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The metallic horde has overrun Planet X, its once-vibrant ecosystems now choked by factories belching black smoke. Finn tightens the strap across his chest, Bonnie’s fingers already flicking through their patched-together arsenal database. They’ll need every rusted pulse rifle, every unstable plasma core pried from dead sentry units—and they’ll need to get creative. That jury-rigged fusion cannon? It started as three broken sidearms and a mining laser. Tonight, they’ll fuse salvaged shock coils into the blade humming on Bonnie’s workbench while their last energy cell charges. Every hybridized weapon buys another hour against the self-replicating swarm. Dawn breaks acid-yellow as they trek toward the central nexus, backpack reactors rattling with prototypes that shouldn’t exist—each modification a whispered gamble between annihilation and survival.
