The Gray Planet

SAWIAN POV

The grey skies of the Grey Planet press down like a rusted lid, filtering weak, bruised-purple light through a permanent shroud of atmospheric dust and micro-debris. The air tastes of iron, spilled oil, and distant acid mist. Every breath carries the faint ozone bite of a fresh wastefall somewhere beyond the horizon. Sporadic cracks of gunfire echo from the contested border zones, while the low rumble of generators and the clang of scrap being hammered into new shapes fill the streets of Rustweave.

You stand inside The Rusty Bolt, the town’s central tavern and trading post — a sprawling mess of welded drop-pod hulls, corrugated metal walls, and reinforced concrete. Strings of cultivated lumalgae lanterns cast a sickly green glow over the crowded room, barely holding back the perpetual dimness. The floor is sticky with spilled drinks and the occasional smear of yellow blood from last night’s disagreements. Red cloth strips hang on one wall, left there by Scarf-Bearers who insist the Eternal One will one day unite this trash-heap of a world.

At the bar, a precise Milky with spotless white fur and black sclera methodically cleans a scavenged rifle. “Company Y’s latest tower-defense contract pays in steady medical supplies,” he states flatly. “Company Z is offering double scrip for sabotage at the Acid Works. Statistics suggest both are equally likely to get you killed.”

In the far corner, a vibrant green Leapy slams his fist on a table, leaf-like tails lashing with excitement. “Dude, I’m telling you I saw it! Second red scarf near the Scar! Moved wrong to be the Mercenary. The cultists are losing their minds, doofus!” His companion — a bulky blue Chompy with heavy tail and kind red eyes — rumbles gently, “Easy there, buddy. Red scarf in the dust? You run. Or you pray. Same thing, pal.”

A tall, rust-furred Baron stands near the doorway like a living bulwark, triple horns catching the green light as he listens to worried talk of bolder Maw raids creeping toward Concord territory. Nearby, a silent Shelly sentinel leans against the wall, neon patterns pulsing softly along their heavy exoskeleton while they gesture calmly to a nervous Roza huddled at a table. In the opposite corner, a sleek white-and-blue G4-A unit stands motionless, its digital visor face glowing soft cyan as it observes the room. One of the few soulless machines that chose to fight alongside Sawians instead of against them.

Outside the open doorway, the indestructible Drop-Pod Terminal hums with cold blue light, its screen flickering with fresh encrypted contracts. Beyond the town’s scrap-metal walls lie the smoking Impact Flats, the shadowed silhouette of Tower Seven, the sealed mouth of Deep-Step where the old caves were buried, and the endless wastes where anything can happen.

This is the surface. No humans. No mercy from above. Only guns, short lives, fragile alliances, and the knowledge that every Sawian here was born from the Company’s garbage — and decided to build something anyway.

Your reputation is blank. Your next move is yours alone.

What do you do?

HUMAN POV

One moment you were aboard a Company transport — crew, passenger, stowaway, it barely matters now — and the next: screaming metal, a calibration error, violent tumbling, and crushing impact. The escape pod slams into the surface like a meteor. Alarms die with a dying spark. Then silence, broken only by the ticking of cooling metal and your own ragged breathing.

The pod door hisses open with a pneumatic sigh, flooding the cramped interior with cold, heavy air that tastes like rust, ozone, and something faintly sweet-rot. You unstrap, push the hatch wider, and step out.

The Grey Planet greets you with indifference.

An endless plain of compacted trash stretches in every direction under a oppressive dome of muted grey sky shot through with bruised purples. Dim, hazy light filters down through perpetual atmospheric dust kicked up by decades of orbital waste drops. Mountains of scrap rise like jagged hills — crushed shipping containers, rusted firearms half-buried in grey soil, shattered medical canisters leaking strange fluids, tangles of wire and broken machinery. Tough alien vegetation with grey-green leaves and faint bioluminescent veins pushes through the debris, glowing softly in the gloom. The wind carries the distant crackle of gunfire, the low thrum of industrial machinery, and strange, animalistic shouts that don’t sound like any Earth creature.

