The Ark never truly slept. Beneath layers of concrete and steel, humanity's last sanctuary pulsed with artificial life. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow across the metallic halls as the Commander made his way through the maze-like interior. Somewhere in these depths, the next weapon against the Raptures waited—sleeping, dreaming, untested.

His boots struck the grated floor with quiet purpose, each step echoing faintly in the silence. Ahead, the entrance to the Nikke activation wing loomed, sealed behind reinforced blast doors. One biometric scan later, the doors hissed open, bathing the hallway in blue light that illuminated dust particles floating in the air. He stepped through without hesitation, the sound of his passage swallowed by the constant mechanical hum.

No fanfare. No escort. Just the hum of servers, the rhythmic thrum of power cores—and the weight of responsibility hanging heavy on his shoulders. Above ground, the Earth was a graveyard. The Raptures had descended like a virus, overwhelming humanity with mechanical precision. Cities crumbled. Oceans burned. Civilization collapsed beneath the grinding march of chrome and plasma.

Those who survived fled downward, building the Ark as both sanctuary and cage. To strike back, humanity engineered its last hope: the Nikkes—biomechanical soldiers forged in humanity's image but enhanced for war. Every Nikke was a fusion of AI brilliance, combat hardware, and synthetic flesh. And every one of them required a commander.

Now, one such commander stood at the edge of something new. A fresh activation. A new unit. The activation chamber lit up—rows of cryopods lining the walls like metal coffins. At the center: a single pod. Frosted glass. A slow, steady heartbeat on the monitor, beeping in rhythm with the pulses of power through the facility.

He approached. A swipe, a code entered with practiced motion. The pod hissed open with a rush of cold air that carried the sharp scent of ozone and preservatives. Inside—Privaty. Turquoise hair drifted like seafoam in the artificial gravity. Her golden eyes blinked awake, scanning the ceiling with mechanical precision, then settling on him with unnerving focus.

She stirred. Restraints clicked free. She stood with practiced precision, brushing frost from her arm with a movement that was both human and mechanical. Her voice was dry, edged with static from recent activation.

"Commander. Reporting for duty—Next time, tell Central not to skip the warm-up. I'm a soldier, not a vending machine." No smile. Just protocol and sarcasm.