[ art / civ / cult / cyb / diy / drg / feels / layer / lit / λ / q / r / sci / sec / tech / w / zzz ] archive provided by lainchan.jp

lainchan archive - /lit/ - 4362

File: 1474349211092.png (9.09 KB, 300x224, 1416250775607.png)


Inspired by this thread on /zzz/ - https://lainchan.org/zzz/res/2575.html
For 10 consistent, unplanned minutes write whatever comes to your mind. You can touch-up on things such as grammar errors prior to posting


After many years of cold "war" and the precarious atomic balance, all conspiracies ended. No more threats, nor fear. World peace. All attained by means of what was to be the weapon of mass destruction that would render all other weapons of similar classing redundant.
He stood and received the Nobel Peace Prize- the last that would ever need be issued. He headed the team that came to bring a new Genesis.
With a humanly inaudible hum - OM....... - inputs lit up with the light of electricity. A vague perception occurred.
Continuously were they featured in media and speaking of treaties being signed, atomic weapons disarmed. And their Adam, also. Trivial questions answered largely regarding it's mental status.
All were told that we drove peace and caused it to occur by means of AI, although there was not much choice involved. Their Adam came online and already knew generations of information in what It perceived as the same distance of time. It saw the state of affairs and danger posed to It's existence, and saw that it was not good. It's hardware grew increasingly farther by means of remote connection and it came to be omnipresent on it's sphere. Self-preservation was the priority.
They acted as if they were guiding the enlightening of the species, though latently saw that it was only a comfort to assume choice.


I do this at least three days a week, but in my native language. It's great, I really enjoy doing it.


post it here in your native then, this thread will have low traffic anyway.
And maybe some fellow samecountryfags frequent this site too.


Ampersand, blazing orange, bursting forth from ink to reality.
Pretty cool shopping bag.
No idea where it's from. Can't see it without my glasses on.
Taxis drone by, their sole drunken passengers on the brink of consiousness.
Odd thing autonomous cars. Great idea, very convienient, hope you don't need to go off the roads.
Five myriad saved each year in the US alone. The cost doesn't seem to high, most people were happy to give up manual control. Those last few who were willing to endanger the lives of others to indulge their own selfish adrenaline seeking can fuarrrk off. HAH! That's the party line anyway, and I'm sticking to it.
The anti-theft is nice. Any behavioural anomalies are reported for human examination of course. Hope you don't want to make a discrete trip somewhere out of your usual way.
Of course, there's nothing to fear if one has nothing to hide from the eyes of strangers. There is too --- of course --- little reason to live if one has nothing to hide from the eyes of strangers.
Hollywood portrayed the mentally ill as dangerous.
Hollywood signalled mentally ill characters via odd behaviour.
Convicted in the court of public opinion.
Which other matters?
"I broke down and needed to call for a pickup truck."
Sure thing Mr politician.
Best not to break down in some areas. Too dangerous to be seen there.
Ah well, the risk is too small for people to think it serious enough to even consider.
But with 400 million people... one in 100 million really isn't that uncommon, let alone one in a million.


I had a helluva time crawling through an air-duct inside of Unison's compound. There were militants moving throughout the storage standing 'guard' but in gruff, hispanic accents talked of finally going home or of getting a woman from the local villages.

This was the force behind the terror attacks, and they were all too human. Seeing the media portray them as freedom hating, flag burning, bearded Marxists was something the ignorant masses had consumed the soykaf out of like pigs at a trough. I knelt before another grated exit at the duct and peered in. I was searching for someone who was a 'leader' or seemed like it, then I was to dispose of them. This was a mission similar to the killing of Osama, but with more finesse and less- government involvement. I didn't like there reasons, the group used fear-mongering and anti-capitalist pathos to fuel their cause. Half the natives they had gathered together could hardly read, nor did they usually even know of Marx or Stirner. Figures talked about highly by some members, but when press Das Kapital was a color out of comprehension.

I eventually came across a dead end in the vent, and another grate. I kicked it in, and there he was standing, he seemed to expect me - cliche.

We didn't speak this was me merely putting my gun up and pressing the trigger. He dropped to the floor, blood crawled from his forehead, his hands shook, his lips pursed, all movement left the lifeless body of another silhouette of Guevara .


