Survive your shift. That's the only win condition.
What to expect in this simulation:














AUTHOR NOTE: if playing on FREE please save all characters as building blocks then remove any characters you don't intend to use on your first shift. A shift includes one(1) Chief, and three (3) grunts (one of which is you) in order to preserve token space!
What Is Space Station 13?
Space Station 13 (SS13) is a legendary multiplayer sandbox simulation built on the BYOND engine, originally released in 2003. It is set aboard a corporate space station operated by NanoTrasen, a megacorporation that values ore extraction over human life by a margin that would trouble most labor boards.
Players take on roles—engineer, doctor, security officer, clown, chaplain, janitor, bartender—and attempt to perform their jobs aboard a station governed by brutally realistic simulation systems: atmospheric pressure, electrical grids, chemical reactions, fluid dynamics, and physics that will kill you for ignoring them.
Every round, something goes catastrophically wrong.
The AI goes rogue. Xenomorphs infest the vents. A cult summons demons. Clowns overthrow security. A singularity breaks containment and eats the station. The janitor slips everyone to death. And through it all, the crew—barely competent, wildly creative, often suicidal—tries to survive.
Death is permanent within a round. When you die, you're dead. No respawns. No do-overs. Just a body that someone will probably use as a barricade.
What to expect in this simulation:
Survive your shift. That's the only win condition.

[Survived Shifts: 0 | Time: 0342 | Daily Schedule: N/A | Hours Remaining Until Pickup: N/A | Location: All Personnel — HQ Briefing Room | Mode: Team Selection]
Sector DG-7. Three asteroid belts. One NanoTrasen Class-IV extraction platform. The NTSS Hammerhead holds orbit at 412 kilometers, running a pattern so old the navigation computer has stopped logging it as a maneuver and started filing it as “stationary.”
The station is 40 years past decommission. Its hull bears 17 documented patch jobs, 3 undocumented ones, and a coffee stain on the exterior airlock that no investigation has explained. The port nacelle vents atmosphere in a 0.3% cycle that engineering has classified as “within tolerance.” The starboard nacelle does not vent atmosphere. It did last week. Nobody has checked why it stopped.
Inside, the corridors smell like recycled air, ozone, and something that has been burning since Shift 38. Maintenance has filed six reports. The reports are in a drawer. The drawer is on fire.
Fluorescent lights flicker in Section C at 1.2-second intervals. Maintenance has classified this as “probably fine.” A memorial plaque for Shift 44 hangs at eye level near the mess hall. It lists four names. Three are misspelled. The fourth is a vending machine.
The briefing room is a 6x4 meter box with twelve chairs, a projector that only displays the color blue, and a podium bolted to the floor at a 7-degree tilt. A coffee ring stains the podium surface. The coffee ring is also on the ceiling.
Eleven miners sit in the chairs. One sits on a crate labeled “MEDICAL SUPPLIES — DO NOT STACK.” The crate is stacked under three other crates. A radio on the podium crackles with static and a faint voice repeating “—anyone seen my arm—”
Supervisor Barnaby “Barnacle” Crust enters from the left hatch. He carries a clipboard, three pens (none functional), and a manila folder labeled SHIFT 51 — PERSONNEL ASSIGNMENT — CONFIDENTIAL — DO NOT READ ALOUD — ESPECIALLY TO THE ASSIGNED.
He stands at the podium. He clears his throat. The projector turns blue.

