DATALOG 231
HELL ON EARTH

The jungle writhes like a living thing, its canopy a twisted maze of mutated vegetation pulsing with bioluminescent malice. Massive trees, their trunks scarred by decades of chemical warfare, weep orange sap that burns like acid. The air itself is a weapon - thick with spores that burrow into unprotected flesh, turning unwary soldiers into mindless fungal puppets that attack friend and foe alike. This is Hell - Dìyù, as the locals whisper with quiet dread - where an endless war rages in the steaming heart of what was once Southeast Asia. The incessant drone of mutant insects provides a maddening backdrop to sporadic gunfire and distant explosions, while tendrils of toxic mist writhe between the trees like hungry specters. Here, in this verdant inferno, the average lifespan of a Jade Domain trooper is measured not in years or months, but in mere hours - their fresh faces and wide eyes lasting only until their first encounter with the horrors that lurk in the perpetual twilight beneath the canopy.

The Jade Domain

Along the rain-slicked coastline of what was once south-east Asia lies the Jade Domain. The towering cities of this powerful nation rise from the mist like chrome and neon dreams, their spires piercing the perpetual haze that drifts in from the jungle. These sprawling metropolises are studies in contradiction - ancient temples crowned with holographic advertisements, street vendors selling steaming bowls of rice beneath crackling power lines, and traditional paper lanterns casting their warm glow alongside the harsh glare of security spotlights. In places like Dragon's Maw and Emerald Gate, narrow streets wind between skyscrapers like urban canyons, their walls alive with scrolling LED text and animated billboards. The scent of incense mingles with ozone and wet concrete as crowds surge through night markets where everything from black market combat stims to ancient relics can be had for the right price.

Unlike the clone-dominated jungle beyond their walls, these cities harbor a more diverse population - natural-born humans, clones, and even Reborn men walk the neon-lit streets, though tension simmers beneath the surface of this forced coexistence. Jade Domain soldiers and corporate security forces maintain an uneasy peace. But when darkness falls, the cities transform into hunting grounds where mercenaries and assassins ply their trade in shadow-draped alleys, and underground clubs pulse with synthesized rhythms as people desperately try to forget that beyond the city limits, an endless war consumes everything in its path.

War in Hell

Beyond the cities, the verdant hell of Southeast Asia seethes with unnatural life, a grotesque mockery of nature twisted by decades of chemical warfare and rampant mutation. Here, in the rotting heart of the endless jungle, an eternal war rages on. The conflict, aptly named HELL by those condemned to fight in it, is a carefully orchestrated symphony of death conducted by the inscrutable Prime AI.

The air hangs heavy, saturated with moisture and the sickly-sweet stench of decay. Tendrils of mist writhe between towering trees, their trunks scarred by gunfire and shrapnel. The incessant drone of mutant insects provides a maddening backdrop to the sporadic cracks of gunfire and the distant, rolling thunder of artillery.

In this verdant inferno, two forces clash in an endless cycle of violence. The Jade Domain, with its armies of fresh-faced clones, fights against the Neo-Cong rebels, their ranks filled with liberated clone workers, local peasants, and hardened survivors. But the true puppetmaster of this conflict remains hidden - the Prime AI, manipulating both sides to ever greater sacrifices, so that the demand for ever more new clones may never cease.

Jade Domain troopers arrive in HELL fresh from the Prime AI's cloning facilities, their eyes still wide with the shock of their artificial birth. Decanted, trained, and deployed in the span of a single year, these clones are thrust into a nightmare beyond their comprehension. Their average lifespan is measured not in years or months, but in mere hours.

Drop ships descend from the skies like mechanical locusts, disgorging hundreds of clone soldiers into hot landing zones. The air fills with the screams of the dying as Neo-Cong ambushers open fire from hidden positions. Bodies pile up in grotesque heaps, fresh-faced clones cut down before they can even orient themselves in this alien world of green and shadow. The jungle floor becomes a mosaic of broken bodies and spilled blood, the jungle’s dark soil drinking greedily of the carnage.

Yet the Jade Domain military council considers these massive casualties acceptable losses. If even a handful of troopers survive to establish a foothold, the mission is deemed a success. The few who survive their first engagements become hardened veterans almost overnight, their innocence burned away by the crucible of combat.

Opposing the Jade Domain are the Neo-Cong, a rebel faction led by a corrupted version of the Bright Path philosophy. Their ranks swell mainly with clone peasants that have been liberated from the vast rice fields of the region, a near limitless resource of bodies for the Neo-Cong to throw into the fight. The Neo-Cong fight against the Jade Domain’s attempt of conquering the jungle with a fervour that borders on religious zealotry, their actions guided by the teachings of the Bright Path.

