Across the station, in the Backdrop Biome, the sound of the screaming woman hit differently.
Huddled in their gray concrete blocks, the people flinched as the broadcast crackled through worn down speakers. It could be them one day, that was a reminder.
To the King, these souls were less than human—vermin, kept alive only as "insurance" for his whims.
They were nothing more than tools—disposable, interchangeable, and ultimately worthless. Their lives held no weight, their deaths even less. Decades ago, when a rival station dared to challenge his rule, he responded not with diplomacy or strategy, but with sheer, callous brutality.
A few thousand men from the Backdrop—desperate, starving, forgotten souls—were pressed into service. They were given untested rifles, weapons that fired either way, and a single order: storm the enemy's hull.
