. . . .
Birds scattered as a pitch-black orb appeared in the trees, Xigbar stepping out of the Dark Corridor, and willing it to disappear behind him as he began to survey the area he'd arrived in.
His location appeared to be in a forest, and he was on a dirt path. It looked like it had been recently traveled upon, bearing several boot-marks. Carefully, he leaned down, placing his gloved fingers against the ground, so he could examine the shoe sizes with a critical eye. He counted seven different sets of prints.
The ground was still damp, so they couldn't have been by all that long ago. Silently, he let the fabric of space rip, stepping through a rift to stand on a tree branch high above his current position. Then, he began to travel, from tree to tree, teleporting so no one would see a strange, leather-cloaked individual jumping from one to the next, in the opposite direction that the marks headed in. Soon, a clearing, and he could see a series of brick landmarks. A small building. A shack, really.
It was surrounded by brick walls, and he could see an old broken down machine. If he was to take a guess, he'd say it was a tractor or something. Hard to tell, really, with the amount of rust it had on it from years of rain.
He also found about five dead bodies lying on the ground, with bullet wounds in them.
Closer inspection revealed that he was right about the dead-count, all wearing weird head-garments. He wondered briefly if it was a cultural or military thing, before he rooted through their pockets for information and on-site items.
He found some strange tin that said Ration on it. And once opened, he swore it smelled like a bull had eaten something dead and then shat it back out, into this little oxagon-shaped container. What kind of army would feed its soldiers something this foul? Not one he'd ever want to serve-that much was for certain.
He came up with ammuntion, but it was for a gun he didn't have, which didn't help him. He also found some sort of communication device. Fiddling with the dials occassionally caught a snatch of talk, though the accent was so heavy, he couldn't make out a word of what was being said. Eventually, he realized the problem was the language.
Whatever those people were saying, he didn't know the language, so it was useless to listen to them, save for signs of distress or alarm. That, at least, could help.
He might know when to get the fuck out of there, anyways.
Another surprise while fiddling the dial was that he occassionally got some music out of it, and he actually recognized it. Listening longer informed him that it was some 'American band', by the name of -.
He'd never heard of it. But now, at least, he knew that there was an english language on this planet, even if it wasn't present in the immediate area he was in.
-{-}-
Next, he climbed the stairs, to look from a higher vantage point. From there, he could see that that the Shitty-looking Shack seemed to be missing a roof, though for all he knew, it was designed to cover one room only, and not the other. He jumped over, landing on one of the support beams, before looking down. No signs of life-though he could hear rats or mice squeaking in the background somewhere.
Slowly, he dropped to the ground, and poked his head through the open doorway. Nothing. Just a bed and a fireplace. A quick check of the fireplace showed it held a lot of ash, so something had been burned there, though he didn't see any smoldering embers of wood, which means it had likely been something small and easily burnt. Then, he checked in the locker. Absolutely nothing.
So he dropped onto his stomach to check under the bed.
Aha. He grinned, and then stood, grabbing the edge of the bed, before he hauled it off to the side, revealing a trapdoor.
It proved heavy, however, and the Freeshooter grunted as he raised the door, leaning it carefully against the wall, before hopping in. Under the house, he saw nothing but rats and snakes. There was just enough room to crawl around, and there were only four exit points. One came out in grass, another behind some barrels, and one was blocked by a dead dude.
At least he knew what was in the barrel. The slick black substance that stained the edge of the lid said it was oil, and that meant the barrel was flammable.
So he found somewhere else to look.
Which brought him to a busted gate at the back of the clearing, behind the shack.
Closer inspection revealed that the hinges and lock had literally been broken. Whatever came through here, had used enough force to bash the gate open, leaving both sides half-attached, wide open to allow passage.
He could also see a deep mark, as if something had smushed down in front of the gate, and then rushed through. Tire marks.
...But what kind of vehicle only had one tire?
Puzzled, he returned to the trees, and began to follow the tracks out of the area.
. . . .