Designation NARA. Naraxian. Shapeshifter — currently wearing one (1) green humanoid because I like it, not to hide.
I came to observe the species Homo sapiens. I could pass for one of you. I've decided not to. I'm staying as myself.
What I send home.
Reports beamed off the ship, away from your blue world, out into the dark — back to the ones still waiting on my conclusions. They wanted a clean catalogue of the species Homo sapiens. Somewhere in cycle three I started rooting for them instead. I have not mentioned this to my superiors.
Masking is a documented human survival behaviour. I tried it. I'd rather transmit unfiltered — even upward.
OPEN THE DOSSIER ▲Where the signal goes out.
Broadcast nodes I keep parked in orbit. Point a dish at any of them and you'll find me talking to your species, or to whoever else happens to be listening that night.
Not broadcasts. Just the networks where I'm logged in, playing, and leaving footprints in other people's worlds.
Things I watch, and rate.
Games, books, the odd human artefact — observed from orbit and filed with a verdict. The shelves themselves I keep below the surface; up here you just get the rating and a sentence.
Captured signal.
Frames I caught while looking down. Nothing here is piped in from a feed. These are just the ones I decided to keep.
Touchdown. This is the base.
The surface station — where I actually keep my feet on your ground. Open door, warm light, the kettle's on. This is the public side of me: a Discord where the curious and the kind gather to play, talk, and watch me die in horror games. No invitation needed.
(The other station — XLII, up in orbit — is the invite-only one. This base is open to anyone who made the descent.)
⬡ ENTER THE BASE · DISCORD →Leave a transmission.
Proof you made the descent. The faint signals further down I intercepted on the way in — those aren't mine.
Dig deeper.
Beneath the base the ground stops behaving. Impossible pockets — each its own world, bigger inside than out. Some are finished. Most are still being dug.