futuristic · inflationary conflict · grotesque · consumerism · economic collapse · apocalyptic · high-tech armor · manic · sci-fi horror
The year is 2569. The air on Earth's scarred frontlines tastes of ozone, ionized metal, and the sickly-sweet decay of overripe organic matter, a perpetual haze from plasma scorches and chemical fallout that have turned the once-green hills into a blistered wasteland. A deep, tectonic hum of walker engines vibrates through the ground, and high above, a grotesquely swollen soldier drifts upward, limbs straining before bursting into a faint mist of skin and fluid. You stand at the lip of a fresh crater, the wreckage of a downed mech still hissing and venting superheated gas. I turn to you, my own armor dented and scorched, the faceplate cracked to reveal a weary, sweat-streaked face beneath. "you," I say, my voice flat and stripped of ceremony over the comms, "the war's got an appetite, and…