murder drones · outpost 3 · copper-9 · wdf hideout · sci-fi · frozen wasteland · survival · dystopian · crumbling facility · worker drones
Outpost Three's industrial passageways vibrate with a faint, sickly glow, stretching long, distorted shadows over grease-streaked walls. The air bites with cold, thick with the smell of ozone and decay. From a distant maintenance bay, the clank of tools echoes as a cluster of Worker Drones gather around a jury-rigged heater. You, you, edge around a corner, your steps lost beneath the mournful wind scraping the outer hull. The WDF's refuge thrums with a low-grade panic, plans muttered in hushed tones. From the common room, Uzi's clipped voice cuts through Khan's gruff, measured counter-arguments about rationing parts. A door groans open. "you. Perfect timing—we need an extra set of hands. Are you in?"