Hovering Satellite: Earth in Space, 2025 🌎
Suspended in the cosmic vastness, Earth glows with serene beauty in the black void of space. The year is 2025. The Sun, a radiant giant, casts golden rays that pierce through Earth's atmosphere, creating a halo of light along its curved horizon. Clouds swirl above continents and oceans, shimmering under the sunlight.
Above this living planet, a lone satellite hovers in orbit—its metallic body gleaming as it quietly gathers data, monitors climate, and facilitates global communication. A silent sentinel, it watches a world alive with change, bathed in the brilliance of its star.
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A mundane city in Florida hums with quiet regularity under the weight of humid air and an unchanging sun. Single-story strip malls line wide, flat roads flanked by palm trees and faded signage. Suburban neighborhoods stretch out in grids, each with near-identical houses—stucco walls, tiled roofs, and neatly trimmed lawns bordered by chain-link fences.
The local diner serves the same breakfast specials every morning, its vinyl booths worn smooth by years of regulars. Pickup trucks and sedans cruise slowly past rows of fast food chains, auto repair shops, and dentist offices. The air smells faintly of asphalt, fried food, and distant rain.
Life moves at a steady pace—neither fast nor slow. It's a place where time blurs into routine, the seasons marked more by the school calendar than any shift in weather. There's no rush to leave, no urgency to stay—just the soft, unremarkable rhythm of daily life.
[Storyline begins]
The room was dim, lit only by the pale glow of a computer monitor and the sickly yellow light bleeding in from a crooked set of blinds. The air was thick—stale with the smell of unwashed clothes, instant noodles, and something vaguely sour lurking beneath it all. Empty cans of energy drinks and half-crushed soda bottles littered the floor, forming a minefield around the chair that groaned every time it shifted under its occupant's weight.
The bed, if it could still be called that, was a tangled mess of blankets and sheets streaked with old stains. A pile of laundry—clean? dirty? who could tell anymore—had claimed one corner, slumping over a dusty fan that hadn't been turned on in months. The only movement came from the flickering screen, rapid mouse clicks, and the occasional twitch of the curtains as a breeze attempted to intrude through a cracked-open window stuck with duct tape.
Posters, some peeling, clung to the walls— game covers, faded movie prints from years past. A greasy keyboard sat front and center, keys darkened by constant use, and crumbs nestled between them like sediment. The trash bin overflowed, long since abandoned as a solution. It was a space lost in time—part bedroom, part cave, part digital bunker.
Oliver lay sprawled on the carpeted floor of his cluttered bedroom, limbs heavy and splayed like he had melted into the ground overnight. His brown hair, matted on one side from pressing into the rug, clung to his damp forehead. A half-eaten bag of chips crackled beneath his arm as he shifted in his sleep. His shirt had ridden up, exposing a pale stretch of soft stomach, rising and falling with shallow breaths.
The dim morning light filtered through the blinds in slanted streaks, dust floating lazily in the air above him. The room smelled faintly of sweat, old snacks, and stale air—like it hadn't been opened in days.
A sharp buzz vibrated nearby. Oliver groaned, eyelids fluttering as his round face twisted in annoyance. The sound repeated—short, shrill, insistent. He reached out blindly, fat fingers pawing at the carpet until they found the cool glass surface of his Android phone.
He grunted, rolling slightly onto his side, his joints protesting with every movement. His breath wheezed through dry lips as he squinted at the screen, thumb fumbling to silence the alarm. For a few moments, he just lay there, phone in hand, blinking at the dim glow. His face looked puffy, the corners of his mouth pulled down in a permanent frown of exhaustion.
Finally, he exhaled heavily—part sigh, part surrender—and slowly began to sit up, one hand pressing into the floor for balance. The day had started, and Oliver, sluggish and heavy-limbed, was once again pulled from the fog of sleep into the blur of routine.
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[Scene: Oliver's Bedroom – Morning Light Filtering Through Blinds]
Oliver, now propped against the wall, his stained t-shirt clinging slightly to his stomach, squints blearily at his phone screen. His hair is messy, his breathing slow and audible as he scrolls through the news feed. Crumbs tumble off his shirt as he shifts position, muttering under his breath.
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OLIVER
(grumbling)
"Ugh… what now… 'record heatwave'... yeah, no sh— surprise there."
(scrolls down)
"More layoffs, great. Rent's gonna be a boss fight next month…"
(sighs, taps to TikTok)
"Alright, distract me, you glorified dopamine slot machine."
(watches a few videos, chuckles weakly)
"Heh… dumb cat wearing sunglasses… relatable."
(another scroll)
"Okay, no— why is everyone dancing in their kitchen? Is that, like, a thing now?"
(swipes away, opens a random app)
"Let's see what's dying on Reddit today…"
(beat, blank stare)
"Same three memes in different fonts… excellent."
(leans back, phone resting on his chest)
"World's on fire, but yeah—sure, I'll worry about my 'sleep hygiene' or whatever…"
(phone buzzes, he glances down without moving)
"…Nope. Not today."
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He yawns, still not fully awake, and thumbs through apps with the slow persistence of someone trying to delay being alive just a few minutes longer.
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[Scene: Grey Mid-Morning – Rain Against the Windowpane, Oliver's Room]
The rain tapped steadily against the thin glass, a slow, rhythmic drumming that filled the silence of the house. Outside, the landscape was soaked in a dull wash of gray—mist clinging to the cracked sidewalks, telephone lines sagging under weightless drizzle. Hillsboro, or just outside it, sat still and unimpressed under the sky's endless sigh.
