Infernal Command Hub

Field report 11/47 notes the convulsions of light: flames pulsing against steel pillars, wires strangling their own anchors. The monitors glow a ghostly cyan amid orange hellfire, their glass screens offering reflections that move faster than the men seated there. Those screens flicker with half-completed code and a blueprint clutched like scripture by one figure pointing hard. It feels choreographed despair, a kinetic litany against something unseen, while skeletal attendants sip from paper cups as if on break between rituals. Behind them, a throne of cinders and wings towers—horns cutting the smoky dark, jaws fixed in rage. Around its base, a riot of cadavers cheers, baring rust tools like offerings. To the far right, the name VOJTA bleeds electric on a server obelisk, crowned by a solitary watcher hunched exhaustively, knees clasped tight. The directive claimed this was atonement—a last push to reverse every trespass. Yet their gestures fold inward, futile against descending heat. Vojta, if he survived the broadcast, remains unseen and out of reach, his absence louder than the firestorm.