Surface Conditions Normal
The dust lifted in slow-motion arcs, catching light and drifting in the stillness. Each step left a crisp imprint behind.
A boot.
Another.
Then silence.
The surface shifted with each step—dry, light, but somehow spongy.
Each footprint landed in slow motion, the dust curling up before settling back down like flour in zero gravity.
Above him, the sky was endless. Still. Pure.
No sign of movement on the ridge.
He bounced forward with practiced grace, careful to preserve his momentum. Each landing gave a satisfying thud. Low gravity. Predictable.
The oxygen hissed in his ears.
He tapped the side of his helmet. “Mitchell to base,” he said, voice calm. “Surface conditions normal. Proceeding with recon sweep.”
No response. Expected.
Communications lagged this far out. You learned to work alone. Think alone.
He reached the edge of a crater and crouched. The rocks were unusual—lightweight, colored strangely. One had what looked like cartoon eyes drawn on it. He made a note in his log.
Possible non-natural markings. Investigate further if time permits.
Movement caught his eye.
Across the far ridge—a blur of color. Small. Darting. Fast.
He narrowed his eyes.
“Visual contact with unidentified form,” he said into the mic. “Repeat: movement on the surface. Humanoid proportions, estimated two feet in height. Possibly juvenile.”
He straightened and bounded toward the ridge.
The creature vanished behind a dome structure—silver and bulbous, with plastic-looking seams.
No—polycarbonate. That made more sense. Some kind of shelter?
He approached carefully. Debris littered the entry path. Crushed fragments. A smell, faintly synthetic. He stepped over what looked like a deflated star.
Then he saw it again.
The lifeform.
It squealed. Darted left. Then right. Then vanished beneath the dome.
“Engaging pursuit,” he muttered.
Commander Mitchell crouched low. Coiled his legs. And launched.
⸻
The world lurched. A jolt ran through his back. Then—
Wailing.
A siren?
No. Not mechanical.
Alive. High-pitched. Shrill.
His helmet slipped sideways. His oxygen hiss changed pitch.
He blinked.
The stars were gone.
Above him: a sagging vinyl ceiling, stitched with thick seams. Saturn hung by two cords. One was unraveling.
Something warm slid down his cheek.
“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”
A woman’s face appeared inches from his. Screaming. Furious.
“You landed on my son!”
Commander Mitchell sat up. A slice of pizza clung to the side of his head, sauce mashed into his hair like an alien parasite.
Beneath him, a small child wailed in a crumpled superhero costume.
“Are you out of your mind?” the woman shrieked. “This is a birthday party! What are you even—are you drunk?”
Gary blinked. Reality crashed in, fast and unforgiving.
The bounce house swayed as toddlers launched themselves at walls. Plastic planets bobbed overhead. An animatronic mouse twisted in place, mid-song, its eyes blinking like it knew too much.
“GARY!”
His wife.
She stormed through the mesh entrance, eyes locked on him, hands clenched in fists of mom-rage.
“I sent you for napkins!”
Gary looked down. Still holding the napkin. Slightly wrinkled. Still clean.
“I… was gathering samples,” he said, confused by the sound of his own voice.
“Oh my God.” She turned to the angry mother. “I am so sorry.”
“My kid was playing, and this idiot fell on him!”
Gary stood slowly. A second slice peeled off his back and flopped onto the vinyl with a sad, wet splat.
“I thought I saw-” his wife cut him off with a wave of her hand.
The crying got louder.
The bounce house began to deflate slightly as a kid by the air blower yanked out the plug.
His wife stared at him like she was recalculating every life decision that led to this moment.
Gary stepped through the mesh exit flap and turned back, taking one last look.
The Saturn ring wobbled and fell, catching on a string of lights. A juice box exploded near a kid’s elbow. Somewhere, a kazoo shrieked.
He sighed.
“Surface conditions,” he muttered, brushing cheese from his ear, “more volatile than expected.”
