There was a thud, then a hiss. The red light above them turned green as a monitor flickered on next to the door. Landing successful.

“Gee, that’s a relief.”

Two men sat inside the cramped interior of the craft, breathing heavily under their suits, nametags reading Webster and Oswald. The one labeled Webster leaned over to a small window.

“Do you think the outside air is good? There’s some grass.”

“Well, if it isn’t, it wouldn’t be air, would it?” The other, Oswald, pressed a few keys on the monitor. A report popped up.

“Looks like air to me. Nitrogen and oxygen. It’ll do.” He pressed another key, causing another hiss. The small door opened.

Webster stepped out onto the brown soil, clutching an SMG-like autorifle.

“It’s clear. Is that the station?” He nodded to a building in the distance.

Oswald stepped out as well, checking a PDA.

“Looks like.”

“When was the last contact?”

“Three months. Command wants to know if anything’s wrong.”

Webster shook his head.

“Man, something is always wrong.”