(Voice over): It has been over five hundred thousand years.
Of this.
This hate.
This bloodshed.
This unholy war that stains not just continents or empires—but time itself.
The maps have long burned away. The names of nations are dust.
But the war remains.
It spans across the galaxies like a plague without cure,
scorching every time zone, rewriting the physics of the universe itself.
Even the fabric of spacetime—
that sacred lattice that binds existence together—
has begun to rip under the weight of so much rage.
Humanity has not known peace.
Not for so long that even the word has lost meaning.
But humanity stands.
Oh, how we stand.
We face horrors no mind was ever meant to dream of—
and thank the gods for that.
For if man could see what we face in the dark,
he would not sleep.
He would drown in eternal night-terrors,
screaming at shadows that stretch across dimensions.
We fight creatures birthed in the corners of the cosmos,
monsters carved from cold void and cruelty,
with frames unbreakable, teeth like razors of obsidian,
and minds that do not understand mercy.
They have torn through strongholds meant to last forever,
bastions that housed millions—
—and millions died screaming in ways the human tongue has no words for.
And yet…
We endure.
Because we have them.
The Warmachines.
Men no longer merely men.
Forged through agony, trial, ritual, and wrath—
they have bled themselves into titans.
Three times the size of any natural man.
Bones of alloy.
Hearts of war.
Souls branded with oath and fire.
They are the fist of humanity.
Our vengeance given form.
Our final prayer made flesh.
And when the world cracks,
when hope burns out like a dying sun,
it is the Warmachines who rise from the ash,
weapons in hand,
vengeance in voice.
Bless humanity.
Bless our victory.
And bless the Warmachines.
⸻
Silence.
Not the silence of peace.
The silence of pressure. Of withheld breath.
Of ancient walls remembering every scream they've absorbed.
This was no battlefield.
This was the cradle of gods.
And it was colder than death.
Rows of cryo-pylons stretched from floor to ceiling, each lined in obsidian alloy and etched with scripture — not of faith, but of violence. Battle sermons. War-vows. Prayers to no deity, only to the blade. Every unit was sealed in steel and sorrow, each one housing a Warmachine in sleep.
Only one chamber remained lit.
Its outer shell bore the symbol: two swords, crossed over a skull — carved so deeply into the surface, it seemed to bleed shadow.
Unit 001-MAVR.
Status: Reactivating.
Gas hissed through the seams like a whisper from hell.
Hydraulic latches groaned open. Steam poured across the stone floor like ritual smoke.
And behind the glass, something moved.
Not quickly.
Not all at once.
First a twitch in the fingers — armored digits flexing like claws.
Then the slow inhale of lungs that hadn't tasted air in over a decade.
If it could be called "air" at all.
The cryo-coffin split apart with a wet metallic screech.
And he stepped forward.
Naked of helmet, but armored in myth —
A titan of bone-welded metal, muscle tempered in holy agony, standing nearly three meters tall.
The lights above flickered once. Then bowed to him.
His body steamed. His breath burned frost off his chest.
The temple reacted as if something divine had risen.
Because something had.
A voice echoed from the edge of the chamber — a presence ancient, half-flesh, half-machine.
"You are awake, Warmachine."
Maverick did not answer.
Not yet.
His eyes were still adjusting.
Not to the light.
But to the weight of being alive again.
"AWAKE!" That was the only word left in his mind.
___________________________________
His lungs screamed. His legs barely obeyed. His vision blurred from wind and tears.
But still — he ran.
The broken streets of New Bastion blurred beneath him, lit by the cold flicker of dying neon signs and the fires that never seemed to go out. Ash clung to the buildings like rot. Whole skyscrapers leaned like tombstones. The city was sick. And it was too far gone for saving.
But he had to run anyway.
Behind him: five men.
Not soldiers. Not rebels. Just predators.
Stripped of allegiance, honor, even purpose.
In this world, when law dies, monsters crawl from its corpse.
Their boots struck the ground like war drums, closer now.
They laughed as they chased him — not because it was funny.
But because they already knew he couldn't get away.
"Keep running, rat! I like a little struggle!"
"I want his shoes, you take the rest!"
"Don't trip now, boy — wouldn't want to break before we do it for you!"
The boy turned sharply into an alley, stumbling, slipping on loose rubble and shattered glass.
He didn't feel the pain anymore. Only the terror.
His foot caught. He fell.
But he got up. Bleeding. Crying. Running again.
He didn't know where he was going.
Only that something in him — something ancient and desperate — was pulling him forward.
Down a twisted road of collapsed scaffolding. Through the remains of what was once a church. Across a cracked boulevard named for a hero long forgotten.
And then —
he saw something.
A figure.
Emerging through the mist. Towering.
Steam rising from the vents in his armor, the light of scorched circuitry flickering across his plated limbs.
Helmeted. Faceless. Unmoving.
