Afterburn

Currently in production. Feel free to walk around, explore the places, but please be aware that there is no fully playable story yet and things are still incomplete or broken. 

"Synthwave beats, the need for speed, and roaring jet engines— Afterburn is a high-octane love letter to Top Gun and aviation, following the story of Morphoice, a reckless young Navy pilot with a devil-may-care attitude, who finds himself dangerously drawn to his no-nonsense flight instructor, Aurora. But Morphoice is never alone in the cockpit: his quick-witted RIO, Strike Eagle has his back, when things get wild. Always cracking jokes, keeping him sharp, and watching over him. Together, they are unstoppable, through thunder and smoke!"

Inspired by real-life people, Afterburn was born during the filming of the music video for Morphoice’s upcoming third album, Afterburn—a synthwave-fueled adrenaline rush currently in production, featuring Strike Eagle, Syst3m Glitch, Micromatscenes and many more famous Synthwave artists. All songs from the album will be featured as chiptune versions on the Gameboy and the game packs many easter eggs from the production.

The Pacific swallowed the sun whole.

Gold and purple bled across the deck of the carrier, slipping between the boots of deck crews, streaking on the wet steel where jet fuel and salt water had mixed into a film that never dried. The air smelled like kerosene, metal, and steam venting from the catapult tracks—the smell of a world that burned things for a living, the smell that got into your flight suit, your hair, your skin, and never came out. Heatwaves bent the light above the catapults. Two Tomcats knelt ready, canopies down, engines spooling up, waiting. The third was already in line when the blast shields came up.

The afterburners lit. Blue diamonds of flame crackled from the exhaust nozzles, and the sound hit your teeth before you heard it in your ears. The shooter dropped to one knee, briefly touched the deck, then slashed his arm at the horizon. The catapults fired. The Tomcats vanished off the bow in less than two seconds, punching trails of heat into the dusk. The deck crew didn’t flinch. They were already hooking up the next one.

Morphoice walked the deck with his helmet under his arm, flight suit zipped to the throat, aviators on against the dying light. The few steps to his plane felt like a mile. Strike Eagle matched his pace, quiet for once in his life—and that said everything.

Behind them, the cat fired again. The sound rolled across the deck like thunder—steel and steam and twenty tons of aircraft hurled into the sky. Morphoice didn’t turn. He kept walking.

A mechanic looked up from the tie-down chains and nodded. Not a salute—a nod. The kind you give the guy who broke every record on the board and never once apologized for it.

Morphoice nodded back. His jet sat at the end of the line. Dagger One. Their names stenciled below the canopy rail in block letters—LT MARC MITCHELL “MORPHOICE” and LT GRAHAM WALLER “STRIKE EAGLE”.

Laurent stood at the ladder, clipboard in hand, hydraulic fluid on his hands, bloodshot eyes, and the quiet devotion of a man whose entire world was this one aircraft. He’d checked every bolt twice. He always did.

Morphoice should’ve been running checklists. Weapons loadout. Fuel state. The brief from an hour ago—coordinates, threat axes, egress routes, all of it branded into his memory. He knew the mission cold. He’d flown it in his sleep for three nights straight.

But his head wasn’t in the cockpit yet.

Her face. That’s where his head was.

The way she’d looked at him that last morning on the pier. Wind pulling her hair sideways, one hand shielding her eyes from the sun. She hadn’t cried. She was too strong for that, too stubborn, too much her. But her jaw was set the way it got when she was holding something back, and her fingers had gripped his flight suit so hard her knuckles turned white.

Come back in one piece.

Not the plane. Him.

He’d kissed her forehead. Breathed her in—salt, warmth, and something underneath that was just her.

Since then—grey steel and jet fuel. Three hours of sleep a night. A photograph of her taped inside his locker, edges curling in the humidity. Her smile frozen in Polaroid light. He’d pressed his thumb over her face so many times the color was starting to wear off.

Morph grabbed the ladder rail and climbed, swung his leg over the canopy rail, and dropped into the pilot seat. The cockpit wrapped around him. He plugged in his oxygen mask, connected the G-suit hose, and ran his hands across the instrument panel the way a pianist touches keys before the first note.

Behind him, Strike settled into the back seat, hands already on the radar scope. The canopy actuator whined. Glass came down and sealed them in, and the world outside went muffled.

“You good?” Strike’s voice crackled through the intercom.

Morphoice stared through the HUD at the horizon—that razor edge where the ocean met the sky, burning copper and violet, the last light the day would give. Shadows stretched long across the deck. Heatwaves shimmered in the dark spaces between the aircraft.

Somewhere past that line, the mission waited. MiGs. Radar locks. The ugly math of one wrong call. 

And a thousand miles behind him, she was on her porch with the cat in her lap, watching the same sun disappear, wondering if he could see it too.

He thought about her smile. The way it started slow, just the left corner of her mouth, like she was deciding whether you’d earned it. He’d carried that smile across an ocean. Carried it into a cockpit built for war.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good.”

The launch bar locked into the catapult shuttle. Steam curled from the track. The afterburners lit. Twin Pratt & Whitneys roared to life, twenty thousand pounds of thrust per side, the whole airframe shaking like a caged animal, straining against the holdback, ready to be unleashed.

The shooter dropped to one knee, touched the deck again, then threw his hand at the sunset.

Three seconds.

Strike’s breathing settled in the intercom. Morphoice pressed his helmet back against the headrest. Took one deep breath.

Live for the moment and the light.

The catapult fired.