They only ever found themselves deeper in the crushing darkness.
These four came from-- well, it didn't matter to any of them, really. They never talked about home. About where they had been. They didn't talk much at all, preferring the silence to the empty words that would only dig them deeper into the rocky ground of hopelessness they knew they lived in, even still.
One in particular was about to meet his final destiny.
He never considered himself a radical. He was no Beet-nik, no activist for any cause, had nothing controversial to say about any politician and always filed his taxes early. In fact, it was only after considerable encouragement that he joined the B.E.ET.s at all.
Beetrice. She was the one. "Robeet," she'd croon, glancing up at him with those dark, dark eyes in a way that cut the entire world out from around those two alone. "Robeet, you know it just as well as I! All the other vegetables, from string beans to broccoli, from carrots to chard, from delicate asparagus to the lowly potato all have their names inscribed upon the tastebuds of the generations! How have we-- more comely than cauliflower and more sweet than spinach-- been ignored for so long? The only way they know us is sliced thoughtlessly in cans, our tender flesh stung with the acrid tang of aluminum, else by our blood only staining purple pickles of other geni, even so low as to be pureed into mash for ailing horses!
"Robeet," she said again, and now he could see tears of deep violet welling in her eyes. "Join us. Better Enjoy Every Taste is not about the privilege of being a favorite but of the right to be eaten as we were intended to be-- as any vegetable was intended to be! Whole! Pure! Fresh!"
Robeet could never deny a lady's tears.
His quiet reason and clever rhetoric saw him through the ranks of B.E.E.T. until soon his picture could be seen in the papers with the other more vocal members: Beetholomew, a flashy beet with his eye (and a whole lot else) on the media, Beethany, "America's Beetheart", and Albeet, whose seminal essay "You'd Better Beetlieve It" was even being whispered about in gourmet circles. In fact, he had become so involved with the cause that he agreed with the other three that more drastic action was needed to spread the B.E.E.T. word.
And that's how they found themselves here today, wrapped in starry splendor in their final moments. They said not a word to each other, each finding his own peace and daring this final one time to hope that maybe, just maybe, their sacrifice would bring salvation to their brothers and sisters the world over.
Into the dry fire of a 400 degree oven for over an hour, the B.E.E.T.s remained stoic as their skin shrunk tight against their flesh and even the pale stumps of their once long arms shriveled and withered into nothing. Even in such sweltering heat, the B.E.E.T.s felt nothing but pride.
Out of the oven at last, and Robeet was the first to be stripped of his robes. He lay softly, silently as the blade fell.
--and again--
--the blade fell, and he felt now only a singular sensation radiating outwards from his six-times fragmented core: light. The darkness they all said filled the whole of his kind-- that monochromatic and insurmountable stain of fuchsia-- at heart was brighter and richer even than the dastard sun which so long eluded them!
Delirious with this joy, Robeet realized very little of his final dressing.
Laid upon a bed of bitter greens, anointed with loving drops of apple vinegar, and crowned with the glory of toasted walnuts and delicate sea salt, Robeet was at peace. His comrades, he knew, would soon follow him to this splendor, and all would know of the beauty of the B.E.E.T.s.
"Allahu akbeet", he murmured to himself wryly as he blissfully passed into toothy oblivion.
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