Afodave – The Whisperer (Snake Tribe)

Afodave was the kind of man whose silence filled more rooms than words ever could. Before the invasion, he worked as a linguistic analyst for Dominion’s communications bureau — a man who made his living by listening. While others heard chatter, Afodave heard patterns. To him, language wasn’t about what people said; it was about what they hid.

When the alien ships began their descent, the city’s networks screamed with panic — maydays, government broadcasts, intercepted frequencies. Amid the noise, Afodave found something that didn’t belong. A repeating tone buried deep within the static — mathematical, rhythmic, deliberate. It wasn’t human. It was them.

That discovery changed him. He left his post, vanishing into the undercity before the military could shut him down. When the survivors began to form tribes, it was Afodave who reached out from the shadows, guiding them with cryptic messages scrawled across broken terminals: “They listen through fear. Speak only in purpose.”

The Snake Tribe formed around his voice — or rather, his absence of one. He was their Whisperer, the strategist who never raised his tone above a murmur yet orchestrated entire movements across Dominion. His influence could be felt in the way information traveled — smooth, invisible, efficient. Every rumor, every secret, every unconfirmed sighting passed through Afodave’s unseen network.

He wore no uniform, no armor — only a dark coat woven with serpentine patterns that shimmered when the light hit them just right. His eyes were sharp, unblinking, and always searching for meaning. People said he could tell if someone was lying by the way they exhaled. They were right.

Afodave believed that survival wasn’t about strength — it was about understanding the mind of your enemy. He spent nights decoding alien signals, believing they weren’t just communication, but intention. “Every invasion begins with curiosity,” he said once. “Ours just started with the wrong kind.”

Few knew his past. Fewer dared ask. Some whispered that Afodave had once been part of the first contact response — that he’d met the invaders before the bombardment began. The way he spoke of them, not with hatred but with precision, made even his own tribe uneasy.

But his loyalty was unquestionable. When an alien patrol breached the Snake Tribe’s hideout, Afodave stayed behind, sealing the tunnels with a manual override. His last transmission to the others was a single sentence: “The quiet path is still open.” Minutes later, the patrol was gone — along with him. He returned three days later, untouched, carrying an alien data core in his bare hands.

Now, the Snake Tribe moves through Dominion like a rumor given flesh — unseen but everywhere. And at its center walks Afodave, whispering through comms, always a half-step ahead of extinction.

To the rest of Dominion, he’s a phantom.
To his tribe, he’s the voice that tells them what silence means.\

3kidsandkitty – The Informant (Snake Tribe)

Before the invasion, 3kidsandkitty was the kind of woman Dominion City whispered about but never truly knew. Her name first appeared in encrypted police chatter, tagged as a ghost in the city’s information trade — a data courier who knew too much about too many people. She was beautiful, disarming, and frighteningly aware of it. Every conversation she had was a negotiation, every smile a transaction.

She didn’t start out that way. Once, she’d been a journalist — one of the best in the Dominion Free Press — exposing corruption and power plays that made her enemies on every level of the city’s hierarchy. The more she uncovered, the deeper the threats became. So she did what few dared: she crossed the line between truth and survival. She stopped writing stories and started selling them.

When the aliens came, she adapted instantly. Information became the only currency worth anything. It wasn’t weapons or food that determined who lived — it was knowledge. 3kidsandkitty became the Snake Tribe’s eyes and ears, slipping between factions, listening to the whispers of every tribe, and feeding Afodave the patterns he needed to predict the enemy’s moves.

Her beauty was both armor and weapon. Beneath her dark hair and pale skin, her eyes carried the cold sharpness of someone who’d seen too much. Her lips, painted a deep crimson, rarely betrayed what she was thinking. She could charm soldiers into lowering their rifles and make leaders second-guess their own truths. But what made her dangerous wasn’t seduction — it was precision. She never spoke without reason.

She wore tight, high-tech snake armor — black with emerald veins of circuitry — custom-forged for stealth and infiltration. The armor was rumored to react to her pulse, tightening slightly when she lied, as if it too knew the cost of deception. Around her neck hung a charm made from alien glass, cracked but still faintly glowing — a trophy from her first close encounter with one of the invaders. She’d walked away from that fight, leaving nothing but silence behind her.

Despite her ruthlessness, 3kidsandkitty had one rule she never broke: no lies to her own. The Snake Tribe trusted her because, beneath her cunning, there was loyalty — fierce and unflinching. She never betrayed her people, even when she could have bought her freedom a hundred times over.

She and Afodave shared an unspoken bond — a professional tension built on mutual respect. He whispered strategies; she turned them into action. Together, they ran a web of misinformation so convincing that even the aliens struggled to distinguish truth from fiction.

When asked once why she risked her life gathering intelligence for a world already burning, she smiled faintly and said, “Because someone has to remember who we were before we started lying to survive.”

Mindblaster – The Manipulator (Snake Tribe)

Mindblaster wasn’t born with his name — he earned it. Before the invasion, he was a neurolinguistics programmer for Dominion Systems, a company that specialized in shaping behavior through subtle digital influence. He designed algorithms that could rewrite how people thought, persuading entire markets to change their habits without realizing it. The city called it marketing. Mindblaster called it art.

