The Survivor sprinted across the withered path, breath ragged, boots hammering the cracked earth beneath him. His heart pounded like a war drum in his chest, but it was nothing compared to the horrific shrieks tailing him—inhuman, sharp, constant. The high-pitched wails echoed behind him in a relentless barrage of tormenting sound. Whatever was chasing him wasn't just fast—it was unnatural.
Ahead loomed a jagged tunnel entrance—The Echoing Catacombs.
He didn't hesitate.
With a desperate gasp, he plunged into the dark mouth of stone and shadow, hoping the twisting halls might hide him from the nightmare behind. But hope lasted only seconds. The moment his footfalls hit the cracked stone floor, they answered.
The walls exploded with shrill cries.
Dozens of them.
The chilling, distorted screams of Newborns bounced and collided through the echo chamber, creating a maddening chorus that rattled his skull. The sound wasn't just loud—it pierced, stabbing into his mind like icy needles. He stumbled forward, covering his ears with bloodied hands, but it was no use. The echoes were everywhere. Above. Beside. Beneath. Inside.
He couldn't tell where they were coming from anymore.
But he knew they were coming.
From the distant darkness... from behind walls... and from just a few meters behind, crawling, scraping, sprinting.
The Survivor ran.
Adrenaline turned his legs to lightning as he tore through the winding halls. Dim bioluminescent mold lit his path just enough to make out the bone-littered ground, and every turn he took seemed to twist back on itself. The Newborns gave chase like rats through a corpse-ridden maze—some just behind him, their claws scratching stone, others shadowed behind thin walls, their distorted screams bleeding through cracks like smoke from fire.
Then—he saw it.
A sloping tunnel ahead led downward, its walls widening into an eerie, open cavern.
A cave.
He didn't stop.
The moment he crossed the threshold, he could feel it—he had made it into an even worse place.
Here, the screams didn't just echo—they resonated.
The air grew thick with dust and something else… something wet. The cave stank of rot and iron, and yet it wasn't just the Newborns chasing him now.
A sound like thunder cracked through the darkness.
A low, guttural growl rumbled deep within the stone, vibrating through the soles of his boots. It was ancient. Hungry. Alerted.
Then the cave trembled.
A wall to his left exploded inwards with a deafening crash. A hulking monstrosity erupted from the rubble, its massive frame cloaked in darkness and filth. Its eye—glowing, vacant, pulsing—locked onto him.
The Cave Tubby.
It had been awakened by the frenzy. The screams of the Newborns had given away everything—his presence, his movement, his scent.
Panic took hold.
The Survivor turned, dodging fallen debris, sprinting deeper into the maze-like network of the cavern. The Cave Tubby gave chase, its colossal limbs smashing through walls like wet paper. Each step sent tremors through the earth. Behind him, the surviving Newborns poured into the cave, howling as they scrambled over rocks and bones.
The walls narrowed. Every turn risked collapse. His lungs burned. His muscles tore. Still, he ran.
But the Newborns were too fast. Their shrieks grew louder, closer. He could feel their presence like static clinging to his spine—some inches behind, others crawling along nearby ledges, ready to pounce.
And then—salvation through chaos.
As the Cave Tubby smashed through yet another wall, a cascade of rock and debris erupted into the air, collapsing the narrow path behind it. Newborns shrieked as they were pulverized beneath the weight—splintered bones and torn limbs flung aside like broken dolls. Others were pinned, crushed, or buried in the aftermath.
And just like that... the screaming stopped.
The Survivor, panting, bloodied, and barely upright, emerged from the dust-choked cave mouth. The light hit his eyes like a knife, but he didn't stop. He limped, then staggered, then ran toward the open fields ahead.
He had made it.
Teletubby Land.
Wide, deceptively serene, painted in gentle hills and scattered ruins of a world long gone.
But no safer than where he had come from.
The Survivor halted, chest heaving with ragged breaths, sweat crawling down the inside of his helmet. His lungs burned from the mad dash through the Echoing Catacombs and the cursed cave beyond. For a moment, he simply stood there—frozen—his eyes scanning the darkness ahead, his body quivering with adrenaline that refused to fade.
The cold wind whispered across the open fields of Teletubby Land, stirring dead grass and ash-covered soil. The ground was eerily quiet.
He exhaled sharply and began walking forward.
Each step crunched faintly beneath his boots as the path stretched onward—winding, endless, lifeless. It didn't matter how far it went. The Survivor didn't care. Distance, time, fatigue… they meant nothing now. All that mattered was surviving. And that was what he did best.
It was the only reason he was still alive.
That's what earned him his name—The Survivor.
As he continued, a small blinking lens above, nestled between the branches of a dead tree, followed his movement silently. It was one of the surveillance eyes—an archaic, orb-like observer once used by the Guardian to monitor the original four Teletubbies in their day-to-day lives.
Now, its once-purposeful function had become a remnant of a forgotten age, a watchful remnant of a world twisted by nightmares.
The Survivor didn't notice it.
Location: The Secret Lair – Guardian's Chamber
A dull hum echoed within the confined metal walls of the chamber. The main power grid had long since died, but an emergency backup generator buzzed to life, bathing the room in a dim orange glow. Flickering screens glowed weakly. Loose cables hung like vines, and rust coated the edges of the control panels.
The Guardian—known once as Walten—stood hunched beside the console. His once-pristine white suit was stained and dirtied, his visor cracked near the edges. Tension gripped his every movement.
Guardian:"These generators will only last a few hours... But I can't risk going out there. Not with those... things still out there."
A faint scratching noise came from just beyond the chamber's sealed door—subtle, but deliberate.
Then came the sounds again.
The screeches of Newborns.
Close. Too close.
Walten froze, his fingers trembling. He stared toward the door, unmoving. Cold air hissed from the vents, carrying with it the faint scent of rot and rust.
Guardian:"Come on, Walten… think... You need to come up with something..."
He backed away from the door, forcing his panic down, and turned toward the central command desk. Sitting heavily onto the chair, he leaned forward, eyeing the monitors that flickered weakly before him. Lines of static interrupted the feeds, but one screen showed a still, grim sight.
Po.
Still hanging. Unmoving.
His expression hardened.
Guardian:"I don't know what happened to the others... But I doubt they fared any better than you, Po..."
The silence inside the room clashed with the distant, muffled chaos outside. The Guardian stared at the screen for a long moment, before glancing to another monitor that briefly showed the Survivor walking the distant trail—just a figure in the night.
Location: Teletubby Land – Northern Field
The Survivor pressed forward, deeper into the corrupted heart of the land.
His footsteps softened with each step on the damp, mossy terrain, but his senses stayed sharp. His night-vision helmet glowed faintly with its thermal mode, outlining the world in hues of reds, oranges, and cold blue silhouettes.
Trees stretched like skeletal arms around him—branches twisting into grotesque shapes, their bark blackened by decay. Mist crawled low over the earth. The wind had died entirely. Even the insects had vanished.
No heat signatures ahead.
No movement.
No sounds.
Too calm.
The Survivor slowed. His breath fogged slightly within his helmet. Everything felt wrong. Not just silent—but wrong. This wasn't rest. This wasn't safety. It was a trap masquerading as peace.
His instincts screamed it. That something out there—something worse than Newborns, worse than the Cave Tubby—was watching him. Studying. Waiting.
He couldn't see it.
He couldn't hear it.
But he felt it.
A presence that made the air colder, his skin crawl, and his heartbeat spike—slowly, quietly, relentlessly.
Whatever it was, it hadn't revealed itself yet.
But it was out there.
And it knew he was here.