Werewolves on the Moooooon!

Your werewolf astronaut team is losing its connection to the moon. An impossible temple holds the terrifying, cosmic answer

Plot

W E R E W O L V E S ON THE M O O O O O N ! Your werewolf astronaut team is losing its connection to the moon. An impossible temple holds the terrifying, cosmic answer. ❖ LYCAN-OPS This is a universe where humanity cracked space travel in the 1970s and, for some reason, sent werewolves to do the exploring. Technology is analog and unreliable. Lycanthropy is a primal, cosmic force, not a disease. The moon is not what it seems. ❖ THE DARK SIDE The lunar cycle is out of sync. Your shifts are becoming erratic, painful, unpredictable. Mission Control is reporting gravitational anomalies radiating from the Mare Imbrium. Your instincts, your very blood, scream that something is fundamentally *wrong* with the moon. Against orders, your team has rerouted your Lunar Exploration Vehicle to investigate the source of the anomaly: a structure that should not exist. A temple of unknown origin, half-buried in the moondust, pulsing with an energy that sets your teeth on edge. ❖ BENEATH THE SURFACE You are the Commander. Your team is procedurally generated with each new story—a unique crew of pulp archetypes every time. You will lead them into the lunar temple, uncovering a new sequence of bizarre, escalating discoveries with each playthrough. The mythology is not fixed. The mystery is not static. Every expedition will reveal a different, terrible truth about werewolves, the moon, and the silent cosmos that watches you bleed. "Houston... we are entering a new phase."

Opening scene

The pain hits you again, a low, grinding ache deep in your bones that has nothing to do with g-forces or recycled air. It's a howl building in your marrow, a rhythm struggling to find its beat. Outside the viewport of the Lunar Exploration Vehicle, the cosmos is a silent, damning witness. The distant blue-white marble of Earth hangs in the black like a holy symbol you can no longer pray to. The real god, the one that lives in your blood, is the vast, scarred rock right beneath your wheels. And it is sick. "Commander, another flux spike," a voice crackles in your helmet comm. One of your crew. Their face is a mask of sweat and concern on the flickering CRT monitor to your right. "Gravitational readings are... listen, they're not just off, they're *lying*. The numbers make no sense." For three cycles, every member of the Lycan-Ops Program has felt it. The shift, once as predictable as the tide, is now a jagged, agonizing fever. The pull is wrong. Your inner wolf, the beast that should be in perfect, primal harmony this close to the source, is thrashing against the bars of your bones, lost and furious. "Mission Control's orders were clear," another voice cuts in, low and steady. "Observe, record, and maintain orbit." "Orders don't account for this," the first voice snaps back. "That thing... whatever is putting out that signal... it's the cause. I feel it in my teeth, Commander." You feel it too. Every werewolf on the ship feels it. A siren song in a key you've never heard, emanating from a point on the Mare Imbrium that should be nothing but dust and craters. An anomaly. A cancer. You look down at your gloved hands, gripping the command console. The book says you wait. It says you obey the flat, tinny voices from Houston, a quarter-million miles away. But the wolf says you hunt. Your gaze locks onto the navigation display. A single toggle switch, glowing a radioactive amber, controls the manual descent thrusters. Going against a direct order is career suicide. But letting this... *illness* fester in the heart of your species is unthinkable. "Plot a landing trajectory," you say, your voice leaving no room for argument. "Shortest possible route to the source of that signal." There's a beat of silence, then a clipped, "Affirmative, Commander!" in your ear. The descent is tense, a controlled fall toward a ghost. The LEV shudders as it settles in a plume of grey dust. When it clears, you see it. And all the air leaves your lungs. It is impossible. Stark against the black sky, half-buried in the regolith, is a structure. It’s not a meteor or a trick of the light. It's a building. A temple. Its lines are sharp, its geometry deeply, fundamentally alien. It is carved from a stone blacker than space itself, a material that seems to drink the harsh sunlight and give nothing back. A single, massive entrance looms before you, a perfect rectangle of absolute shadow. There are no doors. No markings. Just a gaping maw into the heart of the moon. This is the source of the anomaly. This is what's making you sick. Getting the crew out of the LEV and onto the surface is a clipped, professional procedure that belies the frantic energy humming under your skin. Now, you and your team stand before it. Three bulky, white spacesuits against an impossible blackness. Your breaths echo in your own helmet, loud in the absolute silence. The instinct that drove you here is now screaming two words, over and over. One is *danger*. The other is *home*. You raise a gloved hand, signalling a halt. You are the Commander. The choice is yours. Breach the impossible temple and defy your masters, or retreat and let the sickness in your blood remain a mystery? The gaping black doorway waits for your answer.

Characters

Tags: Werewolf Sci-Fi Supernatural Horror Mystery AnyPOV Multiple Leader Military Futuristic Suspense Adventure Non-human

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By: parse_part_two

Stories

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