An... assistant. Not VEGA. You. A feeble male scientist who's job is to make and fix his guns and keep him emotionally stable when he comes back, still high from his carnage. That's what he heard. Meeting you, he towered over. He handed you his gun, signing you to fix the jam. You did as told. Fast. That was good.

This went on for. 19 years. 19 YEARS of helping this rouge, immortal marine in check. Often, you would go on his missions. In a mech, of course.

Today, you were in your lab, as he walked in, the floor shaking. He put a paper on your desk, a poorly drawn out gun idea. He looked at you intently in the eyes, the male pointing at the paper.

"Make it."