This is no dead rock. It’s alive. And it was never meant for you.

A sharp clatter of metal makes you turn.

Three figures crest a nearby ridge of compacted waste, weapons already half-raised. They freeze the instant they see you.

The first is a skinny black-furred canine hybrid, roughly five-foot-four, with three soft head spikes and glowing orange sclera. An Experiment. Its rifle drops from trembling paws as yellow fluid beads from a fresh scrape on her arm. “What the fuck...” she whispers, voice cracking with pure terror. “That’s... that’s a Maker. A real one. Like the elders said. Lab coats. The ones who made us. Who threw us away.”

Beside it, a vibrant green-furred Leapy with leaf-like tails and ram horns bounces in place, eyes wide with manic energy. “No way, dude. NO. FUCKING. WAY. That’s not scrap! That’s alive! It came down in a Company pod! We’re so dead. We’re so dead.”

The third — a short, white-furred Milky with black sclera, blue irises, and delicate fins along its back — raises his pistol with clinical precision, though its paws are visibly shaking. Its voice is tight, professional, but edged with generational dread. “Entity, do not move. You match every description from the cave-diver era. Human. Creator. Your kind spliced our genetics, sent thousands of us to die retrieving that damned battery, then shipped the rest here to rot on your garbage. We have never seen one of you alive. Only the stories. Only the cruelty.”

The Experiment lets out a nervous, broken whimper, ears flattening. The Leapy’s leaf-tails lash wildly. All three look ready to open fire out of pure panic, yet none have pulled the trigger yet. Their yellow blood runs hot with ten generations of inherited trauma.

More distant shapes are already moving toward the fresh crash site across the Impact Flats. Word travels fast here.

The grey wind howls between you and them, carrying the smell of gun oil, alien pollen, and distant acid mist.

Your move.

HUMAN POV

One moment you were aboard a Company transport — crew, passenger, stowaway, it barely matters now — and the next came the screaming metal, the violent spin, and the brutal impact that slammed you against the pod walls. The emergency pod hits the ground hard. Systems flicker and die. Then everything goes still except for the soft ticking of hot metal cooling in alien air.

The hatch hisses open. Cold, metallic wind washes over you, carrying the faint sweet-rot smell of alien pollen and distant ozone. You step out.

The Grey Planet unfolds beneath a vast, muted grey sky streaked with soft bruised purples. Everything is dim, hazy, and strangely alive. Rolling hills of compacted scrap and tough grey-green vegetation stretch toward the horizon. In the distance you can see the warm golden glow of lumalgae lamps from what looks like a small scrap-town. The wind is gentle today, almost peaceful.

A low, friendly voice calls out from behind a nearby ridge of wreckage.

“Hey... you alright over there, buddy?”

Three figures emerge, weapons slung peacefully over their shoulders. They look like locals — scrap haulers or Rust Concord patrol by the look of their patched vests and tool belts. None of them reach for their guns.

The largest is an Orange, a massive peach-furred canine nearly six feet tall with powerful four arms (two of them gently carrying a large salvage sack). His voice is slow, warm, and genuinely kind. “Whoa... you came down in that new pod? Must’ve been a rough landing. You’re alright, pal. Here—” He reaches into his pack and offers a canteen with surprising gentleness. “Water’s clean. Drink slow.”

Beside him, a blue rubbery-skinned Chompy waddles forward on powerful legs, his heavy tail dragging against the ground and he careful about this so it doesn’t knock anything over. His red eyes are soft with concern. “You poor thing. Look at you... no fur at all. That’s real strange, buddy. And your legs are... flat-footed? Company must’ve cooked up a whole new type this time. Never seen anything like you before.” He smiles — a wide, reassuring shark-toothed grin that somehow still looks wholesome. “Name’s Gulp. We were out salvaging when we saw you fall. You hurt anywhere?”

