The high sun burns through your skin, the low moon chills you to the bone.
You stumble across a forgotten wreckage in the wastes. On the wreckage, there is an engraved metal plate. The inscription upon it says:
The personal site of manifoldslug.
String wrangler, insane toymaker,
wannabe explorer of the turing tarpit,
and avid collector of dust.
Below the inscription, a door hangs inwards from the slanted hull. Peering through the doorframe reveals a living space, once well-designed, now burdened with the clutter of some inhabitant, who seems to be missing, like a mollusk misses from its exoskeleton.
Under the top surface of a long workbench lies an old tape deck. On a sturdy shelf above stand various ludological oddities. In the corner below, a stack of magnetic storage devices hang onto whatever bits and bytes they were given. Half of all available flat surfaces are covered in books, documents, and various other scrawlings. A hardcover notebook keeping definitions of words and phrases sticks out somewhat from the rest. Pinned to the wall, there is a map of the nearby area, with some waypoints and routes on it annotated by hand.
You hear the wind resonating the exterior plating at times, which mixes with the tired song of a cicada hiding in some gap within.
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