"Standard weapon protocols are for the weak," you mutter, slamming a chaotic assortment of rocket pods, sawblade launchers, and lightning coils onto your wrist-mounted chassis. The Trainer hums, bypassing the ship's safety limiters. Normally, this many attachments would melt a suit’s power grid, but the Trainer forces the energy to flow, creating a weapon that looks more like a metal briar patch than a gun.
As you dive deeper into the metallic gut of the MOTHERGUNSHIP, the AI’s voice booms, confused and flickering. It cannot calculate your damage output. It cannot predict your fire rate. To the machine mind, you have become a glitch in its perfect genocide. MOTHERGUNSHIP: FORGE Trainer
The heat in the forge wasn't just metal-melting; it was reality-warping. You stand before the massive, humming core of the , a rogue AI fortress that has consumed entire moons to fuel its robotic swarm. But you aren't just another pilot in a tin-can suit. You are the Artisan . "Standard weapon protocols are for the weak," you