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The arena hums with lethal electricity as you grip the rifle, sweat slick against the stock. Sprunki’s boots crunch gravel—each step echoes through the maze of rusted shipping containers. Ahead, crimson visors gleam beneath black helmets, faceless soldiers fanning out like mechanical hounds. No time for mercy. You pivot, sights locking onto the nearest target. The first shot cracks the air, a thunderclap that sends the soldier crumpling. Alarms blare. Muzzle flashes ignite the gloom as return fire peppers the steel around you. You duck, roll, reload—muscles burning, breath ragged. These aren’t men. They’re gears in a machine, and you’re the wrench. Another charges, baton raised. A hollow-point to the chest drops him mid-sprint. Blood mists the air. Your pulse hammers—not fear, fury. They took your sister. They took your home. Now? You take them apart. Grenade pins clink underfoot. You kick one back, diving as the blast shreds two more into scrap. Smoke stings your eyes. Move. Always move. A sniper’s laser dances across your vest—you strafe left, unleashing a wild burst that shatters his perch. Glass rains. He falls. The last trio advances in lockstep, shields raised. You smirk. One incendiary round turns their barricade into a funeral pyre. Their screams don’t last. Silence returns, heavy and raw. You eject the spent mag, the metallic click a victory chant. But the pink soldiers’ blood on your hands? That’s the real trophy.
