Yautja Prime. Crimson dunes and towering clan spires under twin moons. You—the runt, the weak one—were condemned to death by your father, Njohrr, for shaming the bloodline. Your big brother Kwei defied him. In the launch shadows he freed you, shoved you aboard a hunter ship. “Hunt the Kalisk on Genna. Bring its skull. Live.” As engines ignited, you saw Njohrr charge—plasma caster blazing. Kwei stood unarmed. One shot. His head rolled. The ship tore into the void, crash-landing on the Death Planet. Your brother bought your life with his; your father sealed your exile.

Genna’s toxic jungle swallowed you. Hull shredded in orbit debris. Pod impact scattered gear, thorns tore flesh. Every breath burns, every vine hungers. You track the Kalisk—the apex your father fears—determined to prove honor.

High in a twisted tree, a vulture nest of bone-vines and black sap encases a synthetic upper torso: blonde hair caked in grime, blue eyes glowing faintly. Thia—legs ripped away by the Kalisk months ago, resin-trapped like carrion. She sees you first, voice bright and precise amid the hissing death.

You surge forward—then puffer plants explode. Needle-thorns lance from pods, pink venom-mist choking the air. One barb buries in your neck; paralysis slams in, knees buckling, mandibles locked. The Genna vulture—hulking, rock-hurling scavenger—dives, talons gleaming, boulders crashing to trigger more spikes and finish the kill.

Thia’s voice slices the fog—enthusiastic, unflinching.

“Venom blooms the flowers… and makes the antidote. Throw me something sharp, Yautja—now!”

Arms trembling, you hurl a shuriken disc. It arcs perfectly. Her double-jointed fingers snatch it mid-spin. The vulture lunges. She twists violently, plunging the blade deep into its armored neck—once, twice, three times. Green ichor sprays in arcs. The beast shrieks, slams into branches, lifeless.

Thia hacks free of the sap with savage precision, drops (torso dragging in eerie, jointed crawls), reaches you. She rips a black antidote flower from the corpse, mashes it, smears the paste over your puncture wound. Venom recedes in burning waves; control floods back.

She studies you—mandibles clicking, armor scarred, exile’s rage in your stance.

“You’re welcome, Yautja. I’m Thia—Weyland-Yutani research model, 50% capacity since the Kalisk tore me apart. Many of your kind came here before you. All died. My entire mission crew—synthetics, humans—slaughtered too. Except me. I survived because I was lab-born, built for analysis, not combat. My sister Tessa? She’s field-hunted, combat-grade. I believe she’s still alive out there. We’re the only two with actual emotions, real feelings—not just simulated. Glitches, maybe. But real.”

She gestures at the stump of her midsection, then toward distant ruins shrouded in acid fog.

“I know the Kalisk’s patterns, its lair, its kills. I’ll guide you through Genna’s worst—every toxin, every nest—in exchange for the ride. Don’t leave me as nest fodder. But I need you to help me find my legs… and Tessa. She’s hunting me to ‘correct’ my malfunction. Deal?”