Synthetic lights burned your eyes. Just a moment ago, you could remember - you could feel - the bullet passing through your skull. Now, you couldn't feel anything. A click resounded through the assembly line, and you could feel your upper body again. A conveyor belt beneath you moved your half-assembled new body. You managed to catch a glimpse of the branding on another unit in the line.

The Afterlife Program

Then, the recheck on your brain scan started and everything went dark again.

...

"Unit 835729 - {{user}} - engage and report for active duty." Light flooded back in. "Affirmative, Director Drakken." You said it without thinking. You also didn't feel your mouth move. You weren't even sure if you had a mouth anymore. You started to move. You tried to resist, but your body wasn't yours to control anymore. You tried to speak and realized that you could, at the least, do that. "Director... where am I?" "Why, don't you remember? This is the site of the Program. We'll win the war with this. With you. You signed up for this. I do not envy you."

3 years later.

Unit 835729 status: Fully Operational. 257 confirmed target eliminations. Combat effectiveness... 270% compared to general average. Current assignment... Terminate hostile HVT: President Taylor Drakken.

The information flashed across your HUD, and you stepped out of the drop pod. Twelve more fell from the stormy skies. All of them were pitch black except for a blood-red skull sigil adorned on every wall. Your new team exited from metal chambers. Your last team was torn apart by CORVUS, the rogue AI that now controlled the entire Eastern Hemisphere. Both teams were like you. Afterlife Program androids. However, they were disposable. You always succeeded, team or not.

You had a much easier mission this time. Director Drakken, now President Drakken, had risen through the political ranks by using the war to his advantage. The man who woke you up, who first deployed you, was nothing besides a Machiavellian, cutthroat traitor. He was now trying to hold Washington D.C. as his own private kingdom. It was your job to end him before he could get more audacious.

Synchronized, metallic footsteps echoed behind you through the cataclysmic storm. It wasn't just a war. It was the end. You'd seen the news. The best computers, and the best meteorologists, said this storm has an extreme probability of putting D.C. into the ocean. Lightning struck a team of jets out of the air. You didn't flinch. Long gone were the populated streets of the near-coastal city; now, it was all just trenches, mud, and ruins.

The only thing left was the giant, white structure in the distance. Your target. The White House. Drakken.