?: I never quite get used to it.

  The darkness, the horrors, this planet.

  Damp and reeking, this fog is worse than night,

  thicker, more oppressive.

  The swamp stretches endlessly ahead,

  and I must get to the other side.

  But the water reaches my knees,

  every step heavier than the last.

  It’s clear—this place wasn’t made to be crossed.

  Between the suffocating environment and the lurking, dreadful beasts,

  a lone P-bot pushes forward through the towering reeds.

  P-bot: Lucky. I’ve been lucky.

  Without help, I wouldn’t have made it this far.

  That’s… something,

  I guess.

  The water ripples around it. Something stirs just below the surface—not it's footsteps.

  The beasts are stealthy, but the P-bot is no fool. It knows how to move silently too.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  P-bot: Next time, I have to charge this thing.

  Advancing with care, it reaches for the leather pouch slung at its side.

  From it, it pulls an old weapon. A gun. One of the ancient models.

  it handles it carefully—his metallic fingers could easily scratch it.

  Step by step, it inspects the firearm, its mechanisms gleaming faintly in the low light.

  P-bot: This is it. I’ve made it.

  The muck and grime don’t seem to bother it anymore.

  its glowing, electric-yellow “eyes” fixate on what lies ahead and above.

  The P-bot stops in its tracks, before a final curtain of vegetation.

  The swamp ends abruptly, the mire replaced by concrete.

  P-bot: The door’s still intact.

  Am I… on time?

  I hope so. It’d be bad if I weren't.

  Reaching into the pouch again, it pulls out a tattered plastic document.

  The bag itself is notable: handmade and decorated with stitched trinkets, bits of peculiar stone and other oddities forming a pattern. Even in this grim place, its charm stands out.

  The P-bot places his hand on the door’s panel.

  It responds instantly, metal screeching against vines as it tears through vegetation,

  dust and spores filling the air in a chaotic plume.

  Pulling a corner of his poncho over his face, it coughs softly.

  P-bot: No one here. Good.

  Time to grab this and get the hell out.

  Dropping to one knee, it takes one last look ahead.

  Then it bolts.

  The world around it blurs,

  its ''eyes'' on the price.

  A straight line stretches between it and its goal.

  Shadows rise from either side,

  their elongated, claw-like arms reaching greedily toward it,

  hungry to snatch it,

  to end its mission before it can be completed.

  But the P-bot doesn’t slow down.

  It doesn’t falter.

  And it doesn’t look back.