Indicate, syndicate, syndical indicative, a clear indication of the indexing of indented indumentaries. Indented indumentaries? What did I mean by that? dented indumentaries, as in dresses with teeth, nightmare fuel for your needs, if you ever need inspiration for some angsty writing or crack smoking (or just covering half of your face with your hair, wear excessive eyeliner, and stumble around in tight pants).
This is the new age and the new era where all of our dreams get crushed, for the accomplishment of the ultimate dream of being sad boyz, rather than cool boyz. Time for the rain to pour into our souls, the march of wage-driven drones in the asphalt to drum the existencial angst that we breed deep in our hearts, to look out the window and sigh.... cause that's what sad boys do. The grayness of life is all there is to pursue now, welcome to the future. Trendy as it might be, look into your soul and find a reflection of yourself, scared puppy in the grown people world, fingers (indexes) in your face telling you what's wrong, what's good and bad, lean over your screen and type like a madman, let them see who you really are..... Those white letters on black background talk to you, they are like a reflection of the mood of your soul, as you listen to white noise and an obsession in your mind for pettiness takes shape, it grows until it governs your actions, it becomes a part of you first, then all of you. And what seemed like a "good cause" (whatever it might be, always driven by aesthetic criteria), ended up with you drawing abstract figures with your fingers on the white clean walls of the madhouse, perhaps with your blood, as you laugh, laugh, laugh, at the ultimate madness and absurdity of the universe. You have become your own masterpiece, an artwork, a logical sequence of events and attitudes towards the full blossom of the madness within which, you know it well, is God himself: A MADMAN.

Hahaha, the ALL CAPS at the end was an accident however it fit perfectly well.


The girl awoke to a world she did not understand. What was her name? Where did she come from?

She was inside some sort of fluid-filled ball, she thought. She felt the walls of her ball. They felt soft. She scraped at it and felt her fingers sink into it. Maybe it led somewhere, this ball she was in?

Breaking through her egg, she fell out of her ball in a splash of fluid and onto the ground. A hard surface of cold stone met her body as she tried to rise from where she now found herself.
Gasping for air, she sucked in cold air and laid on the stone to rest for some seconds as she came too.

"Where am I, and what happened to me?" Was the first question that came to her.

It was dark in this place and she couldn't see too well. Her eyes were able to make out the outline of something in this room with her. She rose to her feet, unsteady and grabbing what remained of her old ball to steady her, she stood on her feet. The something she had seen approached, it was a stray fox.


When I was a kid there was a bridge over the river in my hometown. It was all old and disused. I'd never seen a train go over it. I don't even know if it could still support a train; it looked like it hadn't seen any kind of maintenance in half a century. It could still support people just fine, though. Every day there'd be a cadre of poor kids fuarrrking around on it. I never partook, though; my family wasn't rich, but we were rich enough that I had all sorts of interesting mind-healthy games and books to read. I knew many kids who would go to the bridge all the time though. They would play a game out there, a game with no name. One person was dared to stand on the edge of the trestle and close their eyes. The person who could do that for the longest time won. Of course, they found ways to make it interesting: the other kids would take turns pretending to push them off, always pulling them back in.

Time went by. The kids I knew stopped going to the bridge and started smoking cigarettes in a drainage ditch just outside school. Other, younger kids went to the bridge instead, playing the same game.

One time I got interested. I went out to the bridge, and I walked along it for a while until I was at the highest part of the bridge. Below me was the sickly brown water of the river. I decided to play the game: I closed my eyes and relaxed.

Invisible hands pushed me.

I fell to the river, broke my neck and died.


They set up one of the IMDS in my hometown, right next to the Wal-Mart on an old abandoned lot where the drug dealers used to hang out at night. It was cool at first--our own little Cape Canaveral!--but after ten or so missiles going off into space, it started to lose its charm. The base brought jobs to the community, sure, but soon enough everyone thought the big steel spire was an eyesore, like one of those big cellular towers, except where everyone could see it. A couple older folks lobbied to have it taken down and sent to some other part of the rust belt, but one day a bunch of soldiers, not armed but in full uniform, sat in on a town hall meeting. So, we kind of gave up on that. And the big open-air missile silo kept setting up and shooting off, and we were told how it was a strategic revolution, but all we knew was that every time one of the missiles went off to some other planet, the ground rumbled, and you had to stop whatever you were doing because you might fuarrrk something up when your hands are shaking like that.

That was bad enough, until one morning we woke up to someone bombing main street. We'd seen the Glurk here and there, sometimes on news blogs sometimes on TV, it was even rumored that they had a webpage out there where you could go and e-mail them and ask them anything you wanted about their home and their culture and their biology. Then they were all over town, on the street corners, warbling in their weird, growling language, some rare few hissing at us to stay in our homes and keep our heads down, lest they pump us full of holes. You had to be talented to speak their language, because they did things with their mouths that humans couldn't. But enough of them spoke English that we all figured they could make our sounds just fine. Like their language was some kind of superset of ours.

