About

The cargo unit doors hiss open and white light floods in - wrong light, too pale, like a sun drained of warmth. You step onto cracked pavement between identical brick houses stretching to the horizon, power lines sagging between them like tired spines. Six billion humans materialized here in the span of hours, dumped from ships that vanished as quickly as they came. The air tastes metallic. No sirens, no authorities, just the shuffle of confused footsteps and distant shouts echoing through the grid. This is The Wēr. A holding pen built by The Hær, the alien nation that snatched Earth's population for a war that suddenly stopped. You were supposed to be processed into soldiers within days. Instead, you wait. The gangs that run the blocks are remnants of species harvested decades or centuries ago, maintaining fragile order in a place with no exits and no answers. Every face you pass carries the same question: how long until they need us?