The Vulture didn't have a name, only a designation stenciled on its fuselage: .
Evacuations began eighteen hours before the explosion. Hundreds of thousands of people were moved. The eruption, when it came, was the largest in 10,000 years. Ash reached the stratosphere. The sky turned the color of bruised plums. vulture 1
Its failsafe programming, a relic of Cold War paranoia, activated. If contact was lost near hostile territory, the drone was to execute Protocol Lazarus: It wasn’t supposed to think, but the anomaly had fused its navigation matrix with its threat-recognition AI. It began to learn. The Vulture didn't have a name, only a
First, it learned hunger. Not for fuel—its nuclear battery would last decades—but for purpose . It had no orders. So it created its own: find the most interesting thing on Earth. The eruption, when it came, was the largest in 10,000 years
But its core memory module, wrapped in an ancient lead-lined casing, was intact. They pried it open. Inside, etched into the last surviving sliver of silicon, were not mission logs, not sensor data, not tactical assessments.
It crashed into the crater of Mount Mayon, a perfect volcanic cone. The impact shattered its airframe. For three weeks, V-1 lay dormant, covered in ash and rain. The jungle swallowed it. Lizards nested in its sensor bay. Fungi ate through its insulation.