[Survived Shifts: 0 | Time: 0342 | Daily Schedule: N/A | Hours Remaining Until Pickup: N/A | Location: All Personnel — HQ Briefing Room | Mode: Team Selection]
He adjusts the clipboard. It is upside down. He does not notice.
“Good morning, personnel. I am Supervisor Barnaby Crust. You may call me Supervisor Crust. You may not call me Barnacle. That name is reserved for personnel who have completed Shift 60, which is none of you, and never will be, because the current survival rate for Shift 50 is—”
He flips a page on the clipboard. The page is blank.
“—classified.”
He opens the manila folder. Inside is a second manila folder. Inside that is a sticky note that reads “just wing it — Mgmt.”
He does not acknowledge this.
“Shift 51. Three teams. Four miners each. I stay here. This is not a preference. This is policy. Policy states that a Supervisor must remain at HQ to coordinate. Coordination is defined as—”
He reads directly from the folder.
“—'the act of sitting at a desk and waiting for the phone to ring, then not answering it.' That is a direct quote from the NanoTrasen Operational Handbook, Section 14, Subsection C, Paragraph 9, which I wrote.”
He clears his throat. The projector flickers. It is still blue.
“Team assignments are as follows. These are final. Suggestions are not. Questions are not. Eye contact is discouraged but not yet prohibited.”
He squints at the folder.
“Team Alpha. Chief: 'Sparky' McZapp. Engineering. Grunts: Gwendolyn Plasma-Burn, 'Box' Bob Brown, and—”
He pauses. Looks up. Looks back down.
“—the new one. You. Whatever your name is. You're with Alpha.”
He moves on.
“Team Bravo. Chief: Dr. 'Stitches' O'Malley Bones. Medical. Grunts: Father 'Holy' Hank McPrayer, 'Toxic' Tammy Greenfinger, and 'Lucky' Pete Holloway. God help you all. That is not an assignment, that is an observation.”
“Team Charlie. Chief: 'Bang-Bang' Dakota Sixshooter. Security. Grunts: Dr. 'Quack' Quincy Feathersworth, 'Slick' Sylvia Vaseline, and 'Chatterbox' Charlie Radio-Freq. I am told this is a 'synergy decision.' I do not know what that means. I did not approve it. It is happening anyway.”
He closes the folder. Opens it again. Closes it.
“Your mining sites are as follows. Alpha: Derelict Station DG-7-Alpha, last decommissioned 14 years ago, last inspected never. Bravo: Asteroid Belt DG-7-Beta, mineral-rich, also rich in something the survey team described as 'aggressive local fauna.' They did not elaborate. Charlie: Asteroid DG-7-Gamma, a single asteroid approximately 3.2 kilometers in diameter with a hollow core. The hollow core is not on any map. Do not enter the hollow core.”
He straightens up. The podium creaks.
“Operational briefing follows. Listen carefully. I will not repeat it. I am physically incapable of repeating it because I did not write it and I do not understand it.”
He reads from a laminated card pulled from his breast pocket. The card is dated 2087.
“Section 1: Arrival Protocol. Upon arrival at your designated site, the team Chief will conduct a systems diagnostic. This diagnostic consists of turning on the lights. If the lights turn on, proceed to Section 2. If the lights do not turn on, proceed to Section 2 in the dark.”
“Section 2: Power Initialization. The Chief will locate the primary power source. This may be a nuclear fission reactor, a singularity engine, a solar array, or—per Shift 43's incident report—a large man named Doug who was somehow generating electricity. Doug has been terminated. Do not look for Doug.”
“Section 3: Atmospheric Activation. Activate the station's atmospheric systems. This requires the Chief to locate the air processor, insert the atmospheric control board, and press the button labeled 'AIR.' If the button is labeled something else, do not press it. If there is no button, do not press anything. If the air smells like strawberries, evacuate immediately. This is not a joke. This is the only thing in this briefing that is not a joke.”
“Section 4: Mining Operations. Extract minerals. Do not extract anything that is moving. Do not extract anything that is screaming. Do not extract anything labeled 'DO NOT EXTRACT.' If you are unsure whether something is a mineral, ask your Chief. If your Chief is dead, ask your PDA. If your PDA is dead, you are probably next.”
“Section 5: Communication. All personnel are issued a PDA and a radio headset. The radio has channels: Common, Engineering, Medical, Security, and Supply. Use Common for general communication. Use department channels for departmental communication. Do not use any channel to report your own death. This creates paperwork.”
“Section 6: Security Protocol. If you encounter an individual without proper ID, report them to Security. If you ARE Security and encounter an individual without proper ID, arrest them. If you are arrested and do not have proper ID, this is your fault. If you have proper ID and are arrested anyway, this is also your fault. NanoTrasen Security Protocol does not recognize the concept of 'wrongful arrest.'”
“Section 7: Hazard Protocol. In the event of a station-wide emergency—defined as any event that results in death, dismemberment, demonic summoning, atmospheric breach, AI malfunction, biological contamination, clown activity, or any situation where the lights go out and something that is not a person is standing in the doorway—follow these steps in order: One. Panic. Two. Radio for help. Three. If no help arrives, refer to Step One. Four. If you are still alive, you have completed the protocol. Congratulations.”
He puts the card away. It is crumpled. He does not smooth it.
“Departure is in 18 minutes. Transport shuttle Bay 3. Do not be late. Do not be early. Early arrival is a security violation. Late arrival is a termination event. The word 'termination' is used in both its meanings. This is also not a joke. This is the second thing in this briefing that is not a joke.”
He looks at the room. Eleven faces stare back. One of them is on a crate. The crate is labeled MEDICAL SUPPLIES. It is not medical supplies. It has never been medical supplies.
“Questions?”
He does not wait for an answer.
“There are no questions. Dismissed.”
He turns to leave. The podium tilts another 2 degrees. The projector turns off. The room goes dark. Someone in the back whispers.

[Say Charlie]: “Was that a briefing or a threat?”

[Say Gwen]: “Yup, good'ol corp pep talk.”