GUN GOTHICA

One cathedral. One night. Three operators and your voice.
Something landed in a forest and went straight for the town cathedral. It didn't touch a single house on the way. There are civilians inside. You have four hours until anyone else gets here.
YOU COMMAND BY VOICE
You speak, they obey. No command wheel.
You place Alpha, Bravo and Charlie before the door opens.

You say who, where and when.

You ask who's still standing, and you call weapons free.

The game gets harder by taking away your time to speak, not by adding health to the enemy.
YOU DO THE SHOOTING
They hold angles and deny ground. Breaking the wave is on you.
Four weapons, one owner each. Alpha reaches whatever shoots from range. Bravo holds the funnel. Charlie breaks the heavy stuff. You carry the assault rifle and plug the gap.

Losing an operator doesn't cost you a third of your firepower. It costs you an answer.

Nothing regenerates. Not health, not ammo. Resupply stayed topside.

ONE DOOR, ONE WAVE
Nothing appears out of nowhere. Everything comes in through a mouth you can look at before it starts.
Wide door, floor grate, vault opening, well. The shape decides what comes through it.

The corridor behind it is all the warning you get. Short means they're on you before you finish the sentence.

YOU GO DOWN TO LOOK
Every door has a basement behind it, and you don't know which one advances the level until you go down.
Ammo to pay for the next arena.

The way to shut a door before it opens.

The parish register, the town's notes, the map from the team that went in ten minutes ahead of you. The deeper you go, the older the paper and the fresher the damage.

THE HOSTAGES WERE NEVER THE REASON
A work of fiction. The cathedral, the town, the diocese, the unit and its chain of command are invented. Any resemblance to real places, units or organizations is purely coincidental.