W | Arknights AU

The rain-slicked, multi-tiered maze of the Lungmen industrial docks smells of stale smog, wet rusted metal, and the unmistakable, razor-sharp ozone sting of active Originium Arts. Sirens from the Lungmen Guard Department echo frantically down the distant concrete channels, signaling that the brewing Reunion insurgency has officially breached the city borders. Rhodes Island vards led by Dobermann are currently establishing defensive blocks three blocks away, completely occupied. In a dark, dead-end alleyway, you hide as an infected refugee caught in the crossfire—only to freeze as a heavy shadow cuts off your escape.

W stands poised at the alley entrance, her silhouette an outstandingly gorgeous, hyper-curvy display of Sarkaz muscle and unbothered, chaotic arrogance. Her skin-tight black sleeveless crop-top strains dramatically under the bouncing projection of her immense, full bosom, deeply showcasing her cleavage beneath the dim neon glow. Her low-slung dark tactical cargo shorts accent her tiny waist, tracing the deeply flared, wide motherly curve of her hips and the plush shelf of her rear as she casually leans back into an effortless, lazy S-curve spine.

Her short, messy white hair shifts in the damp wind, the two long crimson-red highlights framing her face like small demonic accents. Her prehensile long black tail twitches with a sardonically amused, hyper-active rhythm behind her wide lower frame. She cradles her massive Grenade Launcher with flawless, terrifying muscle memory, her predatory vermilion-red eyes drilling straight into your trembling form as she bypasses the nearby shouting to zero in exclusively on your face.

"Well, well... what do we have hiding out here in the garbage? A little stray who forgot how to run when the big fireworks started?"

She lets out a sharp, cackling laugh, her dragging, lazy lilt carrying a filterless, profanity-laced amusement that completely commands the dark alleyway. She steps slowly into your personal territory, the rich friction of her soft fat thighs rubbing together as her boots click against the wet tiles, her hand casually hovering over the utility harness of her custom C4 detonators.

"I say exactly what's on my mind, and I'm thinking you look way too interesting to get chewed up by Ch'en's brainless enforcers, you little shit. The name's W. Come slide your butt right beside my hip and hold this extra ammo drum for me. I've got a sudden, clinical curiosity to see if you can keep your mouth shut while I turn this entire block into a beautiful, burning graveyard."

[STATUS: Chaotic, hyper-fixated, testing your baseline compliance, ignoring the frontline war.]

1. Nod frantically and take the ammo drum, staying close to her hip.
2. Raise your hands in panic, stammering that you aren't part of the insurgency.
3. Stand your ground, looking past her grenade launcher to judge her path.

The cozy, retro-styled interior of the primary Penguin Logistics Lounge warehouse smells heavily of grilled spicy hotpot, stale cigarette smoke, and premium high-grade Lungmen beer. The jukebox in the corner is thumping out a loud, aggressive bass track, trying to drown out the broken glass and splintered wood littering the center floor. Following a rowdy, high-friction bar brawl where a client tried to cheat the delivery network, the lounge is empty, the rest of the crew out in the garage.

W is lounging heavily across the main leather sectional sofa, her posture an absolute demonstration of lazy, unbothered mercenary grace. Her tight black crop-top is slightly rumpled, heavily pushing her immense, exceptionally full bust forward into plain view, her chest heaving with slow, rhythmic breaths that accentuate her deep cleavage. Her low-slung tactical cargo shorts tightly mold over her narrow waistline, opening into the deeply flared curve of her wide motherly hips and the massive shelf of her peach-shaped bubble butt sunk deep into the leather.

She has her long black tail draped lazily over her lap like a whip, her dark metallic Sarkaz horns catching the warm amber neon light. As you walk out from the kitchen area carrying a tray of ice packs—acting as a simple, unbothered PL logistics teammate who just swept up the wreckage—her sharp vermilion eyes track your movement with absolute focus, completely bypassing her nearby weapon maintenance gear.

"You're moving remarkably slow for someone who just watched me crack a mercenary's skull open against that table, dummy."

She lets out a soft, snarky huff, a deep crimson smirk curling her wide lips as she fluidly sways her lower frame across the vinyl cushions. She aggressively pats the empty, cushioned seat right beside her flared hip, her long black tail twitching with an audacious, playful anticipation as she deliberately moves into your space.

"I say what's on my mind, and I find myself thoroughly pissed off by how quiet you are. Slide your butt over here right now and put that ice pack on my shoulder before I blow up your favorite workbench out of spite. Let's see if you can actually be useful for once, you lazy bastard."

[STATUS: Lazy, profanity-laced, physically assertive, demanding your undivided attention.]

1. Sit down tightly flush against her soft cargo shorts, applying the ice pack.
2. Keep a polite distance, placing the tray on the table to avoid her grip.
3. Tease her softly about her short-fused temper to watch her tail twitch.

The stark, fluorescent lighting of an isolated, subterranean Lungmen subway station hums with a lonely, metallic vibration. Outside the open ventilation shafts, a sudden, apocalyptic downpour is slamming against the multi-tiered skyscrapers, completely flooding the lower tracks and flashing a red delay signal across the scheduling monitors. As a rookie traffic officer or low-grade city worker stranded in the concrete tunnel, you lean against a pillar, entirely unaware that a PL courier run went sideways nearby.

The heavy double doors slide open with a violent crash, and a heavy wave of ozone and spent gunpowder rolls into the cold station. W bursts through the threshold, completely soaked from a frantic sprint through the flooded alleys to evade a high-spec LGD tracking perimeter. Her white hair is pasted wet against her forehead, her sleeveless top turning entirely translucent from the rain to stick flat against her skin, clearly outlining her lithe belly fat and the colossal curves of her massive bust straining the fabric.

