Galaxy Gun Shooter
Control
The trigger resists for a split second before surrendering to the pressure, a violent eruption of sound and energy tearing through the air as the barrel screams, its deadly payload searing toward the target. Every muscle tenses against the recoil, the world narrowing to the weapon’s vengeful howl and the acrid scent of burnt powder clawing at your lungs.
c
The air reeks of ozone and scorched metal as you crouch behind a shattered dropship, pulse rifle humming in your grip. Your HUD flashes crimson—ammo at 18%, oxygen reserves leaching away, motion sensors screaming about heat signatures closing in from all sides. This isn’t war. It’s a feeding frenzy. They don’t want territory; they want marrow. You’ve seen what’s left of squads that hesitated—exoskeletons cracked open like lobster shells, biosuits melted into flesh. Scavenge. Adapt. Survive. Every alien carcass might hold injectors for temporary night vision, glands that stabilize your radiation levels, or chitin fragments to weld onto armor. But the hive learns. They’ll flank through the acid geysers you thought were impassable, detonate spore pods to disorient your aim. Set traps. Rewire their own abandoned tech against them. That laser barrier you overloaded to fry a swarm? Next patrol’s already mutating heat-resistant carapaces. Out here, mercy’s a death wish. The only exfil is through the nest’s pulsating heart, and you’ll need more than bullets to reach it—build a flamethrower from ruptured fuel lines, jury-rig turrets with scavenged targeting chips, inject yourself with harvested venom to see their pheromone trails. Pray the side effects kill you slower than the xenos would.
