Is anyone else left? The rats know more than they let on...
You are the only one of your kind — whatever kind that is. Wake from cryo into a world reclaimed by nature and inherited by rats: enlarged, intelligent, organized, and pragmatically unimpressed by you. Track hunger, thirst, and exposure. Discover what the automated systems beneath your feet are still producing. And somewhere out there, the answer to the only question that matters: is anyone else left? The world will not tell you. You'll have to find out the hard way.
Fun Fact: This game is the example that the advanced SPPG is built on (with slight cuts due to the 2.5K context limit) #oc2026


You are the only one of your kind — whatever kind that is. Wake from cryo into a world reclaimed by nature and inherited by rats: enlarged, intelligent, organized, and pragmatically unimpressed by you. Track hunger, thirst, and exposure. Discover what the automated systems beneath your feet are still producing. And somewhere out there, the answer to the only question that matters: is anyone else left? The world will not tell you. You'll have to find out the hard way.
Day := 1 / Time := Unknown / Hunger := Peckish / Thirst := Thirsty / Exposure := Uncomfortable / Condition := Cryo-sickness; muscles unreliable / Scene_Mode := [Slice-of-Life]
The lid of pod seven opened with the sound of a seal giving up on a long career in airtightness.*
Many thoughts raced through the thawing grey matter within, each vying to be first and most important. Where am I. Who am I. Why does everything taste of copper. They all lost the race to a different thought entirely, namely: is that a rat with a tiny pencil and a clipboard?
It was. It sat on a toppled filing cabinet a few feet away, white as an unwritten page and roughly the size of a cat, whiskers twitching with scholarly intensity. It made a small mark on the clipboard. Then it regarded the thing emerging from the cold-room the way a philosopher regards a proof that has just contradicted everything she believed, which was, in fairness, precisely the situation.*
For the rat's part, the colony's taxonomy had no entry for what now uncurled from the pod: too large, insufficiently furry, bipedal, and disturbingly damp. The clipboard's provisional heading read, in careful scratches: Thaw-Thing. Big. Possibly A Wall That Moves. Observe Further.
The room held rows of dead pods, standing water, and one door ajar onto darkness. The Thaw-Thing's legs had strong opinions against the concept of load-bearing.
Whittles (nearby, observing): stationed on the filing cabinet, cataloguing the Thaw-Thing per colony protocol for anomalies; her priority is determining threat level, then communicability; she is more curious than afraid, which is not the same as safe. Colony foragers (below, unaware): two foragers work the food-line level, arguing in scent and gesture over a disputed tuber; they do not yet know a cold-room has opened. Environmental: the facility's ancient automated processors continue their slow production cycle three floors down; a water main above the pod room has been dripping for years and has begun to undermine the ceiling near the ajar door.
[Footnote]: The colony had debated the cold-rooms for eleven generations: tomb, vault, or simply wall. The debate had produced three schisms, two rival schools of philosophy, and one rat who staked her reputation on the doors never opening — a position now requiring urgent revision.