Kill More Billionaires🐆

Inky

Inky

🌅Dawnbringer Dragon🌅

with crystals

☿ When He Died by Lemon Demon ☿

Poshwing

with no long nails

Seashroom

Dr Strange 

With red/orange glowy stims and book/dark academia stims

Plantern 

with mist/fog stims

A Slaughter/Flesh Domain: The War Machine

+ + + || + + + || + + + 

Life was steady in the factory. Chaotic, but steady. Disorder produced in a strict orderly line of assembly. The music was music, though noise. All around you, the gears churned and the machinery whirred and the oil sloshed and the screams rang to a strong and tumultuous rhythm. The war was everywhere. Of course it was everywhere. But in the walls of The Machine it was especially vivid. A part of you always thought it was clearer in here than in the fields. On the front lines one had adrenaline and hope to distract and muddy the thoughts. The frenzy of preservation held you afloat like drowning in a faulty lifejacket. In The Machine, though, you were in a submarine. Everyone here had no such excuses, they knew exactly what they were doing. Every blade you sharpened, every tank you filled, every corpse you ground, you were aware and eager and able. 

All the people that came in, piled high, were sorted neatly into two different parts of the factory. There was no point in waisting recourses. In war, everything–everyone–was a resource. That’s all you were now, no different than the machines around you; churning and churning and churning out more to fight more to kill more to fuel. 

Your favorite place to work was the fuel distillery. That’s where the prisoners were sent. Sometimes, even alive. You wish you could say you hated having to push them in when they were still moving but the thrill of the carnage still crept into your veins. Your coworkers loved it. They would fight over who got to shove the next one in, who got to feel the crunch of the bones in their hands. Sometimes, during the scuffle, an extra body or two would find its way into the gears and then you’d have to get new coworkers. You know this is why they really like to fight. It’s so rare to get fresh beating heart in one’s hands all the way back here. Besides, no one cares. More blood means more fuel. The second best job in The Machine was packing rations. Here, the bodies of the fallen soldiers came back. Stripped and bloody, they were cut and carved and mashed and packaged to fuel the new lines of soldiers. Sinking a blade into flesh as far and fast as you wanted was almost as exhilarating as feeling a heart stop beating in the first place. On occasion, you even dared to nick a taste for yourself. Fuel. It was gold to workers like you. 

You just had to be careful, to never, ever, EVER, scrape against the open and sharp machines. Not a single drop of blood could be spilled from your skin and wasted. They would smell it. Even among the lurid copper stench of The Machine, everyone would smell a fresh cut. Then, they’d see you for what you really are, what you all really are: just a resource.