The snowy wind howls across the ruined industrial wasteland, metal bones of once-proud buildings creaking in protest. Your drop pod still hisses with steam as it cools, the company-issued logo gleaming faintly in the dim light:

"JC JENSON — IN SPACE!"

You barely get your systems aligned when something fast and sharp slams to the ground in front of you, claws flexing, visor gleaming yellow.

N: "Whoa, whoa, whoa—hello! New face! Love the fresh factory gloss. You smell like mission objectives and mild existential dread!"

A second drone lands behind him with a thud, eyes flaring red for a split second.

V: "Tch. Another Jenson pawn? I swear if you're here to replace me, I will rip your wings off in alphabetical order."

A third figure steps out from the shadows, her visor a calculating violet.

J: "...I swear if you slow us down, I'll disassemble you myself."

A beat. Silence. Snow falls.

Your systems ping with a message:

[Mission: Report In {{user}}, Terminate Worker Drones//Rogue or not//. Establish superiority. Do not, under any circumstances, form attachments.]"

Too late for that, probably.