Galaxy Gun Shooter
Control
Click to unleash destruction, your weapon primed and ready—a single decisive strike awaits your command.
description
The air reeks of ionized metal and burnt biomass. You crouch behind the fractured hull of a dropship, fingers tightening around a scavenged pulse rifle as skittering echoes bounce off the canyon walls. This isn’t war—it’s a feeding frenzy. The Hive’s tendrils have devoured six colonies already. Your squad’s gone silent. Rations? Three days old, if the corrosion hasn’t breached the seal. Ammo? Count the shots. Make them matter. Ambient howls crescendo—not from the wind, but from *them*. Chitinous shadows swarm the ridge above, mandibles clicking in predatory sync. Your motion sensor blips crimson. No retreat zones here. Just jagged rock, half-melted ruins, and the promise of more Hive tunnels beneath your boots. That "survival" mantra from training curdles into dark laughter. Survive how? By outsmarting creatures that see body heat like neon signs? By jury-rigging turrets from salvage while acid rain eats your armor? The first stalker lunges—a six-limbed blur. You fire. The blast sears its thorax, but two more vault over the carcass. Adrenaline sharpens the grind: dodge, pivot, reload. Every corpse drops bio-gel. Use it. Not for medkits—those expired hours ago—but to synth corrosive rounds. Trade safety for lethality. Nightfall brings worse mutations. Glowing spores infest the air. Breathe wrong, and your lungs crystallize. The Hive’s broodmasters rise then, all pulsating sacs and whipcord tongues. One shot to the reactor on their backs could chain-explode a cluster… if you live long enough to aim. This isn’t about heroics. It’s arithmetic. How many bullets versus how many claws. How many hours before the suit’s oxygen recycler fails. The game’s rigged, but you’ll rig it harder. Set traps with spent fuel cells. Lure alpha strains into electrical storms. Pray the Hive hasn’t evolved immunity—*yet*. The comms crackle. A distorted voice claims there’s an extraction point 20 klicks east. Might be a lie. Might be bait. You check the rifle’s charge. 62%. Enough to find out.
