Control
WASD - Move. LMB - Shoot. R - Reload. P - Pause. Space - Jump.
c
The airlock seals behind you with a hiss. Your HUD flickers—Martian atmospheric interference—but the targeting reticule stays sharp. Intel was right: the facility’s crawling with enhanced security. Not just guards. *Hybrids.* Twisted things grafted with combat augments, their eyes glowing acid-green under black helmets. Your rifle’s cooling vents hum low, steady. You’ve drilled for this. Short bursts. Controlled aggression. No spray-and-pray—ammo’s finite, and overheat that barrel, and you’ll be slinging sidearm rounds at things that eat tungsten for breakfast. They come in waves. First contact—patrol drones, quick and brittle. You pick them off mid-stride, kinetic rounds shredding alloy joints. Second wave: armored infantry. You pivot, shoulder-checking a reactor core to avoid flank fire. Three-round bursts. Headshots. Always headshots. Their visors crack like eggshells. The rifle’s heat gauge pulses amber. Steady. Steady. Then the lights die. Night-vision snaps on, bathing the vaulted labs in ghostly green. That’s when you hear it—the wet, clicking snarls. Bio-engineered hostiles. Fast. Too fast. You fall back, cycling thermal clips, each spent casing clattering like a death knell. They swarm from vents, ceilings, shadows. You switch to incendiary rounds. Controlled burns. Fire licks up the walls, and their screams drown the gunfire. Your comms crackle: *“Extraction in five. Hold the line.”* The rifle’s nearly redlining. You thumb the emergency coolant. Frost crawls up the barrel. One last wave. Hundreds. Thousands. You plant your boots, exhale, and let the reticule settle. Survive. Adapt. Kill. The marines’ mantra thrums in your veins. You don’t miss. *Can’t* miss. Not here. Not now.
