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Crash (bang)

Mayday. Mayday. The call went out too late.

The dirigible set down on a gray and yellow horizon under distress. Personnel managed to tie her down on this unfamiliar firmament to keep the winds from dragging her ragged over the lunar surface. Otherwise the crew remained grounded. They huddled to their soup bowls in makeshift bunkers beneath the snapping silk of the folded and bound sails.

Ensign Garfield was assigned to mount the signal kite. It would alert the search teams to their location.

The wind was steady and abundant on this treeless plain. The yellow and blue box took to immediate flight. Its wings juttering alone in the pale sky. The crew turned their faces upward. Eyes locked dumbly to the path of the kite as it cut the shape of the wind into the empty space above.

Silent but for the wind.

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