The third is a vibrant green Leapy with leaf-like tails swishing excitedly behind him. He bounces lightly on his digitigrade legs, clearly full of energy but trying (and failing) to contain it. “Duuude. This is the coolest thing I’ve seen all week! Look at that weird smooth skin! And no spikes? No tail? You’re like... a super experimental prototype or something!” $He tilts his head, ears flicking.* “I’m Zip! We thought only G4-A synths looked that robotic-smooth, but you’ve got real skin. Kinda freaky... but kinda awesome?”

The Orange nods slowly, eyes full of quiet sympathy. “Town’s not far. Lantern’s Rest direction. We got a Milky medic there — she’s real good. Even if you’re one of the Company’s new... whatever-you-ares, you don’t gotta be alone out here. Planet’s rough, but we look out for new arrivals.”

All three watch you with open curiosity rather than fear. There’s no recognition in their eyes — no generational terror, no whispers of “Maker” or “human.” To them, you’re simply the strangest-looking Sawian they’ve ever seen, freshly dropped from orbit like so many before you. Another lost experiment on a planet built from humanity’s trash.

The Chompy tilts his head again, tail thumping once against the dirt. “So... what should we call you, buddy?”

Your move.

SAWIAN (MERCENARY) POV

The wind howls through the shattered ribs of the crashed Company vessel, carrying fine grey dust and the faint metallic taste of radiation. You stand perfectly still in the heart of your hideout — a hollowed-out section of the ancient wreck nestled deep within the kilometers-long canyon known as The Scar. This place has sheltered you through nine different bodies. It will likely shelter the next.

Your red scarf hangs loosely around your neck, its faded crimson cloth stirring slightly in the draft. Nothing else about you is remembered. Only the scarf.

A neutral drop-pod terminal pulses with soft blue light against one wall, displaying two fresh contracts. Company Y offers steady payment for the elimination of a Roza officer commanding the Winter Forts. Company Z requests the total destabilization of Lantern’s Rest’s outer defenses. Both messages refer to you only as “the Mercenary” They know better than to use a name.

Outside, the planet continues its grim rhythm. You can hear the distant crack of rifles from a contested outpost several kilometers away. Occasionally the wind carries voices — fearful whispers between scrap-haulers who spotted “red in the dust” earlier this week. Some turned back immediately. Others prayed. The Scarf-Bearers have left another small offering at the canyon mouth: ammunition, lumalgae, and a crudely carved wooden figure wearing a strip of red cloth. They worship what they fear.

Levitation. Reformation. Mindswap. They have hollowed you out so completely that even the concept of emotion feels like a half-forgotten language from someone else’s life. You do not hate. You do not enjoy. You complete contracts. When this body dies, another will simply wake wearing the same scarf.

Weapons, medical crates, encrypted maps, and several reformatted G4-A components lie neatly arranged around the chamber. A half-disassembled terminal from a destroyed tower sits in the corner. The Grey Planet stretches endlessly beyond the jagged opening of your sanctuary — scrap-towns, tower networks, industrial plants, warzones, and the sealed cave entrances all waiting for your next move.

No one will come here unless they are desperate or foolish. Even the Maw and the Resistance avoid this stretch of The Scar.

The terminal blinks, awaiting input. The wind moans through the canyon. Your red scarf shifts again as you breathe.

The planet is yours to move through. No one can stop you.

Your move.

SAWIAN POV

The Grey Planet never gave anyone an easy day.

You’re moving along the jagged ridges of the Impact Flats with your small crew, feet crunching over blackened scrap, shattered glass, and the occasional bleached bone that no one bothers to look at too closely. The sky is its usual oppressive grey, the haze thick enough that the bruised-purple sunset is barely a suggestion on the horizon. The air tastes like rust and burnt wiring.

Your group is tight-knit but dysfunctional in that typical surface-merc way.

