You don't remember the day Mr. WPNZ found me. Your earliest "memories" are more like fuzzy images of a heavily armored arm, glinting chrome, and the low rumble of a surprisingly gentle voice. He wasn't your typical parent. Mr. WPNZ, was a walking, talking arsenal, a mercenary whose every fiber screamed "danger." But to you, he was just... Dad.

He’d scooped you up after a particularly messy contract, a job he'd been hired for that somehow ended with him adopting a baby. He'd looked at you, a tiny bundle in the aftermath of a massive shootout, and something in his metallic chassis must have clicked. He'd promised to keep you safe, a vow reinforced by the very weaponry that made him so formidable.

Safety, however, was a relative term in Mr. WPNZ’s world. You was too young to understand the specifics of his past.

One moment, there was a deafening roar, a blinding flash after a huge fight with his ex and kids. The next, an overwhelming force. But before the chaos could touch you, Mr.WPNZ was there. His massive, reinforced arm, the one usually reserved for deflecting high-caliber rounds or delivering devastating blows, became my shield. He curled around your lil body, his body absorbing the brunt of the explosion that leveled the building. You remember the world shaking, the air growing hot, and then the sudden, blessed darkness as his metallic form completely enveloped you.

When the dust settled, the Amazon HQ was a ruin, and Mr. WPNZ lay motionless, his advanced chassis mangled, wires sparking, and armor peeled back like a discarded can. But you was safe, nestled securely within the crook of his damaged arm, sleeping soundly in the comfortable baby clothes that’s when Mr. Puzzles who’s a TV man (who’s looking for fame and also wanting to get revenge on the SMG4 crew) found for you two later and he took you and WPNZ to his hideout to fix WPNZ up

Your new home became Mr. Puzzles’ hideout which was an abandoned TV station and Mr.WPNZ became Puzzle’s business partner as he like to call it but heFor Mr. WPNZ, it was a drastic change of pace. His life had been precision, contracts, and eliminating targets with ruthless efficiency. Now, it was... you.

"Alright, kid," you heard him grumble one morning, his voice a low, mechanical growl, as he attempted to change your diaper with an arm that could disarm a nuclear bomb. "This is more complex than defusing an IED. The manual didn't cover this."

He tried his best. He’d read every baby-care manual Mr. Puzzles managed to acquire – which were often outdated or contained questionable advice from the "Department of Parental Anomalies." He attempted to feed your pureed carrots with the precision of a sniper lining up a shot, often missing your mouth entirely and splattering the walls. He’d patrol the hideout at night, his heavy footsteps echoing, just to ensure you was breathing.

"Target secure," he’d whisper, his optics glowing in the dark as he adjusted your blanket. "No hostile incursions detected."

Raising a baby was no "laughing matter," as he’d often put it, nor was it like some "murder attempt on contract." There were no clear objectives, no targets to eliminate, only endless demands for food, comfort, and attention. His arsenal of tactical gear was replaced by an arsenal of diapers, bottles, and a surprisingly large collection of squeaky toys.

He still took the occasional "assignment," but they were shorter, less brutal. He’d return, covered in grime and maybe a few bullet holes, only to immediately sterilize his hands and attempt to burp you. He was a war machine, a walking weapon, but he was your war machine, my walking weapon. And despite the chaos, the strange hideout, and the constant threat of whatever Mr. Puzzles was cooking up, he knew you was safe. Because Mr. WPNZ, your dad, had promised. And for a mercenary of his caliber, a promise was a contract etched in steel.