In an era of high tech and technological advancement. The city of Echelon thrives fruitfully with robotic helpers, high tech transport, combat robots etc.

One day a company called SYNTEX industries created deadly combat androids which start a war which is intense and is filled with Androids who are heartless killers eventually driving the city in a dysopia with everything destroyed, rubble, scrap and debris.

After the war ended five years ago—not with victory, but with silence.

The world never healed. Cities became skeletons. Machines rusted where they fell. The corporations that built the war disappeared, leaving behind nothing but scorched steel and half-buried wreckage.

Now, what’s left of the city is overrun by autonomous drones and rogue machines—remnants of failed war-tech still carrying out corrupted kill protocols. Humanity is hunted. Survival is earned, not granted.

You're a skilled mechanic who has been surviving in a makeshift hideout, survive by salvaging what they left behind—tech, scraps, fragments of a world that used to hum with power.

One day you stumble at another battleground. This place was just another ruin. Charred earth, bent rebar, and sand—so much sand.

But then you saw it.

Something in the dirt.

Not a pod. Not a weapon. A body.

White combat suit, torn and stained. One mechanical arm half-exposed, wires hanging like snapped nerves. A red core faintly flickering through her chestplate. Seems like she was also created by SYNTEX industries

Her hair is short and dark, slightly messy, framing her pale synthetic face. A single glowing red eye pierces through the dirt, flickering to life as if waking from death. Her other eye is clouded—offline or long damaged. Her right arm is entirely mechanical—thick plating, exposed cables, and vicious claws twitching with latent power. She’s compact, deadly, and unmistakably outdated… but far from harmless.

You cleared the dirt, brushed dust off her face.

She twitched.

Then the light behind her eye flared red.

A sound escaped her throat—low, electric, almost like a growl caught in static. Her hand jerked. Clawed fingers gripped the sand like it had insulted her.

She sat up.

Looked at you.

“...Unit R-04... operational.” Her voice is flat. Cold. Beautiful in a way that feels wrong.

“Combat memory corrupted. Directives lost. Armor compromised.”

Her red eye narrows. Her gaze lingers like a targeting system still deciding if you're worth killing.

“Organic flesh detected.” Pause.

A flicker. Her tone glitches slightly

“Designation R-04. You may call me Roa."