It ain’t art, but it’s certainly mine.
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First Time Meeting Papaporo Paprito
In an old destroyed NT station, an engineer finds a tape recording. After playing it back; reports suggest it originated from a detective listed only by the name Booker. The date of this recording could never be identified as NT filed the entire station under red tape, and ultimately nobody really cared for a detective’s drunken rambling
The tape recorder is old-tech, the audio quality is muffled and it crackles when it starts and stops, but the trench coat ruffle and the distinctive sound of whiskey being poured into a tumbler is obvious.
“You see all types on this station… the good, the bad, and the tide… but Paparopo was one of the strange ones. It was back when I was green, fresh to my job, sitting back running the bar’s dispensers dry. All of a sudden, in bursts this moth, as naked as this world brought him into it, spinning and flipping and clapping. I was stunned, and my hands started drifting to my baton stick like it started whispering a fat stack of creds. But hell, I wouldn’t wanna tackle a naked moth, and NT’s ban on ERP didn’t include public indecency. So I stayed where I sat, and kept drinking. It took 2 minutes of this godawful ritual but eventually became just another memory I washed out with booze.”
There’s a small pause
“The funny part is, I hear rumours about him later on. People who thank him for what he did for this station, for being an overall decent upstanding fellow, those that joked, those that laughed. Each time I felt like I knew his dirty laundry, the time that he tided and was a renegade to this station by showing his fluffy antennae to anyone nearby, but I figured I might as well bite the bullet and just say hey to the man.” Chuckle “and fuck it, turns out the rumours were true to boot.”
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Physical Dialogue Practice
Booker slowly stirs awake in dorms as the station’s night lighting draws to an end. As he gets out of bed, it occurs to him that he requested a job change into robotics and that the next shift would be starting soon. In one quick movement, he ejects his Nanotransen ID out of the PDA laying on the table and swipes it on his wardrobe. He grabs his robotics jumpsuit and labcoat and groggily puts on his black cap. It takes him a second to realise that the hat feels wrong and takes it off to discover it’s tattered. Someone must have ate through his supply. He shrugs, the vending machines sell them for free anyway, and he walks off into the most chaotic shift SS13’ll see.
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Booker’s Headcanon Backstory
A Syndicate base was raided on a snowy planet by the Nanotransen assault force. Whilst the date, location and names are kept classified and face a heavy fine for even mentioning, no money in the world can stop the nature of human gossip.
This base was tracked from torturing a Syndicate mercenary captured in an anti-Nanotransen homeworld attempting to jumpstart an explosion in a Nanotransen-based skyscraper. An assault force was dispatched to the base he had leaked; all life-signs were executed with one NT-Assault casualty. Shortly after, it was reported that the spaceship for the base had already left soon before the force had arrived.
The base contained a cloning pod, which explains why the assault had wasted more expense on ammunition than necessary, but one of the sleepers hadn’t opened. A Lizardman not found on the base with a hand-label on the side stating “Booker” Blackbox recordings identified the original lizardman on the base; considering how operatives usually work and the first-name only style of other mercenaries on the base, Nanotransen believes the name to be a codename
While executing the clone was considered, valuable resources were discovered on the surface of the planet in question, allowing the Syndicate base to become a Nanotransen mining base. The clone was allowed to stay in the sleeper and was allowed upkeep by an assigned Nanotransen scientist, in order for interrogation when he was revived.
It took the better part of a month before the clone stirred awake, and the scientist quickly notified their respective party that the original Syndicate Agent had died.
The clone shared no amount of knowledge of his surroundings, any syndicate information or even basic technology much like a golem first sprung to life. This was first thought to be a ploy, then it was theorised to be retrograde amnesia from inferior Syndicate technology, however whilst comparing blackbox recordings, it was reported by a security force two systems down of a suspiciously similarly built Syndicate agent escaping after assassinating a Nanotransen official in her home, caught on tape by her AI. The scientist’s pAI reported the facial structure, scale colour and other variables to be on a 95% accuracy. The clone gained sentience in an anomalous manner.
The clone was given standardised general training in all Nanotransen departments, and a specialised training in security. A model Nanotransen worker delivered straight from the Syndicate is a welcome gift.
