BlackHeart Biohazards

An interactive second-person romance adventure. You wake up with amnesia in a strange twilight city, and find yourself embroiled in a mysterious war, having fallen in with a number of strange and dangerous men.

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You wake up to the sound of grinding chains and tick, tick ticking gears so loud and omnipresent that you aren’t sure that they aren’t coming from inside you.

Your brow furrows as your consciousness returns. You’re struggling to remember where you are, how you might have gotten there, but your memories offer only a great yawning void of wrongness. This is not where you went to sleep, that’s all you can remember for certain.

You’re laying on something soft, and comfortable, at least. A bed?

Only one way to find out.

As you open your eyes there’s the sound of a gunshot that cracks through the overwhelming noise of  ticking and grinding and it makes your heart jump.

You’re in a wide, round chamber with stone walls that seems to be inlaid with the huge chains and gears that are providing the strange background noise. The only furniture in the room is the plush bed that you’re just now sitting up in, and its lacy sheets beneath you.

There’s a single, large window on the far side of the room from you, with no glass in its frame.

Standing in front of the window with his back to you is a tall, lean figure with broad shoulders and long, dark hair. He turns around to face you and the sound of your racing heartbeat joins the cacophony in your ears.

The man is holding an old, long barreled rifle in his gloved hands. He’s wearing boots and dark slacks, and a vest with a button up shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks every inch a criminal, or assassin, but that is far from the most startling thing about him.

His skin is a dark shimmering blue color, and his eyes are two black spots in seas of deep gold, while his lips are jet black with a lit cigarette hanging  between them. A pair of black horns curl from out of his hair, framing his head like a crown.

He stares at you as you see him, and his dark lips curl into a  kind of sneer, exposing his fang-like teeth. He shifts his grip on the rifle to hold it one arm over his shoulder, and takes the cigarette out of his mouth, holding it between gloved fingers.

“Do you know how rude it is of you to wake up now?” he demands in a low, pointed voice. “What a pain.”

He takes a step toward you.

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