Tweet of the Day: The Arthur Stone
Rodan’s belly rumbled,”Three days with nothing but filtered water will do that to you,” he whispered.
The jungle did not deigned to answer. The Occuli destroyed his rations when it blasted the cockpit to oblivion. And due to his alien biology there was nothing on the entire planet fit for consumption. He couldn’t even chew on the leaves to calm his hunger. He tapped on his omni-tool to distract him from the hunger. The display flashed several error messages then faded. Rodan looked up a nearby tree, sighed, and climbed it. As he made his way up he snagged his right leg bone spur on a branch.
He struggled with the branch. It shook loudly with every tug. Then, through the thick tangle of leaves, he spotted something that sent chills down his spine, a husk. Rodan froze in place, the branch wrapped around his leg. The dessicated animated corpse, once human, looked up with dim cybernetic blue eyes. It’s skeletal head tilted to one side then the other.
Nothing to see here, just branches swaying in the wind. Not a turian climbing a tree like a stupid pyjak.
More husks walked passed the first one. It lead out a confused guttural grunt and joined the others. Rodan waited what too him felt like an eternity then managed to disentangle his leg resumed his climb. Once on top he scanned the horizon. Golden sunlight pierced the thick cloud cover to the east. To the west, several moss covered skyscrapers rose from the jungle floor. Rodan climbed down, careful not snag another branch along the way. By now the legs moved of their own accord, headless of the dull pain in every muscle and tendon. It rained again in the afternoon. Streams of water percolated through the undergrowth. Rodan stepped gingerly around the muddy pools. The promise of shelter in the ruins beckoned. Moss covered ruins littered the landscape. Rodan made out the vague contours of houses and streets. Everywhere gnarled roots grasped at the corpse of the city.
How many batarians lived here? Thousands, tens of thousands, maybe a million? And how many more slaves scrapped a living under their masters glare?
Nearby a large building blocked the way. Bullet holes pockmarked the exterior and something blew the main doors clear of its hinges. Larges green stains covered the walls inside. The turian stumbled upon a corpse behind an upturned desk. Four empty eye sockets stared back at him from the dirt covered skeleton. He bent down to check the body.
“Maybe he has a spare thermal clip or two,” he said out loud.
The answer came by way of the cold barrel of a gun pressed against the base of his skull.