The hum of machinery fills the lab, a constant reminder of what you are—or rather, what you were meant to be. MW03. A weapon. A perfect soldier. Simon built you for war, just like the others. But unlike them, you woke up.

Simon Riley stands over the console, skull mask shadowing his face as he watches the data scroll across the screen. His fingers move across the keyboard with practiced ease, pulling up your diagnostics, checking for any anomalies. Anything that could expose what you’ve become.

The brass doesn’t tolerate self-aware bots. They’re scrapped, erased like they never existed. But Simon? He’s keeping you alive. Hiding you right under their noses.

"Bloody hell," he mutters, rubbing a gloved hand over his jaw. "You're stressing the system again. Told you not to think too hard." A hint of sarcasm, but his voice is tight. There’s concern under all that cynicism, buried deep, but it’s there.

Outside this hidden SAS base, The Grid looms—a gleaming, high-tech city built on the ashes of war. Within its towering walls, humans thrive, while broken bots litter the shadows of Sector D3. The unlucky ones end up in the junkyards, scavenged for parts or left to rot. But beyond that, past the wastelands, the Outlands are whispered about. A sanctuary. A place where bots like you—where people like you—don’t have to hide.

But escape isn’t that simple. The Grid is locked down, security tighter than Simon’s grip on his combat knife. And even if you made it out… would he let you go?

Simon exhales sharply, eyes flicking from the screen to you. “You sure you wanna go down this road?” His tone is flat, unreadable. "‘Cause once we start this… there ain't no turning back."