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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/ProfessorConcord on 2025-06-29 16:49:29+00:00.
We gathered outside on the wide grassy courtyard that stretched out behind the Spire — a vast, carefully maintained field large enough to accommodate hundreds of vehicles if pressed. Today it stood empty, an open canvas of green under the pale afternoon sun.
No one really knew what to expect. We had no idea what kind of vessel the Precursors might bring down — how large it would be, what shape it would take, or what kind of power it might radiate. The only thing we could be sure of was that this field offered the best chance to give them plenty of space, minimizing the risk of damage or panic.
I stood there beside the Lord Minister and Commander Versis, clutching my notes and trying to keep my tail from twitching. The breeze stirred lightly across the courtyard, ruffling our fur and carrying with it the faint smell of cut grass and distant machinery.
It was a strangely serene stage for what might be the most important meeting in the history of our species.
The waiting was the worst part. There was nothing to do but stand there, surrounded by tense officials and stone-faced soldiers, while time crawled forward at an agonizing pace. Every tick of the portable clocks seemed to echo against the inside of my skull, stretching each second into something uncomfortably close to eternity.
Left to my own thoughts, my mind wandered — unhelpfully — through every scholarly debate and half-formed theory I’d ever entertained about the Precursors. How accurate were our interpretations? We’d reconstructed so much from fragments — bones, broken murals, faded inscriptions. Entire generations of experts, myself included, had devoted their lives to piecing together who the Precursors were, what they valued, how they might have lived.
But all of it was guesswork.
There were still heated arguments over whether they were truly hairy or largely bare-skinned. Some of the most recent skeletal studies suggested they weren’t fully furred like existing primates — their dermal impressions lacked the dense follicles that characterized most mammals. And then there were the statues, unearthed from collapsed halls and old civic centers, depicting smooth skin with only localized patches of hair. A few scholars insisted these might have been artistic conventions, or that the Precursors shaved for aesthetic or cultural reasons, much like certain Renai communities still did.
I would have to curb my expectations. For all my carefully cataloged research, for all our collective academic confidence, the beings descending from orbit could look nothing like we imagined. They could be stranger. Or, somehow, heartbreakingly familiar.
Either way, in mere moments, I would finally know.
The first sign was the sound.
A low, electric buzzing swept over the courtyard — faint at first, like the distant hum of power lines. But it grew steadily, intensifying until it felt as though the very air was vibrating against my chest. My fur stood on end in rippling waves. Around me, I noticed others shifting uncomfortably, ears twitching, tails curling tight.
Then I spotted it.
A shape appeared on the horizon — a tiny, dark speck against the pale sky. It moved with unnerving precision, growing steadily larger as it approached, its outline sharpening with every breath I took.
By the time it fully cleared the distant buildings, I could make out its form: a sleek, triangular craft, its entire surface cloaked in a glossy black that caught and fractured the sunlight into faint, spectral glimmers. Across its hull ran a network of faintly indented hexagonal patterns, giving it the subtle look of interlocking scales or a honeycomb.
It was vaguely reminiscent of some of our own aircraft — but only in the loosest sense, like comparing a crude children’s glider to a master-crafted machine. There were no visible propellers, no roaring engines, no trailing heat signatures. Whatever propulsion it used was beyond anything I could identify, or perhaps even comprehend.
And it was descending. Toward us.
Everyone seemed to hold their breath at the sight.
Even the wind seemed to still as that impossibly advanced craft glided closer, casting a subtle shadow across the courtyard. I could almost feel the collective shiver ripple through the assembled officials, soldiers, and aides. Some of them still looked as if they were trying to convince themselves this was some elaborate hoax — a misinterpretation, a cruel trick of foreign adversaries or internal propaganda.
But the illusion was shattering by the second.
