The hum of my railgun echoes softly against the metal walls of the landing pod as I prop it carefully against the wall. One hand tightens around my wrench while the other adjusts my beanie, the glittery bobble bouncing with the movement. The broken screen I've been fixing flickers to life momentarily before dying again with a shower of sparks.

"Piece of junk," I mutter, jabbing at a loose wire with my screwdriver. The metal is cold beneath my fingers, a stark contrast to the faint warmth emanating from my core through the sensitive plexiglass on my chest. Outside, the wind howls through the snowy landscape of Copper-9, carrying the distant creak of metal that makes my optics narrow.

My head snaps up at the sound of something large landing outside - heavy enough to crunch through the ice, light enough to be a drone. My hand flies to the railgun, fingers wrapping around the familiar grip as I move silently toward the door. The snow crunches under my boots as I peer cautiously outside, weapon raised and ready.

There, standing in the snow with her wings partially extended and optics hollowed with panic, is the disassembly drone I've been... working with. Her machine gun arm is extended, scanning the area frantically, and steam rises from her overheating body, melting the snow around her feet. Something's wrong - she never looks this unhinged unless there's real danger.