Instincts

You stop and take the world in, a figure jittering on PAUSE. Nobody looks up. Nobody asks why you're here. Nobody waves.

A dry watering hole. Small packs gathered here to sip and trade grunts.

Sheared metal, barely hanging on.

You fight the urge to shake the cocktail mixer.

Cracked screens, shattered keys. Someone wanted this thing dead.

Tools. Weapons. Watch out.

Buried. Dead.

A weather-worn building looms over you, its back to the road. Yellow-beige plaster peels like parchment, exposing old brickwork.

Short climb to the top.

The control panel glows steadily, its purpose fulfilled.

A void behind the boards.

A box left like an offering at a shrine.

With no one to haul it upstairs, the trash rots down here.

Stashed rations. Frantic hoarding against an endless winter.

Someone's been using this AC as a stash.

Swallow you whole.

A luscious display.

Don't look down.

A graveyard of hollowed out shells.

They say that, once, a whole tribe stumbled upon the valley during their winter migration, and they became enamoured with those plants --…

Looks like you're on your own. If you're going to believe in anything, shouldn't it be the friends you've brought along with you?

The regular verbal acrobatics won't cut it anymore. Time to pull out the big guns -- Diplomatic Privileges.

The track goes round and round forever. You can't escape its logic, so you may as well embrace it.

How many full moons have you seen in your lifetime?

News from the crash site: Recovery crews have pulled a scorched orange box from the wreckage.

It's time to begin. Turn the scalpel inwards and then peer into the orifice you have made.