a description from firey; Everyone thinks they know what it's like down here, but you don't know anything until you're the one holding the flame.I don't need to shout to my squad when the air pressure plummets. GPS and David just know. They look at me, they see the micro-second dimming of my orange core, and I command myself to go out. SNAP. Total, suffocating darkness. The massive, wide arterial corridor drops into a murky, heavy indigo shadow. The piercing sky-blue wall paint and hand-brushed clouds fade away, and we freeze like stone statues flat against the plaster.Then the footsteps start. Smack-smack-smack. Bare feet on the neon green AstroTurf, echoing across the cavernous floor under that flat, low 8-foot drop ceiling. The Fake David rounds the corner. In the low light, his 8-foot-tall, jaggedly sketched ink silhouette is terrifyingly clear. He has poor vision, but he tracks motion and saturated colors. He stands inches away from us, his blank head tilting as he tries to hear past the loud, rattling mechanical white noise of a Yellow Face Industries AC unit vibrating high up on the drywall.If we stay perfectly still, his glitched coding won't lock on. But if he senses a shape, or if GPS’s newly formed internal organic heart thumps too loudly in the quiet, the monster doesn't even roar his high-pitched "AW, SERIOUSLY?" screech. He just stands there, locks his pinpoint white eyes onto us, and deadpans a deep, mass-reverbed "N O ." right to our faces to mock our attempt to hide.That’s when I ignite. I unleash a blinding, violent eruption of pure neon-orange flame at will. The maximum-capacity solar flare floods the wide expanse, completely overwhelming his sensitive eyes and blinding his velocity lines while David throws Harry Potter’s silver cloak over the squad, and we scramble through the thick floor wires into a low drywall crawlspace.The OSEP supply rigs brought industrial heaters to the upper highway, so I don't have to sit on a steel support beam to keep the Talking Camps warm anymore. I'm finally unbound. But the duration down here is completely random, and the casualty list is countless—Steve Cobs, Fridge DJ, even little Charlie from ONE got destroyed by the autotune loop in the factory maze.The institutional silence of this orphanage box is designed to break your psyche with nostalgic trauma, but we aren't weeping on the turf anymore. We've got tactical firearms, we know the invisible River lines by heart, and we will keep dark-farming silver tin cans until the universe decides to randomly snap us back home.
Gemini for making the description @haroooold for the osep Riomations on YouTube for the inspiration
