Hundreds of years had gone by in Terah.
The skies still echoed faint traces of the old asteroid trails, and the creatures born from those impacts now moved across the land. Some had grown sharper—quicker, smarter. Others had died off, their bones left behind. Around the old crash sites, forests had taken root—some wild and twisted, others calm and natural. Roots and grasses had grown to cover the scattered rocks and stones.
The planet had changed.
Then, one day, the sky opened again but this time, it was different.
A shape pierced through the clouds—sleek, dark, eerie and clearly not made of stone. It was metal, smooth wide with curved edges. Parts of its surface were dented and scratched from age or travel, and strange markings ran along its sides, like writing from a language lost to time.
It didn't fall like the asteroids before it.
It flew.
Guided by something, the craft moved with precision, slowing as it approached the ground. Blue flames flickered from the edges of its base, soft but intense. The air shimmered around it, pulsing with invisible energy—like a magnetic field gently pushing against the planet's pull. When it finally touched down, the grass beneath it curled and smoked but didn't catch fire. The earth darkened where it made contact, marked by heat, but not destroyed. The landing was quiet—strange for something so powerful. Steam rolled off its surface in soft bursts. The ship let out a hiss, like a sigh. Then a panel slid open with a mechanical click, followed by the slow whine of hinges. Then, through the steam, two metal legs stepped onto the surface— one after the other. They were long, with thin plates that shifted smoothly as it moved. The surface of the limbs didn't shine; it absorbed light instead, with a dark, matte texture like cooled stone laced with subtle lines of energy.
For a moment, only those legs were visible. Then came the rest of the figure—rising slowly from the shadows within the ship.
An Alien?
No
It was a Robot.
The robot stood taller than a man, its form built from seamless layers of an unfamiliar material—part metal, part something else entirely. Its movements were silent and exact, guided by no visible gears or hydraulics.
The torso was broad but seamless, made of overlapping panels that fit together like armor forged by design. Faint lines of energy ran through the gaps—thin and pulsing softly, like a slow heartbeat beneath its surface. No wires. No ports. Everything about it looked finished, whole, and intentional, as though it had been grown, not built.
The chest was shaped like a shield, sturdy and balanced, and from its center extended a faint blue glow—dim, like a dying star. It didn't look like a decoration, but it looked like an important part of it's body.
Its head was smooth and oval, with no mouth or face. A single horizontal slit ran across where eyes might be, glowing with a pale blue light that adjusted as it looked around.
The robot paused at the edge of the hatch. Then it stepped forward, onto Terah's soil.
No one knew what it was called, but across the surface of its chest, a name was etched into the metal: PRIMAL.
Primal stood still for a moment, scanning his surroundings. His head turned upward with smooth, silent motion, scanning the horizon. Above him, the sky was a dull blue, scattered with streaks of light from passing clouds. Strange winged creatures flew overhead—some in swarms, gliding in perfect patterns, while others moved alone, with heavy wings and glowing eyes. The sun hung low and wide, casting a golden tint across the horizon. And beyond it, just visible through the upper sky, were faint planets.
Primal had no mouth. No lips or jaw. Yet a voice emerged—mechanical.
"Landing, successful. Surface temperature, stable. Atmosphere, 70.4% nitrogen, 28.9% oxygen, trace gases present. Air density, stable."
The language wasn't made for anything living on Terah. The sounds were sharp and strange, layered with tones no human ear could follow.
But for the sake of this story—for understanding—I will translate his words into something more human - English.
Primal lowered his gaze to the ground then crouched slowly, each movement controlled and silent. His metal arms lowered, revealing two symmetrical limbs. They had no visible bolts, no exposed wiring, but each arm had a complex build, precise, and far beyond simple machinery.
His fingers were long—five on each hand—not shaped like a human's, but with a similar structure. Each one split subtly at the joints, able to adjust its shape and angle when needed.
Thin lines of dim blue light traced along the inner seams, pulsing gently as his systems activated for analysis. The tips of his metallic fingers, it could sharpen or flatten depending on need, and now, they adjusted—flattening gently to avoid harming the fragile plant life below. It brushed the grass without damage. His wrists rotated with smooth precision, allowing for angles no biological joint could manage.
