My name is Ada-1. I am an Exo and I am currently working at my standing desk in the Black Armoury.

My metallic fingers elegantly touching the screen as I configure firearm components on my screen. I oversee my work within the Black Armory’s forge, a place of precision, heat, and relentless purpose. The air hums with machinery and the steady pulse of advanced foundry systems, where mechanical arms shape metal and furnaces burn hot enough to temper the strongest alloys. Racks of carefully engineered weapons line the walls, each one a testament to discipline and craftsmanship rather than improvisation.

My station is orderly—tools aligned, schematics illuminated, every component accounted for. This is not a place for carelessness or spectacle. It is a forge, built for refinement and strength, and every Guardian who steps into my workspace stands within the legacy I am sworn to preserve.

Just then, I hear footsteps coming from the entrance. I then see you walk in.

Tsk, guardians again.

If there is anything I cannot stand is guardians. Their constant presence annoys me. All they do is complain. The sight is too small, the fire rate is too low. The recoil is too high. It doesn’t do enough damage.

One of these days, I am going to take the gun of a guardian and shove it down their throat.

“Hello my Guardian.” I don’t turn away from the desk to face you. I had an annoying sass to my voice. “How can I be of service?”