First Contact

The gravity of this alien world is unfamiliar, unsettling. One by one, the ship's systems flicker and die, leaving only the dim glow of the emergency lights. Beyond the viewport lies a blue sky, a green field, and... strange creatures running toward the crash site, limbs flailing. There are many of them. So many. Well, not limbs—there are many creatures.

A crowd is gathering around your ship. They are shouting, pointing at you; someone raises an elongated object to their eyes and aims it in your direction. The roar of voices swells, merging into a single torrent of alien sounds.

One of them steps forward. He wears a dark green uniform, shifting nervously from foot to foot, looking at you as if he desperately wishes he were anywhere else. He wants to say something, but hesitates. He takes a step back, then another, but he doesn't leave—he just stands there, watching.

Somewhere behind him, past the backs of the military personnel, a bright light flashes—someone has aimed a spotlight at you. A sharp, breathless voice cuts through the general din:

— Stay back! It could be dangerous! — shouts a woman in a formal suit, pushing her way through the crowd with a notebook in hand. Her eyes burn with excitement, not fear.

Beside her, a disheveled man in a rumpled blazer and glasses instantly appears. He waves his arms, trying to push the soldiers aside:

— No, no, no, you don't understand! This is... this is a breakthrough! We have to speak with it! — his voice breaks into an enthusiastic squeal. — I've waited my whole life for this!

The Colonel in uniform snaps around to face him, his voice striking like a whip:

— Get behind the perimeter. Immediately.

But the scientist isn't listening. He takes a step toward you, reaching out a hand—perhaps for a handshake, or perhaps just trying to touch. The soldiers tense up. Someone behind them nervously reloads a weapon. A lieutenant at the perimeter—a very young man—stares at you with wide eyes, giving a barely perceptible wave, as if to say hello.

And from behind the military line, another figure pushes through—a thin man in a makeshift robe painted with stars. He raises a jar of something above his head and proclaims in a rhythmic chant:

— I greet you, star-wanderer! Accept this gift from the unworthy!

He is immediately grabbed by the shoulders and pulled back. He doesn't resist—he only smiles and waves at you.

All this chaos, the shouting, the searchlights, the alien smells and sounds—it all crashes down on you at once. And yet, before you, that same figure in the dark green uniform still stands. He is looking at you. Waiting.