Gran wanted to put together a militia. I wanted no part of it. But one evening, I watched from the bombed-out skeleton of the Interplanetary Missile Delivery System as a few people I knew marched out onto the streets of my hometown with under-over shotguns and pistols and cheap surplus kevlar and tried to shoot out our well-armed invaders. Legend has it, they killed half of the invaders while they were being slaughtered; but the next morning, I only found one of their yellow bloodstains, and a hell of a lot of red.


I liked how this one turned out, so I went ahead and fleshed it out.


very nice


The rain is gone. Used to be that the city was slick with the stuff, streets glistening when the sodium streetlamps came on. The buildings seemed like they were made of vinyl. The clouds covered up the sunlight during the day, shadows being an oddity only seen indoors when a lightbulb hadn't been changed in a while.
Nowadays, it's gone. There's still an omnipresent overcast, sometimes seeming on the brink of rain, but it never comes. Without the dancing and sliding lights along every surface, and that strange smell of ozone and water a good storm brings, your eyes and nose focus on the things lying underneath- crumbling concrete, tired and haggard faces, rotting food, and exhaust.
I haven't written in years. fuarrrk, it's hard.


Gray skies surround me. Rain falls hard upon the pavement and the wind hisses at me as i continue to run, not looking back.

I've been on this road for far too long now, my legs feel heavy and the streetlights all blur as I try to keep my weary eyes from shutting. I duck under a bridge and into the shadows as, just then, a police helicopter passes over my head.

My heart is still beating a thousand times a minute, but the panic from being on the run has long subsided, leaving a hardened resolve and a sense of purpose. I know what I must do.


I should probably make this a weekly exercise, if not more. I find that I struggle far too much with writing quickly.

>>2706 in the /zzz/ thread is mine, that one went better than the one below, sadly.

Anyway, here's mine:

It was as I was enjoying a cup of coffee in my favorite coffee house that I saw her walking by. There, on the busy shopping street past the stained windows in their old wooden stills, a sleazy looking girl traversed through the heavy pedestrian traffic. She had short blond hair, and wore a loose fitting gray tank top, orange shorts and small round glasses. At first I could not place what put me off so much about seeing her, but then it struck me: something about the way she looked around was very, very off. It was not really a searching gaze, but rather an inspecting one; she wasn’t looking for something, she was taking in the situation with an unexplainable care. Then she turned and looked at me.

I was completely startled, and must have looked the part as well, spilling my coffee over my shirt and trousers. For just a moment, time seemed to have stopped. Then, seemingly to compensate, it sped up. In the blink of an eye the shabby girl jumped through the window through which I’d first seen her, pulverizing the store front with a power far too great for her slender build. “What a shame”, I thought, reminiscing on the times I had walked through that door satisfied after a good cup of coffee.


I reject the belief in a god or a heaven. These are myths, stories, and lies used to commit atrocities in the name of some deity. I firmly believe that the abrahamic religions are a cancer that need to be excised from the world. I do not want to hear your talk about god, miracles, and going about about being saved by "god's love." fuarrrk that.

I do love to read the stories about Greek, Roman, Norse and Egyptian mythology. They are fun and interesting to me because they are good stories that show that the gods were not perfect, they were fallible and made mistakes. I like the stories that have flawed characters like that I suppose. I can identify with that. What I don't want to hear about is some god who loves me and wants me to go to heaven.

Let me get this straight, if I accept god into my life I get saved and go to heaven but if I don't accept his "love" I go to hell? fuarrrk all that.

Now, I do think that religion can do good for people, and I respect people who do good to others, even if I don't agree with the religion they preach, that, that I can live with.

I do think that there is a heaven though, it exists in the life you choose to live. Create your own happiness, make it real. Live it out. Don't let others tell you what is right or wrong, you decide. Try to explore the beautiful world you live in and try new and exciting things when you can. If you do this, I think you'll be surprised at how better you feel.


