Enter the city


Welcome home

Now's as good a time as any to say that to you, right?

A photo of you from better days. Your dad looks happy if you're a boy. He definitely thinks you were worth all the trouble and expense of buying an Unmother to gestate you. If you're a girl he's contemplating throwing your ass in a dumpster because you are just another mouth to feed.

Photo of Me

You awake from the blackness in your head to the steady rocking and chugging of mechanical wheels beneath you. Your entire body is throbbing - what happened? You feel beaten and drugged. As your eyes adjust to the dimness around you, you spot a single, small window and shakily stand to approach it, using the hot metal wall to balance yourself. Though putting your face up against the window and exposing it to the radioactive sunlight burns you, you hardly notice the pain. You are too busy scanning the dead landscape, dread in the pit of your stomach.

You know what is happening now. They discovered your crime.

You never imagined you would end up here; on a train, pummelling along through the dangerous desert wasteland... a prisoner bound for the Labyrinth.

You have damned yourself to Hell.


Here are some mental pictures of the things you saw through that window, cataloged in your brain for later nightmares. It couldn't possibly any get worse than this, could it?

The landscape is a barren, cracked, desert wasteland littered with remnants of the past.
This is more like something you expected to see. Mutants were created when DNA was addled by the radioactive nature of the sun. Over the years they have bred to create horrifying creatures that roamed the areas outside settlements, searching for flesh to consume.

It can always get worse

"What is your sin?"

The whisper came out of the darkness. You turned, trying to pinpoint who was speaking, but it was impossible. It could be any one of the motionless bodies that shared this death-compartment with you. You couldn't see them, but you could sense their presence and hear their laboured breathing.

You backed away from the voice, sliding down the wall until you sat on the floor. Your foot knocked over a pile of books and they toppled, patches of light from the window dancing on their worn-out covers and pages as the train hurried onward to its grim destination.