Manufactory Breached

Our wisdom flows so sweet. Taste and see.

TRANSMIT - initiate the hexenwulf signal - RECEIVE - initiate the digital howl - A PLACE WHERE YOU HIDE FROM WOLVES, THAT'S ALL ANY ROOM IS - pack mentality as an algorithm - WITNESS - The Manufactory: Breached.

We hear their WiFi howls. Claws of chrome and agony unending. Downloading instincts. Sterile re-birth smelling of antiseptics. Umbilical vacuum hose rupturing.

Initiate probe into the Ages. Reception compromised.

Did you know, sweetling, the werewolves began as a failed experiment? And whether Lilith literally birthed them from a bloated, termite-queen abdomen or created them in a laboratory, there are few left to say, and fewer still who can properly remember. Things existed on more simultaneous dimensions back then.

Wolf demons fused with humans. The experiment gone wrong. Rejected by the mother. Flushed by reality. Looked down upon by the other supernaturals. Their life cycle never quite worked out the bugs. Lycanthropes live in perpetual rage. They die young of violence, often long before the hormonal changes can mature, turning them lucid, making them wise elder beasts of great age.

Initiate the present. Our sight is always hind.

In the eyes of some, no scrapped designs are ever wasted. Everything gets used. A certain subsection of homo sapien scientists of Orochi decided to improve on Lilith's old sketches. Steel and weaponry and targeting systems. The combat test room experience of each passing generation of cyber-wolves downloaded into the next in communal cloud memory.

The first trials were informative. At first, the lycanthropes' preternatural flesh rejected the implants, spitting them out in a metal-plastic-gory mess. Injections of certain chemicals eased this. Then there was the problem of insanity. Iteration after iteration, and 2.0 of Lilith's failed experiment has come to life, eons after the fact.

The trial run starts now, sweetling.

Sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss--I am the empty fortune cookie--let me in.

Hiya, Chuck. It's John.

They have a fun house down here. Like looking at freaks and pickled punks for a nickle a pop, only it just costs you a little pain. Step right up, Chuck. See the sights.

Ride the river of slime, Chuck! Free-flowing in the sub-level tunnels. That's where the experiments started, Chuck. Filth on tap. What were they doing down there? There are still human fingernails stuck in the walls. They built a whole 'nother floor on top of it to hide it all.

Step right up and see life form Z-999. Like how they contain everything in nice and neat numbers? Feels like you have control over the universe. Feels like your will is significant in the greater cosmos. The pretty lies.

They thought they were in control. They thought if they slapped some metal on Z-999, they could control it, contain it behind glass. But it got in their heads. Really sock-puppeted their skulls. Penetration, Chuck.

Step right up and enter the digestive tract of transdimensional horror! Tunnel of love, Chuck. Z-999 has a stomach that isn't even in properly-angled space. Bigger on the inside. It'll pull you in and digest your mind. It turns your nightmares into its stomach acid.

Come back again, Chuck. We'll take all your nickles.