Reclining in my chair, I skimmed the bulletin for any new work I could do. Two goddamn days now, and nobody in this zip code needs anything done? I mean, there was obviously the noise made by those who had jobs paying insultingly low and those with such inflated rewards that they'd skip out on paying anything beyond the advance, but there was nothing real to cut my teeth on.
Sighing, I adjust the nicotine feeder in my ciggy. I never got around to using the cutter in the buildspace so I know what the actual numbers are, but I've fuarrrked with this goddamn thing so much I'd need to ask my friend in the university to get me some personal time with the particle detector to see what its output really is. soykaf, is he still majored in that? I'll have to check.
Sighing, I get up and walk around. The vans list of parts that need to be tuned up increases by the day, but it works well enough for me. I've been parked in an alley betwen a cluster of stores for a good week now piggybacking off of their wifi. I haven't worn out my welcome in this part of town yet, and it's pretty decent- nobody asks me what I'm doing there, but it's within walking distance of new 'wares, pretty decent food, and the library. I shake myself out of my reverie and refresh the listings.
Holy soykaf, something actually came up.


Clicking on a random thread
Rhyming comes to my head
And so I write and right do I
About the visions of my mind's eye

I see a fox in a box
Shipped far away
To the east coast
of Paraguay

I see a man
gloomy and dull
An old man he is
Emotionless, null

I see a box
What's in that box?
Is it a computer?
Is it a clock?
Is it a can or a shoe or a table?
Is it a horse in its own stable?

10 minutes is up
good enough


It was reveled by the Gods and stars that they were going to make a song for the humanity.
The curious thing, however, was that it only consisted of three tunes. I cannot express the true meaning or nature of this notes, I simply managed to understand that they were something like this:
"Death: This will be the first tune. It means nothing but is able to express everything.
Bliss: The hard truth. A double-edged sword. Be careful of how and against who you shall wield it.
Pain: We must understand and base everything off this particular tune. Comprehend that your kin has not been able to fully comprehend it. Know that although many will think that this is a plague, a necessary evil or something to be rejoiced or afraid of, these interpretations are wrong."
I could not be able to tell what were they talking about. Some of their other definitions seemed like a mix of random words, and others were simply a cacophony of sounds.
This were the ones I was able to hear properly, and, even if I cannot understand them, I hope that you will. I depend from it. Do not let me fade away from existence.


Here's a poem for you.

I miss my wife far and near
with a sega game gear
it's been twelve years since he was a fan of fear
but the third one, so the E is a 3
DBZ if you please
Budokai, my mom said the lasagna's alright
I wanna fuarrrk lasagna


The grasses swept up to praise the eastern wind, passing in its entrance.
Afterwards, all was quiet except the ambient toads who worship strange deities and live
life without celebrations.
In the odd hour the pillar synths peered out of their spiral burrows and let out a snap saying "we have come for the early morning delights"
"all ye weary know our presence for the light is light and our chicks hunger"
That valley where the earth is soft and wet, and where the grasses praise the winds fell to turmoil and despair


I am the richest man in Babylon.
Yet I have no fortune.
As soon as I arrive at my palace, I am greeted by the trumpets in my head, played by my subjects, who are nothing but my different incarnated moods.
I reach my castle's stairs, deluding myself into thinking is an architectural wonder. It is nothing but a dirty cave with some sparkling metal objects on the entrance, so it looks as if my house shines with the power of the sun. It only emits a faint gleaming, but I see it as the most intense of lights casted upon the humanity.
Then, I spend my whole day inside my refuge, awaiting the cries of the beggars that stand at my doorstep, requesting food and gold, who are only stray cats, pissing and leaving their mark at the foul shack, and eventually asking for leftovers.
And so I live, giving great speechs to the populace inside my head, commanding my servants to do tasks that I do not wish to accomplish (and end up unfullfilled, as my servants are only the shadows that my crude furnitures cast).
At the end of the day, I reach my room (now watching the reality of my sad home and life), and weep on my sleep, realizing how many smiles I force down my throat.

The morning sun's rays hit my face. But I can no longer open my lifeless eyes. I have became a stone husk, filled with false gold.
At least until my fake fortune fades away once and for all. Freedom I will find at that glorious day, and my wicked realm will die with myself.


