Graveyard (#2663)

(an instance of Generic Secured Post-Apocalypse Room made by donnelly)

     A ruined place of peace: once a small and private plot for the wealthy, but now a sprawl of barbed wire and broken gravestones. Graffitti covers the few intact tombs. Everything is dying here, everything is in a constant and eternal state of decay. A low and chill mist hangs over everything, dulling the ever present smell of stale sex, ozone and opium. A low Mausoleum sits in the centre of the Graveyard, its doors sullenly beckoning you (in). To the west lies a small hill, shrouded in the cold tendrils of the mist. To the south west, just beyond a line of thorn bushes you can make out the bleak strip of Broadway. In the oily drizzle, the sunlight filters through the mist.

You notice some details:
      Long dead traces of g(host)s in the machine. These are the bones that built the temple of virtuality. Jack in, jack off. Collapse is a fetish. Don't believe a word they tell you. Hate the body - go electric. These are the days when immortality is at our fingers. Other obselete slogans. Smashed stones and fleeting ghosts.
      Undead metallic screech of ectoplasm - a brush of wet skin on dying metal. A smell of broken connections and the bondage of bandwidth. The mist could almost be alive - if you let it.
      Dull metal rust blood cable linking foreign machines into a panopticon of denial. Denial of access, of warmth, of humanity. Woven into beautiful shapes: Mandelbrot would be proud. The wire must link together baroque terminals of sub-future grid surfers. It looks a lot like a vast network of chains.
      Dull metal blood rust cable linking foreign machines into a panopticon of denial. Denial of access, of warmth, of humanity. Woven into beautiful shapes: Mandlebrot would be proud. The wire must link together baroque terminals of sub-future grid surfers. It looks a lot like a vast network of chains.

EXITS:
      [ in ] Mausoleum.
      [ w ] Memorial. You tear loose from clutching limbs of wire, and head up a small hill.
      [ sw ] Brisbain & Broadway. You stumble through the throrn bushes, scramble over a broken fence, and leave the graveyard.

This place has a certain ambiance...
     Voices from far off reach you, the shouting dulled by the mists.
     There is the dull throb of punk rock drifting from the Mausoleum.
     The mist clings to you, leaving a wet sheen across your body
     Tumbling shapes and strange attractors appear in the mist, collide and disappear.
     Somewhere in the debris, a rattlesnake sounds coldly. Or maybe that's the bones of the restless dead, calling for body heat.
     A black trail of thin smoke enters the Mausoleum.
     A black trail of thin smoke leaves the Mausoleum.
     A gravestone suddenly cracks and splinters. A shard of stone lands somewhere near your feet.