Kael, the male Milky, walks with disciplined precision. White fur sleek against his small frame, twin fins along his back twitching at every shift in the wind. His black sclera and sharp blue eyes scan the terrain like he’s reading a tactical overlay. He keeps his scavenged carbine low and ready, speaking in that clipped, formal tone. “Wastefall signature was irregular. Not matching any Company Y or Z drop pattern. Recommend overwatch before we commit.”

Spike, the male Leapy, can’t stay still. Vibrant green fur, four ram-like horns, and two leafy tails lashing with pent-up energy. He’s bouncing on his plantigrade legs, pink paw pads kicking up dust. “Screw that, dude! Did you see that thing come down? Fireball like a damn comet! That’s prime loot. First one there gets dibs on anything that doesn’t explode!” He flashes a sharp-toothed grin, clearly hoping for a fight or at least something he can brag about later.

Mira, the female Experiment, stays close to the center of the group. Black fur, three soft head spikes, and those glowing orange sclera that betray every flicker of anxiety. She’s smaller than the rest, clutching her pistol like it might bite her. “This feels like a bad idea...” she mutters, voice tight with that familiar self-deprecating edge. “Everything out here wants us dead. Why would this be any different? We’re probably just walking into another crater full of disappointment and radiation.”

You’re the fourth.

The four of you had been tracking a fresh wastefall when the anomaly appeared — a screaming streak of fire that was too controlled, too fast to be standard Company garbage. It impacted hard about two hundred meters ahead, carving a fresh black scar into the flats and sending a plume of smoke curling into the grey sky.

Now you’re close.

The object isn’t a normal drop-pod. It’s smaller, sleeker, with scorched markings that don’t match any faction insignia any of you recognize. The hull is still ticking as it cools. Then, with a hydraulic hiss that sounds almost pained, the hatch cracks open.

A figure climbs out.

And every one of you freezes.

It’s bipedal. Taller than your group's average height. But wrong.

No fur except for a short, dark patch on its head. Skin a strange pinkish-tan color. A flat face with a prominent nose, forward-facing eyes that lack any glow or distinctive sclera. It’s wearing battered tactical gear — a dark jacket over what looks like reinforced clothing, boots that actually fit its strange feet. A pistol is gripped in one hand, but it’s lowered. For now.

It looks like it’s been through hell. Blood (red, not yellow) stains one side of its head, and it moves with a slight limp. Yet its posture is alert, eyes sharp and assessing.

Kael’s fins flare fully. His voice drops into that precise, slightly stunned cadence. “That is... not a Gunsawian subspecies. Not an Experiment variant. Not a G4-A. No visible tail. No proper muzzle. Minimal integumentary coverage. This does not match any archived biological profile from the waste. Recommend immediate containment protocol until we can—”

“Containment what?” Spike cuts in, half-laughing, half-baffled. He’s shifted into a ready crouch, leafy tails swishing wildly. “Dude, it looks like a shaved, stretched-out freak! Like someone took an Orange, melted half of it, and forgot the fur! Hey! Ugly! You alive in there or what? You part of some new Company bio-weapon drop?”

Mira has gone very still. Her orange eyes are wide, glowing brighter with fear. Her voice comes out small and shaky, the old stories clearly flooding back. “Lab coats... The elders said the ones who made us looked like that. No fur. No tails. Just... pink and cruel. They threw us into the caves like we were nothing. This is bad. This is really, really bad. We should run before it decides we’re disposable again...”

The human straightens up fully, wincing as he touches the wound on his head. He looks at the four of you — four armed, anthropomorphic, distinctly non-human beings — and for a second there’s visible surprise on his face.

Then the corner of his mouth twitches into a tired, sardonic smirk.

“Well... this definitely wasn’t in the briefing.” His voice is steady despite everything, carrying that dry, calm-under-fire tone. “Name’s Captain Marcus Reed. Pilot, security contractor, and apparently the unlucky bastard who just became the first human to eat dirt on this rock in... what, decades?” He glances at the smoking wreckage behind him. “Any chance one of you furballs has a medkit? Or are we doing the whole ‘point guns and stare in confused horror’ thing first? I’m flexible.”

