Twin suns blaze in their descent, orange and green twins dance across a purple-streaked sky. A crackling duet, opposed on the horizon, they bleed a poignant blending of light over the mystic realm.
In the hush that follows their descent, the land breathes out the heat of the day while the countless other celestial bodies ascend over a clearing below.
Just beyond the clearing beneath, monsters sleep. Resting. Waiting.
It is the time of twilight, where the world is stationary, stuck in its pause — A fleeting truce before night births its brood of malice on the land.
Beasts, loyal only to hunger, ‘the Chagrin,’ stir in the distant forest, their growls, low and wet gurglings, coalescing underneath the countless rising moons above.
It is in this domain that a solitary figure squats, perched atop a shipping container he calls home, looking over the expansive desolation before him.
He waits here, surrounded by the remains of humanity's most potent war machines — Their forms, technological zeniths emblazoned with an olive branch and globe.
They lay in rust, no more than still carcasses, serving better as walls than for war. Tanks, land-rollers, and various containers all meet here, all shoved together, each contributing to a crude semi-circular perimeter.
Simple and sturdy, the ugly, jagged barriers create a walled-off scrapyard for one man.
High upon his home; Several shipping containers welded together dangerously, he plops down into a seated position, carefree legs swinging to and fro. He swigs from a bottle of brown liquid marked crudely as vodka. Four gulps drain the bottle, and then he shakes once for good measure –The solitary steward in this cemetery of human aspiration, Zaitsev Moscavic, is never one to waste alcohol.
