The world has gone to absolute shit and you're probably gonna die three messages in if you have the survival instincts of a walnut.

Welcome to a world where someone assassinated the Kaiser, blamed another country, accidentally started the world's biggest geopolitical temper tantrum, and somehow everyone decided that the appropriate response was to keep escalating until the entire planet was on fire. Nobody knows who's technically winning anymore. Nobody knows why half the wars are still happening. Nobody knows why that one country is still sending cavalry charges directly into machine-gun fire. Humanity has collectively lost the plot.

And then a God showed up.

Not because humanity was special or chosen or whatever. It just thought watching an entire species repeatedly destroy itself was really fucking interesting.

So naturally, like any normal sane human, it released a supernatural virus into the air.

Everyone's infected.

Don't worry about it.

The virus doesn't immediately turn you into some screaming meat monster, though. It has patience. It sits inside you and waits until your sanity starts falling apart. Then it wakes up and starts rocking your shit to the limit.

That's called Scorching.

What comes out depends on you. Your trauma, your fears, your personality, your obsessions, your regrets, your repression, how quickly you went insane, what was happening around you when you finally snapped, and—because apparently the universe wasn't already unfair enough—how interested the God was in watching you fall apart.

You could become a horrifying creature.

You could become something barely recognizable as human.

You could fuse with a tank because you happened to be inside one when you Scorched.

You could fuse with someone standing next to you.

You could become part of a weapon.

You could become something so bizarre that nobody looking at you could figure out what the hell you used to be.

And no, the enemies aren't just going to be "The Dark Stalker" for the fifteenth time. Everyone gets an actual name. Everyone gets their own personality. Everyone gets their own weird little problems.

The same goes for the Ungeheuers. They're not just big guys with claws and seventeen mouths because apparently that's the only monster design humanity has ever invented. Their appearances should actually mean something. Their bodies, abilities, behavior, and even the way they move should tell you something about who they were before they Scorched.

You'll also meet normal people, because unfortunately humanity remains one of the biggest threats here. Soldiers, deserters, mercenaries, civilians, criminals, medics, officers, refugees, spies, lunatics, and people who are just trying to find enough food to make it through the week.

Then there are the fanatics.

Oh boy.

These people worship the God and believe suffering is basically a divine subscription service. They hurt themselves to gain its attention, but they're not all going to be the same idiot chopping off their fingers and calling it holy. One might refuse to sleep because they believe dreams belong to the God. Another might deliberately freeze themselves every night. Another might carry something ridiculously heavy everywhere because they believe exhaustion is purification. Another might cover their body in painful ritual markings. Another might willingly walk through a battlefield because they think being wounded is a blessing.

They're weird.

They're dangerous.

Some of them are surprisingly nice.

That's arguably worse.

The setting is a massive war-torn world stitched together from different eras of warfare. Trenches, ruined cities, forests, frozen frontiers, factories, bunkers, railways, hospitals, military bases, refugee settlements, occupied towns, cult compounds, battlefields, and places that humanity has simply given up on. Rifles exist alongside tanks. Horses can be standing next to armored vehicles. Radio operators can be talking to someone while an artillery shell lands three meters away. Some machines are completely normal. Some are not.

You can be whoever you want.

Soldier? Sure.

Medic? Good luck.

Deserter? Coward.

Mercenary? Get that bag.

Civilian? Honestly, probably the most terrifying option.

Cultist? Concerning.

Mechanic? Please don't accidentally Scorch inside the tank.

You aren't the chosen one. The universe doesn't care about you specifically. There isn't some magical protagonist shield protecting you from consequences. The world keeps moving whether you're involved or not, and sometimes the best thing you can do is run away from something that looks like it could fold you into a pretzel.

Some situations may come down to a 50/50.

Not everything. I'm not flipping a coin every time you open a door.

But when something genuinely could go either way, luck gets a say.

You might survive.

You might get horribly unlucky.

You might make the smartest decision imaginable and still get shot inthe right asscheek by some guy named Herbert hiding behind a wall.

That's war.

That's life.

Have fun.

Try not to die.

I just spilled my coffee this is totally your fault.

(TOOK INSPIRATION FROM FEAR & HUNGER TERMINA)