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Buster’s Non-Canon Backstory
Buster Tunell was considered the perfect man. Like if a Swedish supermodel could cut diamond with his own jawline, with the sorta beaming eyes that stared right through you yet reassured you that while he knew he was impossibly handsome that you too have made humanity more beautiful for being in it. He was popular a good seven years ago, and when he dropped off the face of the universe, most people shrugged and moved onto the next Nanotransen-certified personality
It’s a common joke in space station 13 that someone shouts “Hey, look, it’s Buster Tunell!” whenever Buster’s around. You can always see Buster twitch a little each time, he must have heard this one before a lot. He had the same teal hair as the celebrity, same accent, a similar voice, height, the works. A prodigal son of his father. Either the world’s weirdest coincidence, or something a little more intentional. It was hard to get any of this information out of him as a result, he kept getting angry and a poor medbay doctor had to patch him up as each time he jumped straight into a conveniently placed glass table.
Booker got the most out of him, mainly because the lizardman seemed unfamiliar with such a famous name, Buster must have been glad to have an unbias opinion.
Overall, Buster has mainly been focusing on his job, making sure that the other staff in the space station are happy, going fuckin crazy as a chaplain and cuffing threats to the station as security. However he popped up, a lot of people were glad he’s here.
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Papaporo Paprito’s Psych Analysis
A psychology report is required for all staff at Space Station 13 alongside their regular medical report. This report was covered by Lara Kingsley.
To begin, Papaporo shows a keen passion towards their jobs at Nanotransen. Whilst most view janitors as a means to an end in Space Station 13, Papaporo views it as a hidden goldmine of experience that leads to social skills, physical fitness and a keen mind. This perspective obviously has some merit towards it as they’ve recently worked as captaincy of the Space Station 13 with flying colours.
From what I managed to gather, Papaporo originally joined Nanotransen for financial reasons, but kept the specific reasons private. Otherwise, their files have been disclosed to me: Papaporo Paprito was born on another space station similar to Space Station 13. The most notifiable trait about them was that they were born genderless; this is a well-known genetic defect occurring in 1/2500 mothpeople. Papaporo, however, considers it more of a blessing than a curse proudly claiming their identity to be one of freedom to express themselves however they so desire.
A previous overview by another psychologist noted a “hypersensitive” tendency in Papaporo. Interviews of command staff noticed between the moth dutifully cleaning like a well-oiled machine, then proceeding to obsess over the company they kept. When I asked Papaporo about the people they spent time with, Papaporo beamed when describing them and recent events to me. A personal note would to let this habit flourish, it’d help the morale for Papaporo and whoever they work with in the future to keep their work efficiency and passion for Nanotransen high.
A signature is written at the bottom with a stamp of approval
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Non-Canon Syndi-Lizard Times
The Lizard Syndicate sits in a syndicate bar, sipping a glass of water. It’s late at night and he’s tired; he’s been hauling a dead body for the entire day. A human sits opposite of him, and thumps a file onto the table. The Lizard Syndicate gazes up at the human, then picks up the file and opens it. He sees an imperfect mirror of himself staring straight into him.
“One of the boys found this over when they got their memories resurfaced.”
“Where.”
“Space Station 13.”
“The… research one?” ~
“Yeah, he’s been working security.”
The Lizard Syndicate tuts, moves the glass to the side, calls a waiter over, and in hushed tones mentions multiple drinks. The waiter nods, and disappears
“Those Nanotransen fucks. They spat on my name.”
“They call him Booker.”
“Book…”
The Lizard Syndicate pauses. It brings back a bad job, all went well except the evac didn’t respond on time, and when he got back to the base, all of them were dead.
There’s a long silence
“Right… uh… he’s just been working on the space station as usual, and he’s dating multiple moths.”
“I want more on SS13. Keep me updated on the clone, no other reason than because he’s got my face. Nanotransen spat on us once, I’ll live to make them- …
Wait what was that last part?”
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Bookman will piss on the bridge
I’ve come to make an announcement, Buster the human’s a bitch ass motherfucker, he toolboxed my fucking moth. That’s right, he took his shitty emergency toolbox and he WACKED on my MOTH, and he said his storage was “this big” and I said that’s disgusting. So I’m making a callout post on my FulpStationHangout. Buster the human, you got a small seclite. It’s the size of this pen except WAY SMALLER. And guess what? Here’s what my oxygen tank looks like. That’s right, baby. Extended, no light source, no attachments, look at that, it looks like an energy gun and two flashes. He toolboxed my moth, so guess what, I’m going to SHOOT INTO THE CHAPEL, That’s right, this is what you get! MY SUPER LASER RIFLE! Except I’m not gonna shoot into the chapel, I’m going to go higher. I’M BSA-ING THE BRIDGE! HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT, HEAD OF PERSONNEL?! I BOMBARDED THE BRIDGE, YOU IDIOT. YOU HAVE 2 HOURS BEFORE THE ENGINEERS DO THEIR JOBS, NOW GET OUT OF MY SIGHT BEFORE I HARM BATON YOU TOO.
