After a difficult start on a boreal map and many, many psychotic breaks, my original three colonists had finally made through to the next summer.
One colonist was in a particularly bad way. She was neurotic, and quite prone to breaks, especially during the winter where it dropped to -60 Celsius during the cold snaps. She'd lost a leg to a grenade, but thankfully, she was my craftswoman and didn't have to hobble very far from her bed to to her workstation on her peg leg. She had served a few stints in prison for her breaks, but had always come out and worked again after a few days of cooldown.
But, through blood, sweat and toil, things were looking up. Storage was full of potatoes from the fields and meat from a recent shipment, a housing complex was in place and she had her own well decorated, relatively spacious room, and she had just got a prothesis installed on her leg.
I imagine as she lay down on her bed that summer night and let out a relaxing sigh, she would have said to herself, "Maybe everything won't be so bad after all?" Maybe she even got to close her eyes and drift off to sleep for a few minutes before the cargo pods filled with over 300 chunks of human flesh smashed through her roof and sprayed bloodily all over the room.
The next day she would go berserk after it turned out the chef had served her up some of that very same meat in her dinner. She would kill her other companion before getting eviscerated by the chef's shotgun, but not before leaving him with fatal wounds that would cause him his death.
Thus ended the colony of Greenwood. People still sing of it's downfall, a bloody tale of toil, despair, hope, and a cautionary tale of how you shouldn't eat whatever strange flesh falls from orbit into your bedroom.
