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A vast alien desert stretches beneath a clear, pale-blue sky, its surface shaped into smooth, wind-sculpted dunes of warm ochre and amber sand. In the foreground, massive hemispherical structures of brushed metal and composite alloys sit half-buried, their forms softened by drifting sand yet unmistakably engineered—segmented plates, circular access seams, recessed panels, and faintly glowing ports suggesting dormant but advanced technology. One dome lies closer, its entry aperture dimly illuminated with a warm internal glow, while another rests farther to the right, linked by partially exposed conduits swallowed by the dunes. Beyond them, the landscape rises into towering, needle-like rock spires and jagged monoliths, their verticality exaggerated by atmospheric haze, creating a powerful sense of scale and isolation. In the distance, additional domes punctuate the desert floor, hinting at a scattered outpost or long-abandoned colony. Overhead, a single large moon hangs low and luminous, its pale surface sharply defined against the sky, reinforcing the sense of an alien world frozen in quiet equilibrium. The scene is serene and uninhabited, defined by stillness, monumental forms, and the contrast between ancient geology and silent futuristic architecture, with warm desert tones balanced against cool sky blues and subtle metallic reflections. --mod cinematic wide shot, --mod eye-level perspective, --mod epic science fiction landscape, --mod monumental scale, --mod high-detail environment design, --mod smooth sand dune textures, --mod brushed metal and composite surfaces, --mod subtle emissive lighting, --mod atmospheric depth, --mod soft global illumination, --mod clean clear sky, --mod alien planet aesthetic, --mod calm and contemplative mood, --mod ultra-detailed digital illustration, --mod painterly realism, --mod balanced warm–cool color palette, --mod sharp focus foreground to background, --mod high dynamic range, --mod concept art quality, --mod futuristic minimalism
I grew up under rock.
Everyone did.
The cities were dug deep enough that the wind never reached them. You could still
feel it, though, a vibration through the stone. It came during summer and winter,
when the planet’s axis lined up with Procyon and the atmosphere began to move in
earnest. Fifteen hundred miles an hour will do that. The surface was scoured clean
again and again, reshaped without pause. Anything that forgot this was temporary
did not remain where it had been built.
So we didn’t build there.
The domes on the surface were doors. You waited for the right season, then went up
to do whatever couldn’t be done below. Repairs. Inspections. Testing components
that were too large or too dangerous to keep underground. As a child, you could
watch ships land if you were willing to stand behind armored glass and keep your
hands off the controls. Ships didn’t come often. When they did, we noticed the
engines first. Then the people.
They looked heavy. Even the thin ones.
They moved as if the ground owed them support, as if falling were something that
happened only when you made a mistake. Some of them came from worlds with
less gravity than ours, but it didn’t show. They were used to being outside all the
time. It seemed careless. They would ask why we didn’t build towers, why everything
was buried, why the surface looked empty. We told them the wind speed.
Sometimes we told them which months were safe. That usually ended the questions.
Sunlight was different up there. You could feel it on your skin in a way that lamps
never managed. A warmth that went straight through you. Some of us stayed pale no
matter how often we stood on the roof; others darkened a little. It was just another
adaptation, like learning which corridors led upward and which doors stayed locked
when the seasons turned.
When the wind was at rest, everyone went up. We raced for the surface, eager for
the sky, for the open desert, for the simple fact of standing where nothing lived.
I left once. I trained to walk under a heavier gravity, which took real work. Muscles
grow fast when you ask them to, and the genes of old Earth remembered. When I
came home, everything felt light again. Familiar. Predictable.
People on Earth walk outside every day. I still think about that.
They build upward. They leave things exposed. They trust the air. I try to imagine
growing up that way—seeing the sky whenever you wanted, never having to
calculate whether today was a day you could survive being on the surface. It feels
extravagant. Wasteful, maybe. But mostly extravagant.
Our world never changed. It didn’t have to.
