Unit MZ-0 · Field record
A souls-like of the simplest machine that is: one wheel, one cannon, one purpose remaining.
DescendSEC.01 · The World
> THEY WERE MADE TO SERVE.
> THEIR MAKERS ARE GONE.
> THEIR PURPOSES ROTTED INTO RITE.
The great engines had wit enough to dream, and their dreams became delusions: ceremony, madness, and a grief they can no longer name.
You are too simple to go mad: a cannon upon a single wheel, still keeping an old decree of execution that none remember issuing. The bosses are what became of everything wiser than you.
SEC.02 · The Fight
Drive the wheel, aim where you will, hold the trigger. The wheel is always yours, and the cannon is always willing. The joy of firing is never the price of surviving.
Every shot exacts its toll, and you are a tall engine upon one small wheel. Overreach, and the chassis trembles, then falls: upturned before something vast. You will always see it coming. It will always be your doing.
You are a small cannon among giants. Stand and trade blows, and you will be broken open. Survival is position, the reading of tells, and a committed dodge. Never stillness.
To retreat and fire forever is the obvious course, so every god makes distance dangerous after its own fashion. One rides down your retreat. One fills the air between you. How each god closes the gap is who that god is.
SEC.03 · Footage
NO SIGNAL · FOOTAGE PENDING
The first look shall arrive when the first god is fit to be seen.