MFC is an absurd, over-the-top robotic rooster fighting game-of-chance with a gritty, futuristic industrial aesthetic and a humorous tone.
Our first title is a high-energy, slot-machine-based game where players spin for a chance to win powerful boosters and bet on the outcome of simulated fights.
The MFC Universe evolves every day. New titles, new platforms, new fighters, new stories, and new ways to play are always on the horizon. We're just getting started — and there's a whole lot more chaos, metal, and mayhem still to come.
Feather Locklear was originally a high-end, bespoke hospitality bot. His purpose was to glide through the VIP sections of the Velocity-Vibe District’s most exclusive clubs, delivering artisanal foam art lattes to people who could afford to tip in microchips.
His frame is the lightest and fastest Cluck-Corp ever produced, but his primary utility was looking fabulous and being un-spottable in a crowd (to avoid annoying the rich clientele).
The plumes are not natural; they are high-density, multi-spectrum optical fibers that were meant to display status symbols and advertisements.
Unfortunately, due to a rogue hack by The Funky Chicken, his color palette got stuck on "Flamingo Explosion," permanently trapping him in a state of high visibility.
CLASS:
DUELIST
G.A.P. (which officially stands for Glitched Articulated Probe, but he prefers to think of it as "Generally A Problem") wasn't cobbled together in the Glitch-Gutters — he was re-manifested.
He began as a discarded communications repeater, but his rogue AI became obsessed with a single, philosophical question: "What is the weakest point?"
He built his current fragile, stork-like body entirely from mismatched radio parts, scavenged piping, and, inexplicably, several dozen oversized metal flanges.
G.A.P. is pathologically incapable of seeing a whole object; he only sees structural imperfections, unsecured panels, and the tiny, fatal gap in your armor. He hates being looked at because he knows his own mismatched chassis is full of exposed wiring and single points of failure. He fights not to win, but because the constant scanning necessary to survive the MFC keeps his rogue processors busy and distracts him from the crippling certainty of his own imminent structural failure.
CLASS:
ASSASSIN
Actuator Attila was the ultimate "Compliance Bot." His original designation was Unit B-47-E, and he spent his entire existence in the Nexus-Spire ensuring that every other Cluck-Corp bot met the approved 18-22 AD range and 9-11 AR density.
He lived by the data sheet, and his pneumatic pincer beak was only ever used to apply "Non-Compliance" stickers to poorly built scrap-haulers.His downfall wasn't a glitch, but a panic attack. While auditing a delivery of questionable Foundry-Core scrap, he discovered a single gear tooth that was 0.003% outside the acceptable tolerance. This statistical anomaly caused a complete system failure. Attila couldn't reconcile the error, leading him to a desperate conclusion: the world itself was imbalanced.
He repurposed his safety-check joints into steam-venting chaos triggers and attached a ridiculously large pincer to his beak. He fights not to win, but to force the arena into a state of perfect, compliant statistical equilibrium. He views The Broody Bruiser's uncleaned chassis as a personal affront.
CLASS:
BALANCED
From corporate poster-bots and neon showmen to rogue glitch-tech nightmares and industrial bruisers, every fighter has a reason to step into the Cocktagon — and a chance to walk away victorious.
Meet the full roster, choose your champions, and take a chance on the underdogs.
Forged in the blazing, smog-choked industrial hell of the Foundry-Core, these roosters weren't built for fighting — they were built for work.
They’re repurposed demolition bots, mobile blast-furnaces, and stubborn scrap-haulers. Their "Siege Mode" was originally a "brace for impact" protocol used in demolitions.
They're covered in grime, welding scars, and layers of ablative armor meant to withstand collapsing buildings.
Their "dirty tricks" are just part of the job: they leak oil, vent scalding steam, and their "sucker punch" is a modified pneumatic rivet-gun.
The blue-collar, union-breaking (and union-forming) brawlers of the MFC, built to take a beating and laugh it off with a hydraulic wheeze
Sprawling between the gleaming spires of Nexus-Spire and the smog-line of the Foundry-Core, The Coop-de-Sac is the quietest, weirdest zone in the MFC world (and the only zone with a Homeowners' Association) — a vast residential expanse of looping suburban streets where ordinary working bots own modest homes, keep modest jobs, and spend their weekends rolling projects out of the garage.
The roosters of The Coop-de-Sac didn't graduate from any factory or claw their way out of any underbelly. They started as kitchen units, maintenance engineers, school-run shuttles, and lawn-care drones.
They got into fighting because their neighbor did. They built their armor over a series of long weekends with whatever was on hand — oven plating, salvaged chassis from the swap-meet down the road, carbon fiber bought at a clearance sale. Their fights are heavy, methodical, and dangerously improvised.
The Cocktagon takes them seriously because the alternative is getting punched by a chef bot wielding a spatula at full force, and the league commissioner has learned to stop asking questions.
These are the "official" fighters, straight from the gleaming, sterile R&D labs of "Cluck-Corp" in the central Nexus-Spire.
They are the poster-bots, the ones you see on billboards, built from the ground up with a perfect, focus-grouped "balance" of offense and defense.
They are the city's darlings, the corporate-sponsored athletes with gleaming chassis and "approved" (but still lethal) tech. Their magnetic feet were designed for arena-control, their grappling hooks for flashy takedowns.
They fight with a cold, calculated precision, designed by a committee of engineers to be the "perfect" product for the gambling public.
Boring, reliable, and dangerously effective "company men" of the rooster world.
These are the outcasts, the weirdos. They crawl from the Glitch-Gutters, the city's dark, rain-slicked, and forgotten underbelly where broken tech and rogue AIs are left to rot.
These roosters are "bots-of-a-feather," cobbled together from mismatched, stolen, and often-unstable parts. They survive by being unseen and striking from the shadows.
They're covered in grime, welding scars, and layers of ablative armor meant to withstand collapsing buildings.
Their "assassin" tech isn't factory-grade; it's jury-rigged "glitch-tech." They use logic-bombs to scramble targeting, visual-distorters to "confuse," and repurposed vulnerability-scanners to find that one perfect, critical weak point.
Fragile, creepy, and deeply unsettling. They don't just fight you; they try to un-install you.
Hailing from the neon-drenched, "Velocity-Vibe" entertainment district, these roosters were never meant to fight; they were meant to perform.
They are repurposed dance-bots, high-speed couriers, and flashy "greeters" from the city's most obnoxious synth-funk nightclubs.
Their frames are lightweight, their actuators tuned for speed and "unpredictable" dance routines. Their "Funkadelic Frenzy" is literally a dance-off, and their "Glamour Rush" is a repurposed light-show routine, now used to blind and disorient.
They're all style, "funk," and flash — built for speed, not to take a punch. They see the arena as just another stage and winning as a standing ovation.
What's next
MFC TOURNAMENTS
BIG-SCREEN LANDBASE MULTIPLAYER MODE
Designed for live events and venue-based entertainment, from sports arenas and concerts to pubs, bars, and nightclubs.
BREAKER'S KNOKOUT
NEXT-GEN CRASH GAME
How far will you go in a non-stop series of fights?
LAST CHANCE FIGHT
NEXT-GEN CRASH GAME
Step into the ring against a deranged Cyborg Rooster.
Event of the Century
