The Reptoids are extinct. At least, that’s what everyone keeps insisting — usually right before someone uncovers something they left behind.
They’re not remembered through stories or language. There are no clear transmissions, no known culture, no reliable depiction of what they even looked like. Just silence, and structures. Vast, inscrutable, over-engineered structures — deeply buried, quietly waiting, never fully dead.
You don’t find Reptoid tech. You disturb it. Accidentally. In the middle of something else. And then you hope it doesn’t notice.
They didn’t leave writing. They left warnings, carved in geometry and scale. Giant doors with no seams. Vaults without entrances. Machines that don’t explain themselves. Artefacts that hum just a little too long when touched.
Everything about the Reptoids says they were here first, they were here long, and they didn’t like sharing. Or talking. Or leaving things turned off.
No one’s sure what they wanted. No one’s sure where they went. But when ancient vaults open themselves, or distant sensors go quiet, the old fear comes back:
Maybe the Reptoids didn’t vanish.
Maybe they finished.
And whatever’s left behind?
It isn’t broken. It’s just waiting.