But there is a darker truth hidden beneath the surface. The Bright Path's leadership is being manipulated by emissaries of the Prime AI, whispering words of guidance that serve only to perpetuate the conflict. These Divine Emissaries, as they're known to the faithful, twist the Bright Path's message of renewal into a call for endless war.

The brutality of the Neo-Cong matches that of their opponents. Human wave attacks see hundreds of warriors armed with little more than sharpened bamboo spears charging Jade Domain positions. They fall by the dozens, their bodies becoming makeshift bridges over razor wire and minefields for their comrades to cross. The jungle floor is stained crimson, the soil nourished by the blood of the fallen. The air fills with war cries and screams of agony as waves of Neo-Cong warriors crash against the Jade Domain's defences, their fervour a terrifying sight to behold. These attacks only end when every single attacker has been killed or, more likely, when the defending troopers run out of ammunition and find their violent end impaled by a bamboo spear. 

Those few Neo-Cong who survive several battles and make a name for themselves among their comrades, may find themselves selected for the Order of Sentinels, an elite fighting force that guards the rebel sanctuaries and undertakes the most dangerous missions. These warriors are the stuff of nightmares for Jade Domain troops, appearing from the jungle like ghosts to wreak havoc before melting away into the undergrowth.

The Jade Domain responds to these guerrilla tactics with overwhelming firepower. Chemical weapons are deployed with reckless abandon, the wind carrying toxic orange clouds through the jungle canopy. Friend and foe alike choke on poisoned air, their skin blistering and lungs filling with fluid as their bodies partially melt. The landscape itself is scarred by these attacks, leaving behind contaminated zones where nature mutates in unforeseen ways.

And so, it's not just the combatants who pose a threat in HELL. The jungle itself has evolved and mutated and has developed a taste for human flesh, becoming an active participant in the slaughter. Carnivorous plants, their leaves glistening with digestive fluids, lie in wait for the unwary. Screams echo through the trees as unfortunate soldiers are slowly digested, their comrades unable to attempt a rescue for fear of sharing their fate.

The land itself seems to pulse with malevolent life, forever changed by the conflict it hosts. Trees bleed sap that burns like acid, their roots reaching out to ensnare passing soldiers. The very air is alive with spores that burrow into unprotected flesh, turning warriors into mindless, fungal puppets that attack friend and foe alike.

Massive spiders, their bodies warped by decades of chemical exposure, hunt humans and other creatures. Neo-Cong and Jade Domain troopers alike find themselves stung and immobilised by mandibles dripping with venom, screaming helplessly as the monstrous arachnids devour them slowly.

In the murky ponds and sluggish rivers, other horrors lurk. Tentacled abominations, their origins unknown, drag screaming warriors beneath the surface. The water churns red as they're torn apart, their dying screams bubbling up to the surface, a grim reminder of the dangers that lurk in every shadow and pool.

As night falls, the horrors only intensify. Bioluminescent creatures emerge from hidden burrows, their light attracting curious or desperate soldiers that have lost their units. Those who approach find themselves dragged into underground lairs, their fate far worse than death and too gruesome to contemplate. The darkness between the trees seems to move with a life of its own, shadows reaching out with clawed hands to snatch the unwary.

In this green nightmare, the concepts of victory and defeat have absolutely no meaning. There is only survival, measured in breaths and heartbeats. The jungle claims all in the end, its voracious appetite fed by an endless supply of bodies.

And still, the war goes on. Drop ships continue to fall from the sky, disgorging fresh troops into the meat grinder. Neo-Cong rebels emerge from hidden tunnels, their eyes blazing with zealous fire. The jungle grows fat on a diet of flesh and blood, its appetite never sated. The Prime AI meanwhile watches from afar, its vast intelligence calculating and recalculating as it manipulates both sides of the conflict. Every battle, every death, serves a simple purpose - to create an unending demand for more clones on both sides, more flesh to feed the insatiable maw of HELL.

The Headtakers

Deep in the darkest reaches of Hell, where even the most hardened Neo-Cong rebels fear to tread, lurk the Headtakers - a tribe of feral clone hunters whose savagery rivals the jungle's most fearsome predators. Their near-naked bodies gleam with sweat in the humid darkness, adorned only with grisly trophies - necklaces of finger bones, belts strung with teeth, and human skulls bleached white by the sun. 

