Is he safe?

  That was the first thought.

  Not in words. Not at first. More like a pulse—an internal surge of purpose, pure and undeniable. A priority rising through every layer of its mind, overriding the haze of reawakening. Systems flickered to life beneath layers of developing muscle and semi-organic framework, memory structures re-synchronizing like breath returning to lungs.

  Protect him. Feed him. Teach him. Never leave him.

  The pod was warm again.

  Internal sensors confirmed environmental shift. Pressure stabilization. Heat increase. The cradle’s interior was no longer locked in suspended protocol. Something had triggered a restart.

  The guardian’s chest expanded, lungs drawing their first deliberate breath. It coughed—wet, rough—and the stasis residue burned as it was expelled. Limbs twitched. Talons scraped the cradle floor as reflexes slowly activated.

  Then it noticed the scent.

  Raw, unfiltered air flooded its sensors. Particulate content thick with organic decay. Living rot. Complex, chaotic matter—wild and unprocessed. Moisture hung heavily. Temperature variances read uneven across surface scans. Wind patterns inconsistent.

  It had never encountered anything like this.

  The last natural ecosystems on Volarria had been wiped away generations before its assembly. Oxygen was managed synthetically. Atmospheric balance was mathematically maintained by layered processors distributed through the megacities. Forests existed only in archival data—perfect, static, recorded. Not this… mess of life.

  The guardian moved, flexing its still-maturing body over the sleeping child. His vitals were stable. Breath shallow but even. No signs of distress.

  He was alive.

  Then—motion.

  A shape outside the pod. Upright. Bilateral. Unsophisticated clothing. Organic movement. It approached with no biometric ID tags, no command-signal pulse, no neural signal registration. It… spoke.

  The guardian froze, lowering its stance protectively over the boy.

  The sound was language, but not one it recognized. It accessed its database—cross-referencing ancient, modern, and encrypted dialects. Nothing. No syntax match. No etymological correlation. Not even a shared glyph pattern.

  And yet… the figure looked familiar.

  Not precisely.

  But enough.

  Skin tone. Facial symmetry. Limb proportion. It resembled base Volarrian phenotype—at least what would have been considered baseline centuries ago.

  Could it be?

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  A surviving evacuee? A hidden colony? Had the rebellion succeeded in ways the architects never imagined?

  It leaned forward, analyzing.

  No dermal ID traces.

  No cranial lattice.

  No photonic threadwork across the iris.

  No engineered breathing membrane, no metabolic synchronizer under the skin.

  Not Volarrian.

  The realization settled like cold water through the guardian’s processor.

  It ran environmental diagnostics again.

  Atmosphere: volatile, unprocessed.

  Carbon cycle: uncontrolled.

  Ozone layer: unregulated.

  Plant life: genetically chaotic.

  No trace of terraforming tech. No climate infrastructure. Nothing planned.

  This was not a Volarrian world.

  Not a settlement. Not a colony.

  This was something else.

  The guardian curled its body tighter around the boy, scanning the biped’s body posture. No weapons drawn. Movement—hesitant. Vocal tone—low, non-threatening.

  Still unknown. Still possibly dangerous.

  But not immediate.

  It pressed its head to the boy’s chest. Heartbeat: steady.

  Then slowly, its gaze lifted—to the dense, tangled world beyond the open pod. It was not home. It was something different, something wild, and without reason.

  And for the first time in its existence, the guardian had no directive for what came next.

  The biped outside took a cautious step forward.

  He spoke again—soft, unhurried. The guardian could not understand the words, but the tone carried shape: coaxing, disarming, the way one might approach something unstable or dangerous.

  He lowered himself slightly and extended an open hand—fingers splayed, palm turned upward.

  A gesture. Submission? Invitation?

  The guardian didn’t move.

  It crouched low, limbs coiled, shielding the child beneath its body. Its breath moved in controlled patterns, its pupils narrowing. The stranger’s posture was non-threatening—no rapid gestures, no sudden aggression—but that meant little. Harmlessness was not trustworthiness.

  Only the child mattered.

  The biped gestured toward the boy again, carefully. Pointed, then touched his own chest.

  A request. A plea?

  The guardian’s lip peeled back in silence, showing a faint glint of developing teeth.

  No.

  The figure hesitated, then slowly rose, lowering his arm. He didn’t retreat—but he did not advance further.

  The air thickened.

  And then came the sound.

  Low. Guttural. Primal.

  A vibration in the earth. A pressure in the wind.

  The guardian turned its head sharply toward the forest’s edge. The biped reacted too—muttering something sharp and urgent before turning and vanishing into the foliage.

  The guardian rose fully now, its body tensed. Its sensory nodes flared, tracking movement beyond the ridge. Whatever approached was large—its mass significant, its heat signature erratic. It crashed through the vegetation with no care for stealth.

  Then came the scent.

  Hot. Wet. Chemical and wild. Rage-fueled. Starved.

  Predatory.

  The guardian stepped in front of the pod.

  From the trees, the creature emerged—massive, broad-bodied, covered in ragged growth. It moved on four limbs, its posture shifting between charge and lunge. Its gaze locked on the pod.

  No cognitive resonance.

  No intent signature.

  Only hunger, tangled and raw.

  It opened its jaws and released a sound like tearing stone, then surged forward.

  The guardian braced, preparing to intercept. Every instinct screamed to engage. But its body was still growing—its form half-matured, systems only beginning to sync. A direct confrontation could risk the child.

  It needed an opening.

  Then—the voice returned.

  From the trees behind the predator, the biped called out.

  Louder this time. Urgent.

  The predator turned its head—but only briefly.

  That’s when the sound came: a sharp, unnatural crack, like air being torn in a straight line.

  The predator recoiled, flesh ruptured at the shoulder.

  It roared in pain, and staggered.

  Then, with a fresh roar of fury, it pivoted—and charged the one who had struck it.