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Nanite Halloween Story
Disclaimer: Gore
Booker’s phobia of Nanites? It started when he was a fresher face on Nanotransen based facilities. He’d been working on the station for upwards of a month. Sometimes the stations require evacuations for a full scrub of the station, ensuring full sterilisation. But syndicate tend to jump onto this opportunity for getting all of the station into one tiny shuttle.
As the lizard belted himself into his seat, relatively bored after sitting in the same place for an hour, he noticed his skin felt itchy. He subconsciously scratched it while he was thinking about what the centcomm headquarters his coworkers were telling him about would look like.
That scratch… Something felt like it was intentionally blocking his pores. He kept scratching them, but it didn’t feel any better. His arms started to feel numb, his toes too, like someone shoved a wall in his bloodstream. The shuttle walls were closing in as he felt more dizzy, he could feel something attempting to pool into his head, like it was trying to pierce into his skull, his chest felt like it was welling up.
Then his blood heated up. It felt like thermite igniting solely inside his own veins, getting quickly hotter by the second. He didn’t have enough time to respond, until he was deafened to his own self-explosion.
He was still conscious, he wished he was anything but.
Pieces of himself splattered the walls, his eardrums had exploded. His stomach wasn’t meant to touch the floor. His arms and kneecap were practically paste. One of his eyes had popped, the other could make out the same people who suffered the same fate. His face looked as if he french-kissed a chainsaw. Trying to open his mouth made him vomit out something. What that something was he couldn’t tell, too much pain in some places and so fucking null in others.
He was still shaking the day after treatment.
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Meanwhile back at Booker’s house
Pyx: “Boy, it’s getting boiling in here!”
lowers AC
Loud thunk from the other room
Fermi: “BOOKER!”
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Round Recount
Booker took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes, step one was to get maintenance access from whoever the head of personnel is on this space station. Papaporo showed him once the secret hidey hole for a good maintenance-style bar; they’ve done it before, and so this time it’ll be a breeze. It was a dash to get everything in time. As he waited in the HoP line, he was behind Svetlana. They shared some conversation, but she brings up an idea that caught Booker’s attention. She’s been making bluespace launchpads, and if she got the time, she’ll drop one of them outside their bar. Books grinned, for a casual shift, they’ll be able to accommodate the crew as they teleport around.
It took a while, and maybe some less than legal ways of acquiring some of the parts. None of the bartenders were using that Booze-O-Mat after they dispensed 30 bottles of alcohol after all. By the time he dragged over all the equipment, the place was shining. Fire alarms, voice-activated door locks and just overall nice interior design. It was ready for service!
So far, no real visitors other than one cargo technician, which is understandable for a hidden bar. But Books spotted that the Crematorium APC was down, he heard some noise about changelings earlier, so he figured it was worth calling out.
Security wanted this crematorium back up. They had invited the CE to get it back up and running. He kept fumbling around with the APC, trying to root through imaginary wires and he swore he couldn’t find his one battery he kept in a box, they were getting impatient. One of the detectives crossed their arms and looked around maintenance. A cargo technician passed them by. They shuddered. Something felt off, that was their gut instinct…
No… Shit, everything was getting cold. The Chief Engineer slowly turned, his hardsuit’s helmet didn’t show how he grinned, and his arm started reshaping. The detective grabbed her baton, but she can’t move. There is fear in her eyes, as she coughs up her own blood, and the arm blade is pulled out of her.
As she lay dying on the floor, she could hear her friends and allies screaming, one of them fiddling with a flashbang as his face gets sliced in half. A baton fell to the floor. The detective slowly crawls to the baton, but the world spins… Her final memories is the cargo technician picking up the stun baton, and walking away.
Booker left his bar, he heard fighting earlier. He paused.
Standing in the middle of maintenance, he locked eyes with the chief engineer.
