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Description
I glanced at the crackled earth – no, wait, not earth, this place was nothing like the shimmering blue-and-green globe the human race called its home – as my heavy boots kicked up more and more dust. Practically the whole place was dust; even the sky looked a dead, steely umber, heavy clouds smeared and faded as though it had once, long ago, been a painting that someone had left to drift in a forgotten corner of the universe. Yet not a single crack on this canvas allowed any of the refreshing (if not slightly overwhelming) inky darkness of space to bleed through, making me feel even more trapped than before. The air had a thick, musty smell to it, with a rotten undertone – it wasn't pleasant, but there was just enough oxygen within it for me to survive. And considering my suit supply had long since been extinguished, it wasn't like I had another option.
“Still no signs of life,” I muttered habitually into the radio clipped at my side, not expecting a reply. The device had been, much like my oxygen tanks, dead for quite a long time – I assumed the layer of bulky clouds had something to do with it. Even its pained static had dropped off; I was sure there was no chance of anyone's voice clawing through to me. No, my radio was as silent as ever, totally useless – but this was still a mission, so on the off chance I was being heard I continued to record my analysis of the planet.
The only thing I heard was a crackling, faint but pervasive, shrill but broken sort of buzz. It reminded me of the sound a typical computer or machine makes – that gentle electronic hum. But I'd touched a computer. I knew you could feel – however weird it sounded – the life. It had a delicate sort of vibration emitting from wherever most of the computing is happening. It was like a heartbeat. Had this place been once controlled by some huge computer, had that sound been its breathing, I would have felt it in the soil.
But this place had no heartbeat. This place was long-dead.
I had been walking for hours, seeing almost nothing but dust. Almost. I'd seen a few of what one might refer to as “landmarks,” tall, basic-looking spires projecting upwards from the ground. They were an identical colour to the dust, the sky, and really everything else I'd seen so far. Some had branches. Some had crumbled, some had snapped in half, and others still lay completely flattened, unsurprisingly dead. I figured they were some kind of bizarre rocks. As I'd felt a hollow, sour wind come meandering through more than once, I figured it was safe to assume that it had, over time, somehow blown the dust into these spear shapes. They were simply rocks, made out of dust and stone and whatever else lay beneath my feet – frankly I didn't care to know, no matter if I was on a surveillance mission or not.
I made my way towards yet another one – or rather, it made its way towards me, I could hardly tell any more with the repetitive landscape. And I got an idea – somewhat stupid, but perpetuated by desperation to find something that wasn't dust, to somehow make my way off this planet.
I stepped up and placed my entire hand, palm down, on the spire's surface.
Just as I thought. A rock. Dead, like the rest of this place. Like I'll probably be soon.
I removed my hand with a sigh, and took one more glance at the tower. A mark in the outer layer of dust had been made, in the shape of my gloved hand. And that was when it hit me. That wasn't a rock. None of them were.
To confirm this theory, I once again placed my hand on the spire, this time wiping it in a small circle. The spaces where my hand had been and wiped away the thin coating of dust weren't brown. They were a glossy, almost blinding metallic silver.

Description
I glanced at the crackled earth – no, wait, not earth, this place was nothing like the shimmering blue-and-green globe the human race called its home – as my heavy boots kicked up more and more dust. Practically the whole place was dust; even the sky looked a dead, steely umber, heavy clouds smeared and faded as though it had once, long ago, been a painting that someone had left to drift in a forgotten corner of the universe. Yet not a single crack on this canvas allowed any of the refreshing (if not slightly overwhelming) inky darkness of space to bleed through, making me feel even more trapped than before. The air had a thick, musty smell to it, with a rotten undertone – it wasn't pleasant, but there was just enough oxygen within it for me to survive. And considering my suit supply had long since been extinguished, it wasn't like I had another option.
“Still no signs of life,” I muttered habitually into the radio clipped at my side, not expecting a reply. The device had been, much like my oxygen tanks, dead for quite a long time – I assumed the layer of bulky clouds had something to do with it. Even its pained static had dropped off; I was sure there was no chance of anyone's voice clawing through to me. No, my radio was as silent as ever, totally useless – but this was still a mission, so on the off chance I was being heard I continued to record my analysis of the planet.
The only thing I heard was a crackling, faint but pervasive, shrill but broken sort of buzz. It reminded me of the sound a typical computer or machine makes – that gentle electronic hum. But I'd touched a computer. I knew you could feel – however weird it sounded – the life. It had a delicate sort of vibration emitting from wherever most of the computing is happening. It was like a heartbeat. Had this place been once controlled by some huge computer, had that sound been its breathing, I would have felt it in the soil.
But this place had no heartbeat. This place was long-dead.
I had been walking for hours, seeing almost nothing but dust. Almost. I'd seen a few of what one might refer to as “landmarks,” tall, basic-looking spires projecting upwards from the ground. They were an identical colour to the dust, the sky, and really everything else I'd seen so far. Some had branches. Some had crumbled, some had snapped in half, and others still lay completely flattened, unsurprisingly dead. I figured they were some kind of bizarre rocks. As I'd felt a hollow, sour wind come meandering through more than once, I figured it was safe to assume that it had, over time, somehow blown the dust into these spear shapes. They were simply rocks, made out of dust and stone and whatever else lay beneath my feet – frankly I didn't care to know, no matter if I was on a surveillance mission or not.
I made my way towards yet another one – or rather, it made its way towards me, I could hardly tell any more with the repetitive landscape. And I got an idea – somewhat stupid, but perpetuated by desperation to find something that wasn't dust, to somehow make my way off this planet.
I stepped up and placed my entire hand, palm down, on the spire's surface.
Just as I thought. A rock. Dead, like the rest of this place. Like I'll probably be soon.
I removed my hand with a sigh, and took one more glance at the tower. A mark in the outer layer of dust had been made, in the shape of my gloved hand. And that was when it hit me. That wasn't a rock. None of them were.
To confirm this theory, I once again placed my hand on the spire, this time wiping it in a small circle. The spaces where my hand had been and wiped away the thin coating of dust weren't brown. They were a glossy, almost blinding metallic silver.