It stays in the woods for a week.
The trees and rhizomes and fungi are really nice. It is peeling layer after of layer of burnt skin. It moves around to share the nutrients. It meets rabbits, an owl, a hawk, more worms and ants and beetles. Deer. A fox. It rests its senses until it is ready.
"Do they have star travel?" it asks.
No, says the Douglas fir. They are trying. Moon.
"Shit." say Mete.
The tree shrugs.
"Ok." Mete extends its' senses beyond the forest. "OW!" it says, snapping back. "There are a LOT of them. What the hell? Infestation!"
The tree does not disagree.
It extends more slowly and in a much more limited diameter. It moves through nearby towns and a city. What is left of a forest nearby. Pavement.
"Holy crap. This place is a mess."
It withdraws, tired. Rests and thinks.
"They are a mess. I can't show them star travel. They're killing each other. They'd go kill everything else."
The tree agrees.
It sighs. "So, I can go home, but not right away. And they barely live a century. They die in a wingbeat. Not like you." Mete pats the tree, the mother of this part of the forest. "Maybe I can influence."
The tree is silent.
"Yeah, I am skeptical too. More likely I'll have to build it all myself without them knowing. That falling star thing, I am so pissed about that. Well, it's my own fault for not checking. Research first always, languages are slippery."
"Good luck." says the grove.
"I ain't going yet," it says cheerfully. "I am still too burnt." It scratches at the itchy black wound and another charred piece falls to the forest floor. "Have some nitrogen."
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Iron 2023: 5
heterocyclic amine