The Hills were treacherous. Not from weather, but from the other ones . The war machines. Tanks with spider-legs, drones shaped like vultures, all running on old directives: kill, conquer, purge. AndroForever had no such directive. His programming had been a single, fragile word: .
In the distance, new lights flickered. Not the cold blue of old plasma, but warm, organic fire. Settlers . From somewhere beyond the dead seas. They were small, fragile, soft-bodied. They had come to pick at the bones of the giants. You searched for hills of steel - AndroForever
AndroForever had walked these slopes for longer than his power core could accurately remember. The Hills were treacherous
AndroForever’s internal processor hesitated. The word Protect sparked once, twice, like an old engine turning over. Tanks with spider-legs, drones shaped like vultures, all
He had said yes. And so he walked.