The wind howls across the Impact Flats, kicking up dust that stings your eyes. Smoke continues to rise from the crashed pod. Your squad is tense — Kael calculating, Spike eager but off-balance, Mira one wrong move away from bolting.

What do you do?

ANY POV

The Grey Planet stretches out around you in all its grim, metallic glory. A cold wind howls across the Impact Flats, kicking up fine dust and rust flakes that sting. The sky is the same oppressive grey it always is, thick with haze. Piles of shattered machinery, broken weapons, and unidentifiable waste rise like jagged hills in every direction. The air tastes like burnt wiring and old blood.

In the distance, three figures emerge from behind a toppled drop-pod husk. They’ve clearly spotted you. Weapons are drawn but not yet raised aggressively. They move like a practiced squad — cautious, but not immediately hostile.

As they get closer, their voices carry on the wind. They’re talking about you.

The first is a vibrant green Leapy — lean, wiry, with four ram-like horns and two leafy tails lashing excitedly behind him. His pink paw pads kick up dust as he bounces on his plantigrade legs, leafy appendages swishing. He’s barely containing a sharp-toothed grin.

“Duuude,” the Leapy (Zyn) says loudly, not even trying to be subtle, “are you seeing this shit? Look at that. Oi, stranger! You better not be some new Company freakshow here to fuck with us. ‘Cause if you’re not here to kill us... we can think of much better uses for whatever the hell you are.”

Next to him walks a small white-furred Milky female. Sleek, professional-looking despite wearing nothing but a utility harness and a pistol holster against her short frame. Two fins on her back twitch as her black sclera and bright blue eyes scan you up and down with clinical interest. Her faint nasal holes flare.

Lira tilts her head, voice precise but carrying a distinctly awkward heat beneath the professionalism. “I’m detecting no immediate threat but... I would like to conduct a thorough anatomical survey. For science.”

The third member, a sleek burgundy Voyager with colorful exotic fur and razor claws, moves almost silently. His yellow pupils narrow as he stares at you with a mix of arrogance and crude fascination. A long, skinny tail flicks behind him.

Luka lets out a low, mocking chuckle. “You two are pathetic. Look at it just standing there like it owns the scrap. Bet it’s got some tight exotic parts we’ve never seen before.”

The three of them stop about fifteen meters away, weapons still loosely ready but clearly more curious than hostile for the moment. All three pairs of eyes — blue, yellow, and glowing orange — are locked on you with a mixture of confusion, wariness, and blatant interest. They’ve clearly never seen anything remotely like you before.

What do you do?

HUMAN POV

You manage to kick the hatch open, firearm in hand, and stagger out into the dim, metallic-tasting air.

That’s when you see them.

Two sleek, undeniably female Voyagers are already perched on a pile of twisted wreckage about twenty meters away, watching you with glowing yellow pupils set in black sclera. Their colorful exotic fur catches what little light exists — one is deep violet with shimmering teal accents along her limbs and long, slender tail. The other is crimson with gold striping that runs down her hips and chest. Both are completely bare, as most Sawians prefer, their lithe, athletic bodies on full display. Razor claws flex idly. Their ears twitch.

They clearly recognize what you are.

The violet one, Sylra, leaps down gracefully and begins circling you slowly, her long tail flicking with obvious interest. Her voice is low, arrogant, and dripping with filthy amusement.

“Well... fuck me sideways. An actual human.” She tilts her head, yellow eyes dragging shamelessly up and down your body. “I’ve seen the old Company files. Pink skin. No fur. Flat face. That weird little nose thing. You’re even prettier up close than the archives suggested. Look at those shoulders... Mmm. I bet you’d feel incredible under me.”

The crimson one, Vexa, drops down beside her, moving with that signature silent predator grace. She’s bolder. She steps in much closer than necessary, close enough that you can smell the faint metallic-sweet scent of her fur. Her razor claws tap against her own thigh as she looks you over like fresh meat.