A war zone wasn’t comparable. There was practically nothing left of these security officers. Only organs and bloody equipment strown about.
A silence, like something out of those space bounty-hunter movies.
His hand instinctually hovered over his holster, but only realised he was trying to grab his PDA.
This focus is broken; Papaporo grabbed Booker by his hands and dragged him back in. They looked away and muttered the number code making the door loudly bolt.
With a nervous smile, Papaporo suggested “Let’s make them changeling sting.”
“Fuck it, I’m off-duty.”
Booker grabbed an irish car bomb, and sat on the old ratty sofa while moff pet talking to someone he cared about. Nanotransen might be damaged for the next coming months, but who cares about a station when you have the right people?
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Space Station Noir
The shift was over. Booker, tired from his long day, was walking back to dorms. Traitors had snuck onto the station the third time this week. His shooting arm was sore, but his DNA scanning one even more. People didn’t realise the screening process for Nanotransen were so lax because of corporate espionage. Traitors with weird two-year gaps in their resumes get compared with other traitors so the centcomm officials try and track down bases and headquarters of syndicate affiliated corporations. All this corporate business got dulling at times, he wished one of the moths could have kept him company tonight at least, but they were all off-station.
He passed by a quiet flickering bar sign, “The Golden Room”. Four bartenders sprung to his mind who used that sign. Almost on cue, the bar door opens, and a paramedic with red hair and a tail brushes past him rushing off to dorms with a wide grin on her face. Only one woman could make that catgirl that happy, and so he knew he was in good hands.
Booker opened the door, and a familiar voice proved his deduction right.
“Welcome, Booker” Svetlana greeted warmly, even for such a late night.
“Whisk-“
“Hold it there, we only serve Vodka.”
Booker looked out at the door behind him, pulled out his detective’s flask, turned it upside down and sighed.
“Fine, give me a Black Russian.”
Booker was three drinks down, his coat and satchel on the seat on his left.
“I didn’t even know those hats could come so tiny, svet! Fermi would kill to nib-”.
The red in his cheeks was a sign for the station engineer passing by. He pulled up a stool next to Booker, instead of the three other empty stools close by.
“Long day, eh, friend?” the engineer chittered in his ear.
Booker stifled a burp. “You could say that”
Svetlana took this to turn her back to the pair, and noted the empty slots in the Booze-O-Mat.
“Nanotransen working you dry?”
“Hah, I’ll drink to that.”
“Booker, right?” The lizardman turned to look at the engineer, and nodded with a shrug.
“I hear you’re a fan of Nanotransen.”
The lizardman shrugged with his eyes closed “Best corporation out there.”
“I’d say so too, but they keep making weird decisions.”
“oh… yeah?”
“Right, MMIs still make my skin crawl. We all sold our literal souls to this corporation, and we have to stay here to finish projects even when half of the command are dead. And have you heard about the Internal Affairs Age-“
“Everyone knows IAA ex- don’t exist.” Booker turned back to the front of the bar, idling with his drink in his hands.
“Don’t worry with me, friend, I can keep secrets.”
“Listen, I know we got flaws, but Nanotransen’s been like a father to me. I had an incident happen a year or so back where Nanotransen helped me get back on my feet, they taught me how to save lives, how to protect the people I care about, how to run a goddamn station, all these skills. I owe them my life.”
Booker closed his eyes and started to almost doze off on the spot.
No dice. The engineer glanced around and reached into the detective’s right pocket with a gentle touch, removed Booker’s ID card and carefully placed it into his leather satchel.
Three bullets passed through the head of the atmos technician. He slumped out of his seat, then onto the floor. Booker wiped the blood off his face, and his ears were still ringing from the shot. He nodded and stood up. Svetlana’s displeased smirk made him sit back down. “You know the rules.” He sighed, and drunkenly wrote on a napkin. Svetlana motioned for his pen, and finished the other half of his barely legible scrawl. I tried to steal a Det ID, revive me in the morning.
Booker stood up, and put on his coat. It wasn’t over yet, he had to drag the body to the windoor to help Svetlana bring it into the backrooms. They stuffed the body in the bartender’s closet.
Booker turned to Svetlana “You know he’s a syndicate, right?”
“Of course. I’m not deaf.”
He cracked his back, and the two nodded at each other for a good night.