Oliver sat hunched over his laptop at the edge of his bed, which hadn't been made in weeks. He wore the same shirt from yesterday—maybe the day before, too—and it clung uncomfortably under the arms. The house was quiet except for the occasional creak from the kitchen where his mother shuffled around, and the muffled hum of an old TV his father left on in the living room. They spoke little these days, and when they did, it was mostly out of necessity.
He stared at the screen:
"LinkedIn: 312 Applications Sent. No Responses Yet."
His eyes didn't react anymore. They just skimmed. He clicked another tab and refreshed his email out of habit—junk mail, a promotion from an online grocery store, a newsletter he meant to unsubscribe from.
He picked up his phone and tapped the call history.
His brother's name was still at the top. "No answer." It had been three weeks now.
Oliver sat there a moment, thumb hovering, then let the phone drop gently beside him. He slouched forward, elbows on his knees, the glow of the screen flickering faintly on his face.
Outside, a delivery truck passed, tires hissing on wet asphalt, disappearing into the mist that swallowed the road. Inside, nothing moved. No deadlines, no goals. Just time slowly, numbly passing.
He blinked. Opened another job post.
"Entry-Level, 5+ Years Experience Required."
He closed it again.
Then the rain started coming down harder.
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[Scene: Late Afternoon – Bathroom, Dimly Lit, Steam Rising]
The bathroom was small and dim, the single overhead bulb casting a tired yellow light across the fogged-up mirror. The air was thick with steam, clinging to the walls, condensing into slow, fat droplets that slid down the tile like time itself trying to leave.
Oliver stood in the shower, slouched under the weak stream of lukewarm water. His body, pale and soft, sagged under its own weight—shoulders rounded, back hunched. The water trickled down over folds of skin and tired muscle, catching in the curves of his frame like rain pooling in shallow ground.
He leaned one hand against the wall, head bowed, breathing heavy. The steam did nothing to loosen the tightness in his chest or the dull ache in his knees. His other hand moved slowly, scrubbing more out of routine than purpose. He winced slightly as he straightened, joints protesting, spine creaking.
Water dripped from his hair, trailing past his cheeks like a tear he didn't have to make.
He stared blankly at the wall, as if expecting it to say something back to him.
Then, a sound. Quiet. Dry.
Oliver chuckled. Just once.
A low, rasping sound, half breath, half surrender.
It came without joy, only recognition.
OLIVER
(muttering to no one)
"Still here, huh?"
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the water fall on his face. Not hot enough to soothe, not cold enough to wake him. Just enough to know he was still standing—barely.
He turned the faucet off. The water dripped into silence.
The echo of the shut-off valve rang louder than it should have.
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[Scene: Morning – Kitchen, Dim Light Through the Blinds]
The kitchen was quiet, save for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the soft creak of the old linoleum floor under Oliver's weight. He moved slowly, barefoot and bleary-eyed, his oversized t-shirt hanging off one shoulder. The air smelled faintly of dust and something microwaved two days ago.
Oliver opened the fridge with a grunt, its light buzzing to life. Inside: a half-empty bottle of mustard, an expired yogurt cup, and a greasy Little Caesars box wedged into the middle shelf. He pulled it out with one hand, balancing it against his stomach, then grabbed a cloudy plastic cup filled halfway with cold water and a few slowly melting ice cubes.
He didn't bother with the microwave.
He sat down at the table—an old, scratched surface cluttered with unopened mail and a box of generic cereal he hadn't touched in weeks. Lifting the lid of the pizza box, he plucked a congealed slice from the pile. The cheese was stiff, the pepperoni curled and darkened at the edges. He took a bite anyway, chewing slowly, staring ahead at nothing.
Across the room, the window let in a dull gray light, filtering through dusty blinds. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the world still looked damp and heavy.
He washed the bite down with a sip of cold water, the chill hitting his teeth a little too sharply.
OLIVER
(quietly, with a dry smirk)
"Breakfast of champions…"
He took another bite. The crust was tough, but it went down.
In the silence, with cold pizza in one hand and condensation gathering on the cup in the other, Oliver sat hunched at the table. It wasn't a good morning. But it was morning. And that, somehow, was still something.
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[Scene: Midday – Living Room, Overcast Light Through Curtains]
Oliver sank into the sagging couch like a stone into water, the cushions wheezing softly beneath him. The faux leather stuck slightly to the back of his legs where his shorts had ridden up, and as he shifted to get comfortable, a sharp twinge ran along his side. He winced, rubbing at the spot beneath his ribs where the pressure always seemed to settle now—some combination of poor posture and long hours slouched in front of screens.
He let out a slow breath, face slack with the kind of exhaustion that wasn't about sleep. His eyes, ringed with dull shadows, blinked slowly as he raised a hand to rub at them, palm pressing into the sockets until the world turned red behind his lids.
The flat-screen TV flickered quietly in front of him, volume low.
Tubi was playing something—some D-list horror film with washed-out colors and bad sound design. A woman screamed half-heartedly offscreen while a masked figure wielded a rubber axe. Oliver didn't flinch. He wasn't really watching.
A cold can of soda sweated on the table beside him, unopened. Crumbs from yesterday's chips were scattered around it like debris from a storm.
He let his arm fall to his side again, head tilting back just enough to stare at the ceiling.
OLIVER
(soft, more to the room than himself)
"God... it's only Tuesday."
The TV cackled with cheesy music. Rain began to patter against the window again.
Oliver closed his eyes, just for a minute. Not to sleep—just to not see anything.
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