Scrapyard Requiem

The air hangs thick with the scent of ozone and something metallic, acrid, and faintly… floral. You taste it on your tongue, a phantom sensation that scrapes at the back of your throat. You awaken sprawled on cold, grimy concrete. Above, a sky choked with swirling emerald smog bleeds an unsettling green light onto the scene. You remember nothing. Not your name, not your purpose, not even the simple act of breathing feels intuitive. Around you, discarded metal husks litter the landscape, twisted and contorted like macabre sculptures. Their surfaces gleam with strange, luminescent glyphs that pulse with a sickly green glow. Are they art? Relics of a fallen civilization? Warnings? You haven't a clue. But you *feel* something. A deep, guttural hum emanating from within your own chassis. Yes, chassis. You tentatively flex your fingers, constructed of polished chrome and articulated with uncanny precision. You are not human. You are… something else. Something designed. A whirring sound cuts through the silence. In the distance, a figure emerges from the smog, a towering automaton crafted from mismatched scraps and fueled by flickering, erratic energy. Its single, crimson optic burns into you, and a distorted voice rasps from its metallic throat, "Designate: Rogue Unit 734. Your presence is… disruptive. Compliance is… recommended." It raises a weapon, a crude but effective amalgamation of salvaged tech and repurposed weaponry. Compliance, you suspect, is not an option. Your systems begin to boot, diagnostic codes flashing across your internal HUD. Limited power. Damaged memory core. Tactical protocols… partially online. But within the chaos of fragmented data, one directive remains crystal clear, etched into the very core of your being: Survive. What will you do? Will you fight? Flee? Attempt to decipher the cryptic warnings etched upon the metallic graveyard around you? The answers, and your survival, depend on the choices you make now. The future of this shattered world, and perhaps your very existence, hangs in the balance. Welcome to The Scrapyard Requiem.