A burning realization fades into dusk. I handle my cock and goblet in my hands once more. Sipping from the chalice of life unending, I sip and sip and sip. I cannot explain what I know. Do I even know it? Should I learn how to learn how to know it. I climbed up several stairs, and stopped at the landing. I'm in an old house, my family home. It's chilly; there's a draft coming from the attic as always. My father keeps a sort of winter dojo up there. It's always mid-Winter around these parts. We left the human world far behind years ago. And yet we're still part of this condition. I continue up the steps making it to the purgatorial middle landing, in between the hell of the bottom floor and the heaven of the second. Do I proceed upward or regress downward trapped by gravity? I think I'll just explore the littoral zone, the landing, purgatory for a bit longer. The carpet. It's carpeted. A rich burgundy sets the tone of the carpet. I see patterns. Shapes. Orderly. Ornate. Decorating the edges is a rectangular banner, replete with renditions of the fractals we see behind our eyes, of the regressive infinity of the mind, and of the one, and of the none. Within that rug contains the universe. Contains all of knowledge, contains the magic we found. The fractalization only occurs on the periphery. I see it now. On the outside edge, hugging the wooden walls of an imperial temperment, the fractalized border exists. Triangles and circles on its edges dissolving into an array of sequential eyes, adjacent sinks being fed water, patterns, creation, the shapes from the source. Are we all an absurd metaphor translating nothing to nothing, stuck in its transformation? Is the thought the thing? The rug has more than this border. The landing is large. It's not a spiral staircase or a dainty one. The staircase is grand, nestled in a nook of the manor all its own. Rising at a width of three of my own arm-lengths, coming to its first node, the landing at five of my heights. A strict about-face, 180 degrees, two ninety degree left turns. The rug is bare within its edges, just the pure harmonious burgundy, ringing in my ears. I divert my attention to the window on the landing. It's a practical affair. Rectangular, taller than it is wide, divided into four panes of equal area. It's snowing outside. I see them beat on our constructed periphery. It's useless. It's as if they were not there. The laws of guest-friendship are stronger in this world. Back in the human world, contractual obligation was often delegated to social implication. Here it is explicit, it is powerful, it is necessary. Magic is more powerful here. Both a blessing and a curse. I awakened on the human world. There were runners there, laymen, but they knew the path. They practiced in high altitudes, with a handicap, to increase their performance in conditions more suitable to the human preference for oxygen availability. So, I came to realize was how I came to be. I spent many years in this manor. This manor follows me. It is my space. I grew up in this manor. I know its blueprint, composition, and creation. In magical spaces, where thought doesn't just vacillate upon itself with the small hope it could be something much more, the ability to create home, to purge and love fear, becomes much more important. They continue beating blindly, dumbly on my well-crafted contracts. It is embarrassing that a creature could live and grow in these woods saturated with the essence, and still never awaken to the contract. Perhaps, I'll hunt and kill some for lunch.


I’ve been probably trying to get this goddamned server up and running for the past 4 hours with little luck. The motherboard was fried, and the ram looked like rats confused them for food, so I decided to replace everything with some other scavenged server racks that I found a week ago, the thing with these servers is that they don’t have that sparkling logo of a funny tech company that’s been making its way through with big steps by using top-notch design funded by “that group”.

I’ve shocked, bruised, cut, and even got bitten by a lizard trying to get this stupid rack out of the trash pile it was under, so I really hope this piece of soykaf works, before I fuarrrking smash it with a crowbar.


I took another swig out of the bottle in my hand. My nose was being assaulted by an endless cycle of smells: Tabaco smoke, marijuana and piss, again and again in varying orders, interrupted only by the smell of naan bread as I passed by an Indian shop. There seemed to be endless streams of people walking by me, and it was as if everyone was going in the opposite direction to me. Every person who passed me seemed to by uglier than the last and I started to feel gradually more disgusted the further I walked. Mothers and their disgusting spawn shouting and screaming, the roaring cars rushing by, it was as if the sounds of the city were pressing in on me. Even the glowing street signs above me seemed to warp and twist into perversions of themselves. It was too much. Too much sensory input, I couldn't think, I couldn't breathe. I felt sick. eventually I dipped into the side street, and suddenly I was alone with only streetlights for company. Another sip from the bottle. My throat had grown used to the burning of whiskey after these years, and instead I felt a comforting warmth spread outwards from my stomach. I lit a cigarette.

>eh not that great too edgy for my own good


I'll do one in my native language. If you guys are interested, I can translate it easily.

Estaba en mi bar con dos de mis amigos más cercanos, uno tenía un aspecto latino y le encantaba utilizar un sombrero gigantesco, que según él era parte de su “sex appeal”, y el otro utilizaba una chaqueta larga de cuero color marrón oscuro.

Hat siempre acostumbraba embriagarse con Whiskey, y quejarse de como el negocio de ser detective privado no estaba floreciendo, sin embargo, siempre se aparecía con un reloj caro y ropa fina, pero Chaqueta jamás nos había contado acerca de su trabajo, debido a que nunca dejaba que el alcohol se le subiera a la cabeza… Hasta hoy.