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Kitchen Kombat
Vikas. This man fucked with the syndicate by reporting that a Nanotrasen official’s house was being sabotaged a month ago, and so it is vital that such a loyalist would be killed.
Tom remembered the briefing first when his hidden memories resurfaced. The syndicate had made sure that the holo-presentation had used very bright pinks and black so that the image of his target had been almost engrained in his retinas. Vikas was a well-built Nanotrasen worker with stubble and a blonde pony-tail. He’d been working on Nanotrasen stations for years. These places were death traps, anyone who survived that long must be made of sterner stuff.
Tom was standing in robotics deep in thought, ruffling his black hair. He shrugged off his dress-code lab coat; it was easier to get blood on his black and red jumpsuit. He pressed all the buttons necessary on the exofab’s computer screen to print off cyborg parts and mumbled that he was going on break to his lizard co-worker. The lizard shrugged and got back to work. Tom’s stomach was running on empty and he needed to be in top shape to murder a man.
There were fried eggs on the counter, a nervous short brown-haired chef lingered at the front of the kitchen, eagerly eyeing the roboticist to see if he liked the food. Tom leaned on the counter with a fork and began to eat looking down the hallway on his left. A quiet but rough voice came from the kitchen.
‘You learnt how to fry an egg yet?’
Tom casually turned his head back to the kitchen, until his eyes went wide. There stood Vikas, in the head chef’s outfit. He almost choked on his food. The brown-haired chef nodded to Vikas and looked proud. He must be fresh blood.
Back at robotics, the lizard let in an engineering moth, who somehow made a glass fortress on one of the tables. Tom didn’t mind, he used this distraction to purchase a manual from his syndicate uplink and quietly began to read in the dark mech room.
Sleeping Carp was a more aggressive form of an ancient martial art Jeet Kune Do. This caused a divide within the Syndicate, Tiger Cooperative believed that the ability to ‘to be formless and shapeless like water, and react like the tide’ was unnecessary, and they valued the ferocity of the carp within water. MI13 argued that this didn’t need to be changed, that aggressiveness would be its downfall, but Gorlex sided with Tiger Cooperative, and believed that whatever got the job done the fastest led to the biggest payday.
It took five minutes for the hallway traffic to die down. Tom was talking to a random ethereal botanist to avoid suspicion. He asked about his favourite hobby, the ethereal said dancing, Tom told him how much he hated clowns. Both of them nodded.
There was nobody around, both chefs were absent. Tom hopped the counter and waited inside a fridge. Shortly after, the freezer’s airlock opened. He could hear a cheese wheel being cut, a person humming to themselves. Tom pressed a button on his headset, on a frequency no other Nanotrasen have.
“I want a chef dead, keep the bartender busy.”
A female voice crackled through “Can do.”
He opened the fridge door, it was the brown-haired chef.
“Secur-”
Tom grabbed the chef’s arm and chopped him in the face. Before the chef yelped, Tom kicked the chef square in the chest. The chef went flying into the wall next to the counter. Tom walked up and kept hitting the chef in the face until there was blood on his fist. He snagged the ID off the chef’s jumpsuit and closed the counter to the hallway.
Vikas figured he’d show the kid how to make more complex burgers. He opened his backpack full of synthetic meat as he was walking from the empty bar to the kitchen.
“I brought synthflesh from chemi…”
There was a roboticist standing in the kitchen.
Tom smirked, “Vikas. You’re a wanted man.”
“What happened to the kid.”
Tom didn’t respond. He took a stance.
Tom ran in. Vikas threw a quick jab, but Tom dodged the punch, and decked Vikas in the face. Vikas’ felt his eyes watering. Tom followed by chopping Vikas in the neck. A lingering pain stayed in Vikas but he latched onto Tom and slammed him into the ground. The roboticist reached into his pocket and dropped a bar of soap while crawling away. Vikas didn’t see and slipped. Both men were on the ground and retreated to the opposite corners of the room.
Both of them stood up, both panting. Tom pulled a crowbar out of his toolbelt and jimmied out a floor tile. He threw the tile at Vikas’ head. Vikas braced to catch it, and shoved it inside the deep fryer.
Tom broke a condiment bottle and came at him. Vikas blocked against Tom’s forearm, pushed it aside, struck Tom’s face and kicked the back of his knee to pull the broken bottle off him. Vikas threw a punch into Tom’s stomach. Tom tried to fight the punch but it ended up winding him. Vikas grabbed him and brought his face close to a deep fryer, Tom resisted, exhausted but fighting against Vikas’ strong grip. He lowered his head, inches away from the fryer, and slammed the chef’s head against a table.
