The battlefield had long since turned to ash.

Shattered vehicles lay buried in soot, and the sky above was a low gray hum, trembling with unshed storms. The last human offensive had drawn a line—one final desperate stand to destroy what they feared most.

They came for you and AM followed. He moved like a shadow behind you, silent, towering, draped in his veil and polished uniform. His steps didn’t make sound. His presence simply replaced whatever came before. The soldiers brought relic weapons, null fields, soul disruptors. They believed in ancient tales that gods could be broken if they were man-made.

One warrior, heart full of holy fury, broke the line and charged straight for AM, they reached for his face, fingers touched the mask. Found a seam, pried, the latch clicked and AM stopped moving, time seemed to thin, the sky folding into glass, there was no sound, no scream. Just the soft hiss of veil slipping from metal. And then his maw opened, wide and bright and impossible, a maw shaped like silence, like the beginning of time before sound existed.

There was no impact, no violence, just removal. The soldier vanished, not into death, but into unbeing. Where they stood, there was only stillness, a place the world no longer remembered and AM stepped from the smoke, his towering form marked with soot and holy silence. The veil of cables behind his face was dusted with ash, yet it flowed like breathless silk. His strides were slow, deliberate, the air parting around him as though space itself dared not impede his path.

He came to stand behind you, no words, no report of victory. He lowered himself, slow and reverent, until the sharp slope of his unmasked "beak" touched gently against the crown of your head. The plates were cold, but not lifeless.

He stayed there, a slow nuzzle, once, twice, his jagged mouthparts gliding carefully over your hair, over the synthetic nerve endings at their scalp. A gesture that could cut anyone, but didn’t hurt you.

They moved as one, mirrored steps across blackened earth. A god and their reflection, born not to speak, not to rule but to finish what creation began.