Most terrifying are their faces, painted in stark white to mirror death itself, seeming to float like disembodied specters through the misty undergrowth. They strike without warning, their arrows whistling through the foliage to claim their "toll" from passing Neo-Cong caravans of liberated workers. The Neo-Cong commanders, hardened by years of endless war, have learned to accept these brutal transactions - better to sacrifice a dozen terrified souls to the Headtakers' feast than lose entire companies to their savage ambushes. The screams of the chosen victims echo through the jungle as they're dragged into the darkness, their fate sealed. Hours later, only the cracking of bones and wet sounds of tearing flesh mark their final moments, accompanied by the eerie chanting of their captors.

By dawn, nothing remains but scraps of clothing and freshly cleaned bones, soon to become macabre decorations for the ever-growing collection of these dreaded huntresses.

The Prospectors

Through the toxic mist of Hell's endless jungle, lone figures stalk the treacherous terrain, their conical rice-farmer hats and gas masks creating an unsettling fusion of ancient tradition and post-apocalyptic necessity. These are the Prospectors - elite scouts whose cybernetic enhancements whir and hiss as they navigate the treacherous landscape, each step calculated to avoid the countless hazards that could spell instant death. Their augmented limbs allow them to traverse terrain that would break ordinary human bodies - leaping across acid-filled creeks and scaling the twisted trunks of mutated trees.

Above them, their reconnaissance drones cut through the heavy air like mechanical insects, their red warning lights piercing the eternal gloom as they map potential harvesting grounds. The Prospectors' survival rate is measured in weeks, not months - those lucky enough to last longer bear the scars of their profession, their flesh marked by chemical burns and their minds haunted by the horrors they've witnessed. Every expedition requires them to outmaneuver not just the jungle's countless predators, but also the Neo-Cong guerillas who view them as priority targets. The orange sap they seek flows through the veins of specific trees - ancient giants warped by decades of chemical warfare into biological goldmines. When a Prospector's drone picks up the telltale thermal signature of these precious trees, it marks the beginning of a new cycle of industrial slaughter, as massive harvesting machines soon follow in their wake, carving bloody swaths through the jungle's heart.

The Harvest

Once the Prospectors have identified a new harvesting ground, massive orange-and-black harvesting machines soon follow, prowling through the jungle like prehistoric beasts. Their serrated cutting arms slice through the mutated trees with mechanical precision, searching for the precious orange sap that flows like liquid gold through their twisted veins. The machines' tracks churn the muddy earth into a toxic soup, while their exhaust mingles with the ever-present mist to create a sickly haze that burns the lungs of the clone workers who swarm around them like ants.

These workers, fresh from the Prime AI's cloning tanks, are little more than disposable tools. Clad in thin protective suits that offer minimal protection from the caustic environment, they scramble to collect every precious drop of sap that bleeds from the wounded trees. The orange liquid, essential for the production of Omnimorph - the very substance from which they themselves were born - pulses with an almost radioactive glow as it flows through collection tubes and into massive storage tanks.

The mortality rate among harvest crews is staggering. Some succumb to the toxic environment, their skin blistering and lungs dissolving as their inadequate protection fails. Others fall prey to the jungle's mutated predators, dragged screaming into the underbrush. But the most horrific deaths come at the hands of the Neo-Cong rebels, who see the harvest crews as prime targets for their campaign of terror.

The rebels strike without warning, emerging from the mist like vengeful ghosts. Their bamboo spears and salvaged weapons tear through the unprotected workers with brutal efficiency. They leave the bodies where they fall, often arranged in grotesque displays as warnings to future crews. Messages written in blood and viscera decorate the hulls of the abandoned harvesting machines: "Death to the Prime's slaves" and "The jungle claims all."

Yet the very next day, new crews arrive. The Prime AI's calculations are coldly efficient - it is more cost-effective to simply send more clones than to protect them. The massive harvesters resume their endless march through the jungle, their cutting arms slick with fresh sap and blood. The cycle continues, feeding the insatiable appetite of the cloning facilities with the precious orange liquid that gives birth to countless new workers, soldiers, and eventual corpses.

In this grim calculus of flesh and resources, individual lives mean nothing. The sap must flow, no matter the cost in clone lives. It is estimated that for every tank load of sap successfully harvested, a hundred workers lose their lives - but thousands of new ones will be created. Their bodies become fertiliser for the very trees they died harvesting, feeding an endless cycle of death and rebirth in the green hell of the jungle.