In Jusant, there’s a species of palm-sized creatures called pebbles that don what appears to be hard, gray carapaces, and you’ll first find – or hear — them scuttering along its plunging cliff faces.
I’m in it for the fenders, the shiny chrome, the subtle hue of the headlights. If all you’re giving me is a motor, there’s not enough to keep me dedicated to the road.
They know, dimly, that most of humanity is abandoned beyond high-tech barricades, living in poverty amid the crumbling infrastructure of the 20th century, and they don’t care because those people don’t count.
“RIP to Gorman and Vasquez,” you might find yourself thinking as your squad crouches behind a wall of sentry guns mulching waves of aliens, “but I really am different.”