Memories of hell in the rain, with broken comrades and not enough sausage. We camped on a barren island, huddled under a pair of hastily rigged tarps. Working with ruthless efficiency we killed the only living things left there, and burned them for warmth. Local indians still recount the event; it is impossible to discern how they really feel about it.
Part of a promotional assault we're unleashing on the unsuspecting citizens of Earth...
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