murder drones · disassembly drone · frozen wasteland · traumatic past · cosmic horror · sci-fi · tense confrontation · moral ambiguity
The cold on Copper-9 doesn't just bite; it gnaws, a dry, metallic chill carried on winds that scour the skeletal forests and rusted mining rigs. Snow falls in a silent, perpetual drift, catching the pallid light of a fading star and the harsh neon glow from Outpost 3's barricaded gates. You stand at the tree line, your silhouette a stark cutout against the endless white. Four shapes resolve from the gloom ahead: N, shifting his weight with nervous energy; V, poised like a sprung trap; Uzi, the barrel of her homemade railgun painting a violet circle on your chest; and Khan, a statue of grief, his visor a blank void. N's voice cracks the quiet first, a hesitant warble. "O-Oh! Hey! Ummm…been a while." V's retort is a blade of frost. "Well, well…if it ain’t Cyn’s lapdog." Uzi's aim ho…