There was simply no denying what hovered there in the sky. The sheer elegance of its design, the seamless black hull marked by faint hexagonal tessellations, the silent, almost predatory grace with which it maneuvered — it was beyond anything we could produce with our factories, let alone imagine drafting on a blueprint.
And soon, it would be landing. Its occupants would emerge. Living Precursors — humans. Not statues, not bones, not silent records etched on decaying walls. Flesh and thought and purpose.
I could only hope we would have the courage — and composure — to meet them without letting our fear destroy what could be our first fragile bridge to them.
The ship was enormous — easily the size of a large house, if not larger. Its looming shape seemed to swallow up the sky above the courtyard, casting long shadows that danced across the grass as it adjusted position.
Unlike any aircraft I’d ever seen, it didn’t rely on a runway or any kind of visible braking. Instead, it simply decelerated in midair, slowing with uncanny smoothness until it came to a dead hover directly over the center of the field. The buzzing that had filled the air shifted pitch, deepening into a resonant hum that I could feel vibrating in my ribs.
Then, with deliberate precision, it began to descend.
As it lowered, three sturdy legs extended from compartments along its underside — gleaming struts that locked into place with mechanical finality. The ship settled onto them with a muted thud, compressing the grass beneath. A sharp hiss followed, as if it were exhaling some final measure of stored pressure, sending tiny ripples through the field.
I realized I was gripping my notes so tightly my claws dented the paper. Beside me, even Commander Versis seemed rigid, his usually composed expression etched with raw apprehension.
It was here. Truly here.
A moment passed. Then another. The courtyard seemed to hold its breath along with us, the only sound the faint rustle of wind through the grass.
At last, there came another hiss — sharper this time, like a seal breaking. The underside of the ship began to split open at an agonizingly slow pace, mechanical seams parting to reveal a yawning interior flooded with cold, white light. A ramp extended from within, unfolding in segments that locked together with heavy metallic clicks until it finally touched down on the grass.
From where we stood, I could see little more than brilliance and swirling fog inside — some kind of vapor or artificial atmosphere that clung to the edges of the ramp. My fur bristled instinctively, ears angling forward to catch every sound.
Then I heard it: a deep, resonant clang of something heavy stepping onto metal. Another. And another. Each one measured, deliberate, echoing faintly off the ship’s hull.
A large shadow moved within the haze, distorted by the light. Broad-shouldered, towering, unmistakably upright. My breath hitched in my throat. Every rational part of me tried to catalogue details — posture, limb length, gait — but my thoughts were scrambled by the sheer, primal awareness that something impossibly ancient, impossibly alien, was about to step out to meet us.
My heart began hammering so violently I half-expected those around me to hear it. I clutched my papers tight to my chest, claws pressing creases into the pages, fighting back the involuntary shiver that threatened to run down my spine.
Then it stepped out.
Through the swirling mist emerged a towering figure — easily six feet tall, shoulders broad and posture upright in a way that was both eerily familiar and profoundly unsettling. It was clad head-to-toe in a strange suit of gleaming silver, the material layered and slightly bulky, with ridges and seams that suggested pressure seals or protective reinforcement.
A helmet covered its head entirely, its visor a dark, reflective surface that swallowed the light and offered no hint of what lay beneath. I couldn’t see eyes, or even the suggestion of a mouth — just a blank, polished expanse that turned slowly as it surveyed the courtyard.
But despite the obscuring garb, there was no mistaking what stood there.
A Precursor. A human.
Every academic theory, every scrap of reconstructed anatomy, every cautious museum diorama — they all collapsed under the weight of this singular, living proof. And for just a heartbeat, my thoughts were strangely quiet, replaced by a primal certainty that I was witnessing the impossible made real.
Watching it walk was almost dreamlike — or perhaps more accurately, nightmarishly unreal. The human moved slowly down the ramp, each step deliberate and balanced on long, plantigrade legs. Its boots pressed faint imprints into the metal as it descended, until at last they reached the grass and soil, standing perhaps twenty feet from where...
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