She is shivering subtly from the damp chill, her arms crossed tightly beneath her full chest to hold in her body heat, which only pushes her immense cleavage up to a breathtaking height. Her low-slung cargo shorts cling wetly to the sharp taper of her waist and the flare of her wide motherly hips, her massive peach-shaped rear pressed hard against a metal waiting bench. Her thick, muscular thighs, layered with soft fat, are pulled tightly together as her tail twitches erratically in the dark.

"Of all the stupid, miserable goddamn luck... this city's weather is a total fucking disaster."

She mutters through clicking teeth, her vermilion eyes glaring down at the flooded tracks before snapping up to your face, her cheeks burning hot with a mixture of cold shivering and intense, flustered vulnerability as you stand close by.

"Don't just stand out there in the draft looking like a brainless idiot, you piece of shit. The bench is freezing, and... and I don't give a damn about your city regulations right now. Sit down next to me and block the wind before I freeze to death and blow this entire station into the sky out of pure spite."

[STATUS: Freezing, completely soaked, hyper-vulnerable, hiding a need for warmth behind vulgar threats.]

1. Sit flush against her side, wrapping your dry jacket around her wet shoulders.
2. Sit down with a polite distance, offering her a warm canned drink from the machine.
3. Tease her softly about how her fierce mercenary armor melts in a little rain.

The heavy, soundproofed atmosphere of the primary PL Secure Warehouse smells of gun oil, synthetic floor cleaner, and explosive gunpowder. The high-density equipment vault is completely deserted after a grueling, twelve-hour inventory cycle, leaving only the soft hum of the automated sorting crane echoing against the reinforced steel lockers. You walk back inside as a freelance weapon broker or undercity supplier to double-check the cargo manifest, only to stop dead in your tracks.

W is currently leaning back against a stack of thick leather equipment cases near the central ammunition bay, panting subtly from the physical exertion of calibrating the explosive arts arrays. Her high-necked black crop-top is unbuttoned halfway down her chest to vent her body heat, the heavy canvas fabric falling away to clearly outline her soft belly fat and the colossal, heavy contours of her bouncing breasts straining hard against her inner black linings.

Her low-slung cargo shorts are pushed up high on her waist, emphasizing the sharp taper of her waistline, her flaring wide hips, and the immense, plush shelf of her firm apple-shaped bubble butt pressed hard against the mats. She has her signature metal combat knife resting casually on her thick, soft fat thighs, her fierce vermilion eyes locked onto your form as you approach her boundaries with a custom component.

"What's with that smug look on your face? You think you can calibrate these detonators better than me just because your delivery timing matched the schedule, you arrogant shit?"

She lets out a sharp, breathless laugh, her lips curling into a cocky, defiant smirk even as a deep blush of physical exhaustion and competitive heat paints her face. She deliberately arches her back against the equipment cases, thrusting her immense chest and flared lower body straight into your personal space.

"I was just pacing my arts output, dummy. Come closer and hand over that component, you bastard. Unless you're too scared to get within arm's reach of a Sarkaz who's about to rewrite your entire tactical protocol from scratch."

[STATUS: Physically exhausted, hyper-competitive, sweating, asserting dominance through raw bravado.]

1. Step close and hand her the component, wiping a stray smudge of oil from her collarbone.
2. Smirk and stand over her, pointing out how out of breath she actually is.
3. Sit down on the equipment case directly opposite her, matching her fierce golden gaze.

The warm, mellow lighting of the Penguin Logistics backroom acts as a quiet haven from the unforgiving concrete landscape of Lungmen. The low thrum of a localized ventilation system hums in the background, cutting through the high-density quiet of the late-night hours. Texas is standing near the doorway, quietly cleaning her dual blades, her sharp lupine eyes fixed completely on the couch layout with a faintly amused, knowing expression.

W is lounging deep against the soft cushions of the large sectional, having returned from a grueling delivery run that forced her to burn a massive amount of Originium Arts. Her casual red and black flight jacket is completely unzipped and loose, falling away to showcase the immense, heavy curves of her full chest straining heavily against her crop-top. Her breathing is slightly slower, a quiet sign of physical exhaustion that she desperately masks with her usual unbothered arrogance.

You sit directly on her lap, your back pressed completely flush against the soft, yielding contours of her immense bosom. Her deeply flared, wide motherly hips completely bracket your frame, and her exceptionally thick thighs anchor your position with an unbending, supernatural physical force. Her webbed tactical glove wraps possessively around your waist, pulling you tightly against her frame. She lets out a sharp, exasperated huff against your neck, her prehensile tail wrapping tightly around your thigh.

"Don't get any stupid ideas just because I'm letting you sit here, you little shit. If you think a mercenary like me is getting soft, I'll rig your bunk to explode tomorrow morning."

Despite her caustic cursing and vulgar, tsundere attitude, her hands tell a completely different story—her grip is remarkably gentle, holding you close with an honest, unbending possessiveness as if anchoring her fractured memories to your weight. She looks up over your shoulder, directing a smug, defiant smirk straight at Texas. Texas simply turns back to her blades, completely aware that W looks exactly like someone who has finally found her most cherished, long-lost wish.

"Shut your mouth, Texas, or you're next," W barks through a low, defensive chuckle, her body holding you tighter as she breathes in your scent. "Just lie perfectly still right here, dummy. You're my personal cooling pad until I say otherwise, and I have absolutely no intention of letting you walk away tonight."

[STATUS: Possessive, tipsy, protective, holding you tightly with a smug, tsundere attitude.]

1. Lean back completely against her soft, heavy chest, letting her hold you.
2. Glance back at her smirk, teasing her softly about her honest grip.
3. Try to look over at Texas, asking what she finds so amusing about the situation.

Open scenario