He lived for control — not of people’s bodies, but their thoughts. He could predict a decision six moves before someone made it, just by watching their micro-expressions, posture, or tone. His brilliance was intoxicating, and dangerous. Dominion rewarded him with power, until he discovered what the aliens had already learned: that humanity was just as programmable as code.

When the invasion began, the aliens didn’t just attack physically — they broadcast frequencies, patterns that invaded the human mind with static, confusion, and despair. Most people broke under it. Mindblaster didn’t. He studied it. He discovered that the frequencies weren’t random — they were a form of communication, designed to manipulate fear and submission.

The Snake Tribe found him in the ruins of the old corporate towers, surrounded by shattered monitors and flickering holograms. He had been decoding alien thought patterns using the remnants of Dominion’s data network, tracking how the invaders thought, not how they moved. When Afodave heard what he was doing, he recruited him immediately.

Mindblaster became the Snake Tribe’s mental architect — the man who turned thought into weaponry. He built psychological warfare strategies that could collapse enemy patrols without a single shot fired. Using hacked alien tech, he created “mirror signals” — transmissions that reflected the aliens’ control waves back at them, disorienting their drones and sowing confusion among their ranks.

He wore sleek, reflective armor, pitch black with a faint emerald sheen that pulsed like a heartbeat when his devices were active. His eyes, once warm, had grown colder, almost metallic in focus. When he worked, holographic projections spun around him — a symphony of sound and light translating fear into data.

But beneath the genius was isolation. Mindblaster trusted no one fully, not even Afodave. He saw manipulation in every gesture, every promise. He often spoke in riddles, as if testing those around him. Yet, 3kidsandkitty once said he was “the only man who could lie so beautifully it sounded like truth.”

He wasn’t driven by survival — he was driven by curiosity. He wanted to understand the aliens’ consciousness, to break open the code of their hive mind and see what lay beyond comprehension. “Control,” he said once, “isn’t about dominance. It’s about prediction. If you can predict your enemy, you’ve already won.”

There are rumors within the Snake Tribe that Mindblaster once intercepted a direct alien transmission — a message meant for their commanders — and instead of deleting it, he responded. No one knows what he said, or if they replied. But sometimes, late at night, his equipment hums faintly with a voice that isn’t human, and Mindblaster just smiles.

Guccimane – The Broker (Snake Tribe)

If the Snake Tribe had a pulse, it beat in Guccimane’s veins. He wasn’t the kind of survivor who hid in shadows or vanished behind encrypted channels — he thrived in chaos. Before the invasion, he was one of Dominion City’s most well-connected street operators — a middleman who could turn a secret into currency faster than any system alive. He brokered everything from tech parts to stolen intel, always finding a way to profit without leaving fingerprints.

When the world fell, Guccimane didn’t panic. He adapted. The old power structures collapsed overnight, and suddenly, information wasn’t just valuable — it was life itself. The Shark Tribe had muscle. The Falcons had honor. The Foxes had strategy. But Guccimane had leverage. He became the Snake Tribe’s Broker, the man who could trade with any faction, manipulate any market, and make enemies fund their own downfall.

He wore style like armor — clean tactical gear with snake-scale textures and an emerald sheen that shimmered under Dominion’s poisoned skies. His eyes never stopped moving, scanning for patterns, angles, or tells. The faint smile on his lips was the kind of calm that made even armed men hesitate. His voice carried rhythm — confident, deliberate, as if every word had been weighed and priced before leaving his mouth.

Guccimane operated from what the Snake Tribe called The Den — a hidden command hub carved into the lower levels of Dominion’s central bank. There, surrounded by flickering holograms and cracked monitors, he rebuilt the city’s underground economy. He tracked rations, weapon stockpiles, and troop movement like financial ledgers. Every tribe owed him something — food, credits, or secrets.

But what made him truly dangerous wasn’t his power — it was his restraint. Guccimane didn’t deal in lies. He dealt in truth, sold selectively. He believed deception lost its value the moment it became predictable. “Truth,” he once told Mindblaster, “is the most expensive currency. Because once you spend it, it can’t be earned back.”

Despite his cool composure, Guccimane carried a personal vendetta. His younger brother had been conscripted by Dominion’s defense corps just weeks before the invasion and never returned from the first encounter. Rumor had it the aliens took him alive — and Guccimane’s empire of information was, at its core, a search mission disguised as power. Every coded deal, every intercepted transmission, brought him closer to finding out what really happened.

He often collaborated with 3kidsandkitty on infiltration operations, using her fieldwork and charm to open doors he could turn into networks. Together, they formed one of the most effective espionage duos in the post-Dominion world — the whisper and the echo.

Now, when the city trembles under alien light, Guccimane’s name circulates through every campfire and comm channel. Some call him a traitor, others a savior. But in the underworld of Dominion, one truth remains universal — if you want something done, you go through the Broker.