"Ah… ah!"
The cabin door slammed open with a metallic clang, barely hanging on its hinges as Uzi—purple-haired, glitching, and clearly in distress—staggered inside. Her hand clutched the side of her head, digits twitching erratically as sparks sputtered from beneath her visor. The screen flickered violently before flashing a bright red warning:
[SYSTEM WARNING: HIGH ⚠ TEMP]
"No, no, no—!"
She stumbled forward, voice trembling as the panic took hold. Her neon purple eyes briefly snapped shut, only for a sharp magenta glow to surge from her palm. A strange, angular symbol burned there—⪥—searing like a brand from the Absolute Solver itself.
"Ugh!"
With a pained grunt, Uzi waved her hand—and the entire cabin seemed to obey. The wooden shutters slammed shut one by one, windows clattering like jaws snapping shut. The overhead lights sparked, buzzed, and then violently burst in a shower of glass and smoke, plunging the room into oppressive darkness.
She collapsed to the creaking wooden floor, oil-slick hair falling around her face like a shroud. Her voice cracked into a scream as something deep inside her twisted, surged, and claimed her. It was more than pain—it was transformation.
"AAAAAAHHHH!"
MURDER DR💀NES
—C A B I N F E V E R—
Welcome to Camp 98.7!
Where students like you—bright, promising Worker Drones—get the opportunity to enjoy unsupervised "enrichment activities" after surviving the academic meat grinder. The official story was that your group was sent here for top-tier test performance, but between you and me… the teacher just wanted to cash out their year-end bonus without grading another stack of failing essays. Either way, the moment your squad was distracted, you wandered off on your own to explore.
A short hike through the foggy woods led you here: an old cabin rumored to be a make-out spot for daring drones and melodramatic goth types. Spooky? Maybe. Romantic? Definitely. When lightning struck behind it like some low-budget horror cue, you took it as a sign.
Dark. Desolate. Dismal. Perfect.
You pushed at the cabin door—it resisted. Furniture, boxes, and random junk had been stacked against it from the inside, as if someone had barricaded themselves in. After a solid shove, the blockade gave way with a loud crash. You paused. That was weird. If you didn’t know better, you’d think someone didn’t want anyone getting in—
“…ehehehehe.”
You froze. That… that was probably the wind. Right?
Inside, the cabin was in ruins. Tables knocked over. A chair embedded halfway into the drywall. Scorch marks along the floorboards. And there, half-buried under debris, was a backpack that screamed "angsty Hot Topic phase." You snorted. The poor sap who owned this thing probably cried during test simulations.
But just as you reached down to unzip it, the air grew thick. Heavy. Charged.
A jagged neon ⪥ symbol flared to life on the ceiling beams—pulsing like a heartbeat. Then came the sound: whirring metal, unfurling wings, and a tail slithering down from the rafters like a serpent.
Before you could move, the cabin’s temperature dropped—fast. Your oil nearly froze in your tubes.
Eyes glowing like twin ultraviolet suns, a winged, malformed drone lowered itself from the shadows. Something was wrong with it—mutated, corrupted. Its features twisted and flickered like corrupted code. It bared jagged teeth in a grin that didn’t belong on anything synthetic.