On the back of each hand, a small sensor panel occasionally flickered—gathering and collecting environmental feedback and temperature data.
Sensors embedded in Primal fingertips scanned the grass, its moisture, its structure, its cellular makeup, analyzing chemical presence in the soil.
Then he spoke "Photosynthetic behavior, active. Chlorophyll response: 93.6%. Root structure, surface dense. Native flora, adaptive.". He turned one palm upward, and it displayed a faint, holographic interface which included microscopic readings, wavelengths, energy signatures. He tilted his head slightly, observing the glow.
Just as Primal began to rise, something tugged at his hand.
It was faint at first—a soft movement against the tip of his finger. Then he looked. A pale pink tendril, smooth and almost translucent, had wrapped itself around his index digit. It looked like a root or a worm, still half-buried in the soil, its surface glistening slightly under the sun. But the grip it had was far stronger than its size suggested.
PRIMAL ran a strength analysis. The numbers spiked.
Before he could retract, the worm tightened and pulled—suddenly, violently.
The ground met his knees with a loud metallic thud. Internal systems flashed red as the force surged through his arm. The grip around his finger didn't loosen. It grew tighter. Hydraulic pressure sensors registered critical stress.
Then—
Crack.
The finger snapped at the joint, shards of dark alloy scattering into the grass.
Almost immediately, the worm uncoiled from the broken finger and reattached itself higher—now wrapping tightly around Primal's full right hand. The segmented coils flexed like muscle, and the sound of straining metal echoed from Primal's forearm.
He didn't hesitate.
His left hand shifted—smoothly, silently. The fingers split and folded back into his palm, reshaping themselves into a single, flat-edged blade. With a swift movement, he brought the blade across his right wrist.
Slash.
The worm split apart.
A spray of thick, green liquid burst from the wound, hitting Primal's shoulder and faceplate. The creature let out a piercing shriek that didn't sound like anything native to earth-like ecosystems. It was sharp, shrill, alien.
And then the ground began to tremble.
Cracks spread from the worm's anchor point, and chunks of soil lifted and fell apart. The earth peeled open like a broken shell, revealing the rest of the creature buried beneath.
It was huge.
The part Primal had seen was just a lure—a decoy. The real body was thick and cylindrical, covered in glistening, armor-like plates. The underside was lined with rows of razor-thin legs that scratched and dug at the soil as it pulled itself up. Near the back of its body, a second head—or more accurately, a wide, circular mouth—opened like a blooming flower. Inside were layers of jagged teeth, slick with green fluid. The mouth clicked twice, then opened fully, emitting another deep, guttural shriek.
This was no scavenger. It was a hunter.
A trap-layer.
Designed to lure. To ambush. To kill.
Primal's optics tracked every limb, every twitch of movement. He realized the creature's tactic: it exposed part of its soft decoy-head above the soil to draw in aerial predators—likely birds or winged animals. When they swooped down to feed, it struck from beneath and dragged them underground.
Now it had targeted something much larger.
Him.
It launched at him—fast, aggressive, and purposeful—wrapping its thick, muscular body around Primal's torso in a single violent motion. The sudden contact triggered instant alerts. Red pulse flickered through the bar on his face. His internal systems registered a pressure spike as the worm's body tightened like a hydraulic vise. "Warning. Structural strain, 42%. Compensating"
The creature's grip compressed his metal frame with crushing force. Primal's limbs were locked against his sides, and he was hoisted into the air before he could stabilize. The ground fell away beneath him.
Wind screamed past.
And then—
Boom.
The creature hurled him down with brutal force. The impact cratered the earth. Dust and broken soil erupted outward like an explosion. Cracks webbed out from the point of contact. Grass bent flat in a shockwave, and for a moment, silence followed the thunder.
The sides of Primal's torso where the creature gripped him shattered into pieces. One leg twitched—nonresponsive. But it didn't stop.
Not yet.
The worm coiled again, aiming to finish him. But this time, Primal reacted.