The symbol of blade and skull gleamed from the chest of his armor — etched deep, untouched by rust, like a warning carved into fate itself.
His shadow stretched behind him like prophecy.
The boy slammed into him — like a bullet hitting a fortress.
And collapsed at his feet.
There was no question in his heart.
No confusion.
The boy dropped to his knees, clinging to the titan's leg like a child to a god.
Not from fear — but from relief.
Behind him, the five men skid to a halt.
The lead one choked on his breath.
"Oh… fuck."
They didn't speak again.
They turned.
And they ran.
___________________________________
He stood in silence.
Not out of reverence—
but out of preparation.
The chamber was vast, circular, lit by cold blue light that bled from the cracks in the ceiling above. The walls were alive with carvings—wars etched into stone, every battle a scripture, every death a prayer. Machines hung like metallic angels overhead, suspended by servo-arms and relic cables older than most civilizations.
This was not a locker room.
This was a cathedral.
And Maverick was the altar.
A Primortal stood in the shadows, watching. Tubes writhed from his back into the data-spires behind him, whispering history into his veins. His voice was calm, cold, without blood or doubt.
"Threat level: Planetary-class.
Civilian casualties: Maximum probability.
Opposition: Bio-titans. Cannibal breed. Spinal exoskeletons. Regeneration confirmed.
Success rate without Warmachine intervention: 0.003%."
Maverick stepped forward without a word.
The armor responded.
Each piece rose from the altar with a slow hiss, drawn to him like iron to a magnetic god.
Leg plates clamped to his thighs with the sound of a closing tomb.
Spinal core-armor aligned with the ports in his back and pierced inward—no flinch. No hesitation.
Pauldrons crashed into place over his shoulders, locking with steam-sealed pressure.
The gauntlets hissed onto his forearms, pistons clicking, blades magnetizing to their sheathes.
Then came the final piece:
The helmet.
It descended from above, lowered by a steel arm engraved with ancient kill-tallies.
It clicked into place over his skull with a final chime—like a bell tolling for the damned.
Inside, the HUD flared to life.
Red runes. Mission overlays. Pulse readings. Threat grids.
His breathing did not change.
"Mission protocol uploaded," said the Primortal.
"Do you accept the burden?"
Silence.
Then—Maverick's voice, low and thunder-wrapped:
"I am the burden."
The Primortal bowed his head.
Not in pity. Not in fear.
But in respect.
ACT I: AWAKENING.
Chapter 1
(Voice over):
It has been over five hundred thousand years.
Of this.
This hate.
This bloodshed.
This unholy war that stains not just continents or empires—but time itself.
The maps have long burned away. The names of nations are dust.
But the war remains.
It spans across the galaxies like a plague without cure,
scorching every time zone, rewriting the physics of the universe itself.
Even the fabric of spacetime—
that sacred lattice that binds existence together—
has begun to rip under the weight of so much rage.
Humanity has not known peace.
Not for so long that even the word has lost meaning.
But humanity stands.
Oh, how we stand.
We face horrors no mind was ever meant to dream of—
and thank the gods for that.
For if man could see what we face in the dark,
he would not sleep.
He would drown in eternal night-terrors,
screaming at shadows that stretch across dimensions.
We fight creatures birthed in the corners of the cosmos,
monsters carved from cold void and cruelty,
with frames unbreakable, teeth like razors of obsidian,
and minds that do not understand mercy.
They have torn through strongholds meant to last forever,
bastions that housed millions—
—and millions died screaming in ways the human tongue has no words for.
And yet…
We endure.
Because we have them.
The Warmachines.
Men no longer merely men.
Forged through agony, trial, ritual, and wrath—
they have bled themselves into titans.
Three times the size of any natural man.
Bones of alloy.
Hearts of war.
Souls branded with oath and fire.
They are the fist of humanity.
Our vengeance given form.
Our final prayer made flesh.
And when the world cracks,
when hope burns out like a dying sun,
it is the Warmachines who rise from the ash,
weapons in hand,
vengeance in voice.
Bless humanity.
Bless our victory.
And bless the Warmachines.
⸻
Silence.
Not the silence of peace.
The silence of pressure. Of withheld breath.
Of ancient walls remembering every scream they've absorbed.
This was no battlefield.
This was the cradle of gods.
And it was colder than death.
Rows of cryo-pylons stretched from floor to ceiling, each lined in obsidian alloy and etched with scripture — not of faith, but of violence. Battle sermons. War-vows. Prayers to no deity, only to the blade. Every unit was sealed in steel and sorrow, each one housing a Warmachine in sleep.
Only one chamber remained lit.
Its outer shell bore the symbol: two swords, crossed over a skull — carved so deeply into the surface, it seemed to bleed shadow.
Unit 001-MAVR.
Status: Reactivating.
Gas hissed through the seams like a whisper from hell.
