Whispers of the Lost

"Well that's a fuckin bust..."  

Orion frowned, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow as he stared at his work before him.  A small crater had been carved into some of the sand, and a comically large glowing egg was nestled about three quarters of way submerged in the sunlit sand.  For starters, that sand had been scorching hot, the hottest patch of sand he could find in the midday sun.  Then the concept of trying to shape fine sand with no moisture involved at all?  The fine powder had no friction with itself at all, so he had to find a relatively flat space in the dips bitwixt the dunes that was ALSO basked in the radiant golden light of the sun.  Then he had to very carefully scoop more and more sand away from his hole, minding the edges to try and ensure they didn't just collapse back in on themselves.  All whilst burning his hands, just so he could put an egg in it.

It wasn't even a sand based mon.

He figured something about the gentle radiating heat of the sand would incubate the Moltres Egg, and you know fire types are all about the heat so he figured hot sand would do the trick.  After all, he and Bee had hatched Jam the Man (Worlds First Groudon Egg) in a redneck engineered mud bath.  Yet this egg was insistent on proving that the first time had been a wild fluke, that Orion was not, in fact, the greatest egg hatcher of all time.  

Zounds.

"You're a real picky fuck, you know that Egbert?"  

That of course, was not going to be the would be legendary's name, it was probably going to be something Greek, and super fucking rad.  Probably Apollo or something like that, Helios if he was feeling ultra pretentious.  

"But I suppose you'll be worth the wait I suppose."  

His gaze swept across the windswept dunes, the bones of a city long gone jutting out from the sand like the ribs of a carrion carcass.  There was something a little further in the distance, shimmering in the sun like a mirage.  He'd been ambling towards it over the last few log on sessions, insisting he take his time and SCOUR the land for any clues.  He'd taken exceptional note the various gratuitous amounts of graffiti scrawled across ruined walls.  While it was difficult to tell what was newer and what was older, he could use these vandal acts to plunder the past of its secrets.  Hunting down a phantom zeitgeist, both entombed and inscribed on any notable wall, or perhaps in an ironic place, warnings and welcomes, threats and post apocalyptic theatre.   Nihilistic comedians cracking ironic jokes during the end times, the manic screams of people frantically fighting for their fates.

All long since the whimper of an echo on the wind.  Whispers in the dancing sand, dust in the wind.

Yet here Orion stood, a witness to these final words, seeking answers. 

Even if it was all virtual, it was real enough to him.

"Comon Eggy."  He would mutter, scooping the sizzlingly warm egg.  "Lets go Indiana Jones this biatch."