From orbit, the planet looks like iron left in a basin of milk. Pale seas surround rust-colored continents, their coastlines blurred by seasonal water. Below the cloud cover, the wetlands stretch beyond the horizon. Reeds break the surface in long, dark seams. On the few ridges still dry, the roofs of separate communities catch the same low sun.
They share one landing field. Narrow causeways meet beneath its raised platform, and each community has a different way of marking the approach: painted posts, hanging reflectors, lamps that blink through the mist. A cargo shuttle waits beside stacked freight. The field attendant asks whether you have come for the survey team. When you say nothing, she turns her screen toward you. The last search party brought back photographs. Three tents stand in a straight line. Instrument cases are latched. Cable has been coiled beside a weather mast. Even the boots beneath the table have been placed together.
The camp lies across the water, on a ridge visible from the field when the light is right. Nobody has found the team. Nobody agrees on whether they left before the channels filled. The attendant still keeps their departure slot open. Behind her, someone from another community is asking how much longer a missing crew should be allowed to hold up everyone else.
What would make an entire field team leave so carefully, without taking the equipment they needed to return?
Actual table rolls interpreted with AI assistance. Prose and artwork reviewed before publication. These discoveries are invitations to play, not fixed setting canon.