowed hundreds of years ago to never revert to the primitive tactics of burning the infected, as they considered themselves smarter than the earlier humans. That didn't hold when people were dying every day. They'd lost the technology that the "primitives" had developed, no more advanced medicine. No more "phones."
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He'd just finished his job. He felt disgusting. All he could think about was the exhaustion he was experiencing right now. And he still had to go the facility and shower to make sure he didn't get infected. If he got the disease he'd be given a choice. They'd kill him right there, or he'd be thrown out of the kingdom.
As he showered in the facility where the grave workers were required to cleanse themselves before returning home, he looked at the murals on the wall. A time where humans were great. A mural depicting the people who made a difference in history with their names under it. There had to be hundreds of names. Maybe thousands. There were even excerpts of famous quotes the people had said.
As he turned off the shower he reminded himself that they would never be that great again.