
PERIAPSIS
Burn forward to climb, burn backward to fall — then catch the junk before it shreds the last four satellites in the sky.
Hot first. Filters live in the URL, so any view you land on is a link you can send someone.

Burn forward to climb, burn backward to fall — then catch the junk before it shreds the last four satellites in the sky.

Every point comes from flying close to the thing that kills you — and none of it is yours until the canopy opens.

The kite is bait. The string is the knife. Whoever's line slides faster does the cutting — so tug until yours screams.

The clock rewinds every 24 seconds. The vermin come back. So do you — all of you.


Sticks and stones are no use here. An eight-letter word, though — that's artillery.

Anyone can knock a tower down. Dropping it between two untouched neighbors — that's the job. Set your delays and send the plunger.

Thick ice stops you dead. Back astern down your own channel and ram it again — before it refreezes over your convoy.

Nothing bursts when you press the button. The big shells climb for three seconds — you're always playing a beat that hasn't arrived yet.

Any idiot can knock a building down. You're being paid to leave the chapel standing.

Your shots are duds until they kiss a cushion — the only lethal ball is the one that missed first. Bank deeper, hit harder.

One button, five dusk lakes. Tap the exact moment stone kisses water, or the lake keeps it — and whatever you do, don't splash the ducks.

Move your cursor like a predator: slowly. Twelve frames, one golden hour, and everything in the marsh can hear your hand.