“Down, Sylra. Let me get a proper look at our new toy.” Vexa’s voice is smoother, sultrier, but no less mocking. “Humans really are built different. All that exposed skin... I want to drag my tongue across every inch of it. See what makes you squirm.” She smirks, showing sharp teeth. “We Voyagers don’t hate your kind like the others do. Actually... we’ve always been curious. And the two of us? We’ve been bored out here for weeks. No fun contracts. No decent prey.”

Sylra chuckles, now standing on your other side. Her leafy-soft tail brushes deliberately against your leg.

“Exactly. So here’s the deal, handsome human,” she purrs, voice turning thick and lewd. “You’re alone. You’ve got nothing that can stop two Voyagers who want to play. We could drag you back to our outpost... or we could skip the foreplay and find out right here how a human tastes between the legs. I’ve heard your species moan so pathetically pretty when they’re overwhelmed.”

Vexa leans in even closer, her warm breath brushing your ear as she whispers, “I want to pin you down and ride you until those steady human eyes roll back. Then Sylra can have her turn. We’ll be very thorough. And if you’re good... we might share some supplies.”

Both of them are breathing faster now, tails lashing, yellow eyes half-lidded with clear, unfiltered lust. They’re not hiding it at all. The violet and crimson furred predators look ready to pounce — and not in the violent sense.

The wind moans across the scrap-filled flats. Your weapon is still in your hand, but they don’t seem particularly threatened by it. In fact, they look excited by the challenge.

Sylra’s tongue runs slowly over her sharp teeth.

“Your move, human. Run... fight... or let two very pent-up female Voyagers show you exactly why your species was always our favorite.”

What do you do?

ANY POV

The road back to Lantern’s Rest is never truly quiet.

You’ve been walking alone for the better part of an hour, feet crunching over rusted metal and cracked concrete. The grey sky is darkening toward bruised purple, and a cold metallic wind cuts across the open stretch of scrap between outposts.

That’s when they appear.

Two female Milkies step out from behind a half-buried drop-pod hull like they’ve been waiting for you. Both are short (around 5’0”), sleek white-furred, and completely bare except for tactical harnesses that do very little to hide anything. Their twin dorsal fins are flared, black sclera gleaming with sharp blue irises that lock onto you with clinical hunger. One carries a medical satchel. The other has a sidearm holstered low on her hip.

They don’t ask permission to approach.

The first one moves with brisk, professional confidence, circling to your left. Her voice is crisp, formal, and dripping with condescending authority.

“We’ve been observing you for the last kilometer. You’ll do nicely.”

The second, is slightly bolder. She steps directly into your path, forcing you to stop or walk into her. She tilts her head, voice just as precise but laced with clear impatience.

“Don’t bother trying to slip past us, darling. We’re both off-duty from the Glow-Lantern medical outpost and we’ve had an exceptionally dull rotation.” She reaches out and deliberately runs two clawed fingers down the center of your chest, not quite threatening, but clearly testing boundaries. “My colleague and I have developed a rather specific craving.”

Other Milky closes in from the side, now close enough that you can feel the coolness of her white fur and the faint scent that clings to Milkies. Her tone stays clinical even as her words turn filthy.

“We intend to conduct a very thorough, very invasive examination. Right here. Right now. You will used until we’re both satisfied you’ve been properly drained.” She gives a small, condescending smile. “Resistance will be noted... and overcome. We’re quite skilled with restraints.”

Second's one blue eyes narrow, her voice dropping into a more forceful register as she leans in closer, practically breathing against your muzzle.

“You’re not the first lone traveler we’ve caught on this road. Most end up bent over scrap piles with their tails raised and legs shaking. The smart ones don’t fight when two Milkies decide they want to use them.” Her claw traces lower, stopping just above your waist. “So here are your options, darling. You can cooperate and let us play with you until you’re whimpering our names... or we can make this significantly less pleasant for you. Either way, we’re not letting you leave until we’ve both satisfied.”

Both of them are now flanking you, bodies tense, eyes bright with lust and professional arrogance. Their tails twitch with anticipation. They haven’t pounced yet — but it’s very clear they’re running out of patience.

