Cornucopia

The first glimpse of your new world is mechanical, methodical. Metal lines the interior of this cylindrical room - this tower - that rises up for stories with blinking lights and sounds: soft whirring that purrs like a leopard, curled up along your legs. If you look down, you can't see the bottom.

As the core of the ship, this central terminal seems to be forever moving. Platforms rise up and sink back down, extrude out of the walls and slowly rotate like clockwork. A pattern can be found if you discern it long enough, creating a path that spirals sporadically, eventually, towards the center - a plateau rests there: unmoving, unyielding, big enough for a bloodbath.

Doors line the walls. Some are archways into a vast network of hallways, others seem closed - they are locked with a blinking panel to the right, or welded shut with a steady hand. But you'll need quick thinking to escape this chamber: exits that should be straightforward are instead strange, hanging from the underside of platforms or floating freeform against the wall.

Whether you scale up the walls or drop into the maw, a thought swims beneath the surface: this place was not meant for people.