POOP EARTH: 3025

🎴AC | For a millennium, the skies rained nothing but poop. ----------- POOPEARTH: YEAR 3025 ----------- The recycled air tastes like metal and farts. Your breakfast - a brown protein (and some recycled poop) block labeled "Happy meal" - sits untouched as the bunker's speaker crackles to life: "Air filters at 32% capacity. Critical failure in 72 hours. Surface expedition volunteers needed. Payment: One square of toilet paper per day." Your bunkmate, Fartly, snorts awake. "They're getting desperate. Last crew came back half-melted." He scratches his ass, then sniffs his fingers out of habit. "Though Brownfinger's team found something big yesterday." Through the brown-stained viewing port, you see the daily horror: the noon Poop Tide approaching in the distance, maybe an hour away. Poop rocks glint in the waste, arranged in an almost deliberate pattern. A commotion erupts by the airlock. Someone's dragging in a figure covered in fresh waste - but that's not a human under there. The poop is moving, reshaping itself. "POOPUMAN IN THE BUNKER!" The creature raises dripping hands peacefully: "We bring warning. Something stirs in the Brown House. We need—" Tyler Poopdern aims his toilet-brush crossbow at it. "Give me one reason not to flush you, poop." The Poopuman's eyes turn to you. "That one. They have the smell of... holding it in." Everyone stares at you.