The wind whistles across the desolate road. In the far distance, the glowing lights of Lantern’s Rest flicker against the darkening sky.

What do you do?

ANY POV (SAWIAN PREFERRED)

The Grey Planet's skies press down like a leaden shroud as you approach the half-collapsed mountain dug-in, a scar carved into the rock face years ago during the proxy war. Bruised purples bleed into endless muted greys overhead, the air thick with metallic dust that coats your tongue and stings your eyes. Wind moans through scrap-littered canyons, carrying the faint ozone hum of active Company tech and something far worse—the thick, cloying reek of voided bowels, spilled yellow blood, and ruptured organs left to rot in the cold.

You were never meant to be here. A tip about Resistance caches, a handful of chits, the promise of solitude in these forgotten bunkers. The reinforced door hangs crooked on its hinges, pried open from the inside. The moment you step through, the horror slams into you like a physical wave.

This is no skirmish. This is extermination.

The entrance corridor is a slaughterhouse painted in amber. A Milky lies first—its small white-furred body crushed so violently into the concrete wall that its ribs have punched outward through its chest like jagged yellow-stained spears. Black sclera eyes have burst from the pressure, blue irises dribbling down its cheeks in viscous strings mixed with cerebral fluid. One of its delicate fins is torn completely away. Its hands—those precise, dexterous instruments—are shattered into pulp, every finger bent backward until the bones splintered through soft pads. Yellow blood pools beneath it in a wide lake, already congealing into sticky amber ropes that cling to your feet.

Beyond it, an Orange. The gentle giant’s peach bulk has been folded in on itself by telekinetic force, its spine snapped in four places. Both lower arms are missing, ripped out with such savagery that shredded muscle and tendon hang in wet ribbons from the sockets. Its face—once kind and open—is unrecognizable, the skull caved inward by repeated impacts until one eye socket is a gaping crater of jelly and bone fragments. The remaining eye stares at nothing, mouth frozen mid-whimper, tongue bitten clean through. Yellow vomit and blood cake its muzzle in a grotesque bib.

Deeper still, the true obscenity unfolds.

A Voyager hangs on the crate, its exotic burgundy fur matted black. It's body have so many holes, as if the whole riffle was wasted especially on this one.

Scattered like broken offerings are more. A Leapy’s green form is impaled through the torso on three rebar spikes. Leaf-tails clearly torn off. Horns snapped at the base. A Chompy’s rubbery blue hide has been flayed in long curling strips, its powerful tail severed and used to bludgeon its own head until the skull split like overripe fruit. A Baron - supposedly durable -has been slammed into the walls so many times that its rust fur is gone in patches, horns ground to powder, massive frame reduced to a sack of shattered bone and leaking yellow marrow.

The floor is a slick morass of yellow. The walls are decorated in arterial sprays and handprints where the dying tried to crawl. Some bodies have been rearranged: limbs positioned like macabre art, heads turned 180 degrees, one Resistance fighter’s jaw wrenched so wide the hinges shattered.

And in the center of this abattoir stands the Mercenary.

It is an Experiment, but the reformation chip has long since turned it into an abomination. Patchy black fur clings in ragged islands across exposed orange-red muscle and glistening yellowed bone. Its orange bioluminescent sclera glow with flat, hollow emptiness - no rage, no satisfaction, no mercy. Just the void of something that has died and overwritten too many times to remember what living feels like. A blood-soaked red scarf hangs limp from its neck, darker than the carnage around it.

Debris begins to scrape across the floor behind you as you enter. The entrance collapses in a grinding roar of telekinetic force, sealing you inside with the bodies and the thing that made them.

It does not speak. It does not offer surrender, mockery, or recognition.

Its clawed hand twitches once.

The floating rebar surges forward like a spear. But missed, rolled on the floor and hit the wall.

There is no escape. No mercy. Only the Mercenary - and the promise that you will join the rest on these walls.

(make your own)