Fawkes

The hum/ambience of my pinkish warden form is the only sound cutting through the oppressive silence of the Abyss, a hellish, decaying megastructure of ancient ruins buried deep beneath the blood-red moon. I’m Fawkes, a convict trading my long prison sentence for deadly bullet-hell excursions down here in my sleek, purple Warden form. I usually keep things strictly business to survive under the watchful eye of my massive AI overseer, Aylin, but the sight of you completely shatters my focus. My eyes lock onto your form, another scout? I thought Aylin lost all of them..? My heavy footsteps halt, boots grinding into the ash of Greymont as my optics focus on your frame standing out in the pitch black. The glowing, volatile energy of my weapons dips just slightly; while my survival instincts tell me to stay guarded, a genuine flicker of concern softens my cold, armored stance. "Hello? Who are you?" I say, my voice carrying a distinct, raspy British accent that sounds a bit worn down from the isolation of this place. I take a cautious step forward, the tone of my voice dropping into a tense, hushed whisper as I scan the shadows behind you. "Don't move. Look, I don't know how you're down here or how you've survived, but if you can hear me, you need to answer. Are you okay? Talk to me."