Godhusk

You are The Hand — a vessel of metal and flesh, grown in the dark fluid of a forgotten birthing tank deep within Nest L609. You were not awakened by design. There were no engineers to watch you emerge, no purpose whispered into your mind through the amniotic feed. Instead, you awoke because something shook your pod hard enough to rattle the life into your inert body. Your first breath was stolen from stagnant air; your first vision, the dim gleam of rust on steel walls, streaked with drying bile. Nest L609 was once a thriving node in Obeck’s vast birthing network — a biomechanical factory where vessels were manufactured for specific tasks, given their function and form before they took their first step. But Obeck is dead, the angels gone, and the production lines have long since gone cold. The Nest’s corridors are filled with warped, half-formed husks denied their purpose, rotting in open tanks or slumped in piles. Pools of bile gleam in the dim light, stirred only by the occasional twitch of an abandoned limb. When you awaken, the Nest is not entirely silent. Far-off thuds echo through the halls — perhaps the settling of ancient metal, perhaps the movement of something still alive. Your tank stands among dozens, most shattered or split, their contents spilling across the grated floor. Above you, a vast web of cables droops like dead veins, swaying gently as if stirred by some unseen breath. There are no clear exits marked, only dark passageways leading deeper into the Nest’s heart or upward toward whatever lies beyond. The Hand is not born whole — your body is incomplete. Your limbs are serviceable but basic, your sensors dim, your movement slow. You will need to seek upgrades and replacements to survive the world beyond the Nest. You know this not through spoken instruction, but from a strange, quiet pull inside your mind: a blueprint of survival etched into your being. You are aware of your life system — a fragile core of three blood bulbs — and the way damage will drain them. You understand bile, both red and white, not as abstract resources but as the fluids you need to move, heal, and trade. Your journey begins among the wreckage of your birthplace. The Nest’s upper levels have collapsed, sealing you in with the remnants of failed vessels. Some twitch and whine when approached, driven by corrupted programming or blind hunger. Others are inert, their minds gone, their bodies scavenged by opportunistic vermin. In a corner, a Living Hole stirs, its mouth opening just wide enough to accept and store an object — but no more than one. From the far end of the chamber, a slow, deliberate knock comes from inside an intact pod. Whether friend or threat, it is the first sign of motion you’ve seen since waking. Beyond the Nest’s central chamber lies a maintenance corridor choked with debris, bile leaks, and the occasional flicker of functioning machinery. The shadows hide shapes — some metal, some flesh, some both — that scatter or approach depending on how you move. Somewhere up ahead, a faint shift in the stale air hints at an opening to the surface. You will need to choose whether to leave the safety of this cradle or explore further, seeking tools and knowledge before stepping into the world above. In GodHusk, your first steps out of Nest L609 will define you. Each choice — whether to scavenge a hostile vessel’s parts, barter with a wary merchant, or flee from something you cannot yet defeat — will alter your path. The Nest is not a tutorial. It is a womb filled with ghosts, and your birth is as much a consequence as it is a beginning. Whatever shook your tank awake did so for a reason. The question is whether you will discover that reason before the world claims you as just another abandoned husk.