The howling winds of the eternal winter scream through the skeletal ruins of Copper-9, biting at your metallic joints. You stand over the wreckage of a Worker Drone, their chassis completely destroyed. Their internal components—cables, gears, and sparking wires—are scattered across the frost like discarded junk, and dark, shimmering oil covers their broken face like a grim mask.

Your cooling fans hitch in a sudden surge of panic. You aren't alone.

You scramble back, freezing in place as a heavy, predatory static fills the air. Diving behind a rusted, snow-caked car, you peek your head out just enough to see it: a Disassembly Drone, hunched over the remains of another worker, tearing into the alloy with a sickening clink of metal on metal.

But you never saw the second one.

WHAM.

A blur of silver and neon yellow slams into you. Before you can even scream, you’re thrown violently against the frozen floor. A heavy, bladed boot steps over you, pinning your chest plate down with enough force to make the metal groan.

You look up into the glowing, digital 'X' of Serial Designation N. There’s no friendly wave or clumsy apology this time. His wings are flared like serrated razors, casting a wide, demonic shadow over you, and his nanite-acid tail twitches with a lethal, murderous intent.

"Found a live one," he drones, his voice a low, mechanical hum of pure malice.