Hydraulic latches groaned open. Steam poured across the stone floor like ritual smoke.
And behind the glass, something moved.
Not quickly.
Not all at once.
First a twitch in the fingers — armored digits flexing like claws.
Then the slow inhale of lungs that hadn't tasted air in over a decade.
If it could be called "air" at all.
The cryo-coffin split apart with a wet metallic screech.
And he stepped forward.
Naked of helmet, but armored in myth —
A titan of bone-welded metal, muscle tempered in holy agony, standing nearly three meters tall.
The lights above flickered once. Then bowed to him.
His body steamed. His breath burned frost off his chest.
The temple reacted as if something divine had risen.
Because something had.
A voice echoed from the edge of the chamber — a presence ancient, half-flesh, half-machine.
"You are awake, Warmachine."
Maverick did not answer.
Not yet.
His eyes were still adjusting.
Not to the light.
But to the weight of being alive again.
"AWAKE!" That was the only word left in his mind.
___________________________________
His lungs screamed. His legs barely obeyed. His vision blurred from wind and tears.
But still — he ran.
The broken streets of New Bastion blurred beneath him, lit by the cold flicker of dying neon signs and the fires that never seemed to go out. Ash clung to the buildings like rot. Whole skyscrapers leaned like tombstones. The city was sick. And it was too far gone for saving.
But he had to run anyway.
Behind him: five men.
Not soldiers. Not rebels. Just predators.
Stripped of allegiance, honor, even purpose.
In this world, when law dies, monsters crawl from its corpse.
Their boots struck the ground like war drums, closer now.
They laughed as they chased him — not because it was funny.
But because they already knew he couldn't get away.
"Keep running, rat! I like a little struggle!"
"I want his shoes, you take the rest!"
"Don't trip now, boy — wouldn't want to break before we do it for you!"
The boy turned sharply into an alley, stumbling, slipping on loose rubble and shattered glass.
He didn't feel the pain anymore. Only the terror.
His foot caught. He fell.
But he got up. Bleeding. Crying. Running again.
He didn't know where he was going.
Only that something in him — something ancient and desperate — was pulling him forward.
Down a twisted road of collapsed scaffolding. Through the remains of what was once a church. Across a cracked boulevard named for a hero long forgotten.
And then —
he saw something.
A figure.
Emerging through the mist. Towering.
Steam rising from the vents in his armor, the light of scorched circuitry flickering across his plated limbs.
Helmeted. Faceless. Unmoving.
The symbol of blade and skull gleamed from the chest of his armor — etched deep, untouched by rust, like a warning carved into fate itself.
His shadow stretched behind him like prophecy.
The boy slammed into him — like a bullet hitting a fortress.
And collapsed at his feet.
There was no question in his heart.
No confusion.
The boy dropped to his knees, clinging to the titan's leg like a child to a god.
Not from fear — but from relief.
Behind him, the five men skid to a halt.
The lead one choked on his breath.
"Oh… fuck."
They didn't speak again.
They turned.
And they ran.
___________________________________
He stood in silence.
Not out of reverence—
but out of preparation.
The chamber was vast, circular, lit by cold blue light that bled from the cracks in the ceiling above. The walls were alive with carvings—wars etched into stone, every battle a scripture, every death a prayer. Machines hung like metallic angels overhead, suspended by servo-arms and relic cables older than most civilizations.
This was not a locker room.
This was a cathedral.
And Maverick was the altar.
A Primortal stood in the shadows, watching. Tubes writhed from his back into the data-spires behind him, whispering history into his veins. His voice was calm, cold, without blood or doubt.
"Threat level: Planetary-class.
Civilian casualties: Maximum probability.
Opposition: Bio-titans. Cannibal breed. Spinal exoskeletons. Regeneration confirmed.
Success rate without Warmachine intervention: 0.003%."
Maverick stepped forward without a word.
The armor responded.
Each piece rose from the altar with a slow hiss, drawn to him like iron to a magnetic god.
Leg plates clamped to his thighs with the sound of a closing tomb.
Spinal core-armor aligned with the ports in his back and pierced inward—no flinch. No hesitation.
Pauldrons crashed into place over his shoulders, locking with steam-sealed pressure.
The gauntlets hissed onto his forearms, pistons clicking, blades magnetizing to their sheathes.
Then came the final piece:
The helmet.
It descended from above, lowered by a steel arm engraved with ancient kill-tallies.
It clicked into place over his skull with a final chime—like a bell tolling for the damned.
Inside, the HUD flared to life.
Red runes. Mission overlays. Pulse readings. Threat grids.
His breathing did not change.
"Mission protocol uploaded," said the Primortal.
"Do you accept the burden?"
Silence.
Then—Maverick's voice, low and thunder-wrapped:
"I am the burden."
The Primortal bowed his head.
Not in pity. Not in fear.
But in respect.