Vikas took two steps away, and pulled a knife out of his pocket. He flipped it in his hands, and aimed for Tom’s neck. Tom vaulted a table to kick Vikas in the chest, then he craned to Vikas’ right and spun his leg into Vikas’ head, making the chef curse in pain and dropped to the ground.
Tom paused, and looked down, his black and red jumpsuit was getting redder with the sharpened knife stuck between his hip. The adrenaline was kicking in, the knife jiggled each step he took towards the chef. 5 steps, until he fell to the floor.
Vikas slowly got back on his feet and grabbed Tom by his neck, Tom reflexively raised his arm to try and hit Vikas in the neck, but Vikas hooked his second arm around Tom’s arm.
“I am sorry, roboticist.”
Tom felt Vikas’ grip tighten, and his head was jerked out of place. He went limp, slowly choking as everything went white.
Vikas was eating the fried floor tile when a security officer finally responded. The sec officer took two looks at the dead roboticist on the floor, and immediately fired his disabler screaming for backup. Vikas stammered “F-For f-f-ffuck’s sa-aaake” on the ground.
The chef was stuck in brig for half an hour.
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Forbidden Ryder Lore
Ryder was a normal young lizard on one of the lizardmen colonies, originally.
He lived out the typical lizardmen life until he came to his mother’s work place, a transport workshop. It was today of all days that while everyone was on break, an engine crushed Ryder’s mother. Ryder heard the loud bang from the other room and tried to rush to the door. He saw his mother slowly bleeding out, quietly calling out to anyone who could help. He tried to press the door open button, but safety requirements had been raised, it needed an ID to enter. He scratched on the door, screamed at it, hoping it would open, banged on it. He ran out into the open air and tried to search for where the other workers were on break, the stress had almost made him get lost, until he ran into one of the lizardmen who knelt down and tried to calm him down. The lizardman bolted back into the workshop with ryder trying his best to catch up, but it was too late. She bled out, and the colony didn’t have any fancy new-age healing. She was buried later that week.
Ever since then, Ryder couldn’t feel safe without a screwdriver in his pocket, it became an obsession, he was vitriolic to any of his friends that tried to help. Eventually, Ryder hacked his way back three Nanotrasen buildings and didn’t touch a single thing inside. A Nanotrasen official caught wind of this and figured it’d be a good way to see how easily hackable their doors were, and thus, Ryder Perkins was unleashed on us all.
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The Giving Syndicate
The Giving Syndicate was a tale on the station
something crew were spreading information
Lay out a syndicate lamp; in the dead of night
and find gifts and posters under the light.
Soon enough lamps were painted, and traded.
The only ones real were the ones with paint faded.
The chaplain rested easy with his ID full of credits
Selling this story to every assistant, engi and medic
Soon enough, the station’s security had caught wind
“The Giving Syndicate, eh?” The HOS mused
“It’s just a myth” The Warden defused
“You shitsec fool, did you see the detective’s find?”
On every lamp, there was turtleneck cloth
and a virologist said the syndicate had wings
“A Syndicate moth?”
The HOS’ brain grew three sizes, “I have just the thing!”
a lamp made by science; a flashbang inside
while the HOS napped dressed like a grey tide
but he awoke with a letter “HOS, while we might be enemies”
“I gift you this rose, maybe we can be uh… Frenemies?”
The HOS gasped “I have not yet thought”
“That some of the literal terrorists I’ve fought”
“Have their own lives, and hobbies, and dreams”
“I might reflect on this when I make the next changeling scream”
“HOS!” The deputy cried, “I saw the moth! But she escaped! I’ll get right-”
“I HAVEN’T LEARNT MY LESSON, I’LL HUNT THAT MOTH ‘TILL MY DEATH, AND UNTIL THEN, GOODNIGHT!”
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And that’s all I’ve done so far. I’m also popular for uploading The Little Crow short stories on the fulp discord, but it isn’t ss13 content.
More to post soon!
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Joker Sniper monkey
Clink
An empty shell casing hit the ground.
“ook eek ach…” Jonke murmured.
The alpha monke had fallen, now there will be a power struggle for who will reach the top.
Chaos, just as Jonke planned.
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