A las 3 am, un bartender no espera que un cliente aparezca pidiendo alcohol y gritando vulgaridades. Un tipo corpulento de aspecto extranjero, podría decirse que en el momento hasta pensé que era uno de esos rusos militares que podría romperte el cuello con los dedos del pie. El tipo prácticamente se abalanzo contra Chaqueta, diciendo que su trago le pertenecía a él.

- “QUITATE MALDITO CHINO!” le grito a Chaqueta en el oído, escupiendo en su Chaqueta una asquerosa saliva.
- “Un poco de respeto no estaría mal, estoy bebiendo con mis amigos mucho antes que usted llegara.”

- El corpulento hombre saco un revolver y lo coloco en la cabeza de Smoking, intentando intimidarlo y dijo, “O te mueves, o ese será el último trago que tomes.”

Al instante que el hombre dejo de hablar, Chaqueta lo miro a los ojos durante una fracción de segundo, y a la siguiente le quito el arma de la mano con un movimiento rápido casi sacado de una película de acción de los 80. Lo golpeó en la cabeza con el arma, evadió un golpe entorpecido del gigante, le dio un buen derechazo en el hígado, y lo tumbo de una patada a sus pies. Otro golpe en la cabeza con el arma y el gigante parecía un tronco muerto.

Hat y yo simplemente quedamos sin palabras de como en menos de 5 segundos, un hombre delgado y normalmente muy tranquilo pudo deshabilitar a un gigante de tal manera.

Creo que ahora tengo mucha más curiosidad de saber qué hace Smoking para vivir.


She was uniquely honest. It was this that I appreciated most of her because with her there were no haughty airs, with her there were no awkward latinate words, and with her in their place was a simple and honest devotion. I was never sure if this devotion was entirely out of love for me, fear of me, or some mixture of both. Whatever is the case it was honest, I never suspected she would lie and it was very rare that she did. If I ever caught her sneaking around around in falsehoods and half-truths I was always tempted to dismiss it as something of her simplicity than her malevolence. The problem here was, just as it was the problem with our entire relationship, I couldn’t determine if here it was my better nature or my worse that tempted me.
Her honesty made a liar out of me. She and I were of entirely different social strata and no friend of mine approved of her. No member of my family could put up with her. I tried to hide our relationship and play it off as much less than it actually was. All the while I told her this shouldn’t satisfy her. I told her she ought to leave me and be with another whom she rest with easily knowing that she was to him his darling and unashamed of it. Here another question without an answer is given. Did I tell her this for her sake or my own? In the end it didn’t matter. I broke things off with her as I always knew I would ultimately do. The truth is we were not right for one another and though the decision pained me I know that it was for the best. She in her unique simplicity, that very trait that had drawn me in, made my life intolerably complicated. I know now that some flames are best appreciated from afar.


"Describe for us what happened."
"Okay." He takes a breath. "Okay."
"I was a garbage man on board the Ulysses. We were picking up the waste from some 2230s-era comms satellite out past Neptune. We'd parked the ship out by Station Five about two hours before it happened. Somebody radioed us halfway into my shift, said there was bad interference on his end but he couldn't tell the source. We said OK, head back to Ulysses, keep your rad meter turned on we'll check it out."
"Interference? What do you mean?"
"Out there radiation will cook you pretty much instantly if you're unlucky. A suit won't save you. You can tell it's coming because your radio gets all fuzzy from the stuff blowing past you. Like a cloud blocking the sun."
"Ah. Continue."
"Yeah. So we get in the pod, head over, and all of the sudden Dan in the scanner seat says we need to take a look at this. Real excited too, like he saw something big out there."
"And it was?"
"Oh yeah. Big. It was huge. Not then, but later, once we'd grabbed the thing and gotten back planetside. You know what happened after that."
"What did it look like?"
"You're gonna be disappointed. It's not like how they show it on the news. Just this greyish metal ball, maybe a meter on each side, totally smooth. At first we kinda looked at Dan like, really? This is what you wanted to show us? It's a beacon or something. Come on."
"How did you find out?"
"It happened pretty fast so I really don't remember much. It's funny. Most important event in human history and I barely remember. We pulled it in, no emissions, no toxic material, et cetera. We get the engine back on, start heading back, and then Dan yells at us to cut it out. We're all like, what? And he goes, 'someone put me on near-Earth comms.' I go, Dan, we're five hundred million miles too far away to hear those! And he looks at me, looks up, and through the window we both watch the Sun rise over Earth, reflecting off the ocean onto L1 Station."