I don’t know why I said yes to this mission.
My parents warned me. My friends warned me. Even my cat, August, gave me that look — you know, the one that silently screams, “Don’t be stupid, human.” But no. I thought they were all just jealous of my rapidly advancing astronomical career and my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to become the first human to step foot on Saturn. The sixth planet, the one with the gorgeous ring around it.
Fast forward to 1:34 AM, Earth time, March 20, 2078. I’m floating through deep space in a half-destroyed rocket, wearing a parachute that was never designed for planetary descent. The last segment of my ship had exploded during our Saturn orbital maneuver. One of my crew members was missing — probably sipping chai somewhere in the Milky Way by now. And me? I was free-falling with grace towards Saturn, armed with a useless communication device and a rapidly declining sense of dignity.
For context, I didn’t start off as an adventurer. I was a humble astronomer — a lover of stars from a safe, emotionally distant range. But then Earth started falling apart. Mars followed. Resources vanished faster than free snacks at a tech conference. Naturally, humanity pointed its grubby little hands toward Saturn. “Next!” they cried. And so, off we went — because destroying planets is just what we do, apparently.
They needed “volunteers.” Brave, curious, slightly underpaid nerds willing to risk everything for “science.” Naturally, I said yes. I believed I’d be part of something revolutionary. A hero. A cosmic pioneer.
Instead, I crash-landed on a rocky hill on Saturn, surrounded by vapor clouds, alien dust, and deep regret. My Light-Year Communication Device — our only lifeline to Earth — had been reduced to the equivalent of a really fancy, glowing brick. No signal. No backup. Not even a moody chatbot to yell at.
With nothing else to do, I sat and stared out at the golden-orange landscape. Rings sparkled in the distant sky like a cosmic halo. I was going to die here. On Saturn. Alone. With a broken communication device.
And then… I heard it.
BANG! BOOM! RATATATATA!
I froze.
Drums. Big, booming, eardrum-vibrating drums.
I turned around and saw what could only be described as 50 shirtless men in tiny shorts, marching toward me in formation. It looked like the alien version of a boy band reunion tour. I had no idea whether to run, wave, or ask for the route to earth.
They spoke, but their language sounded like someone gargling marbles. I nodded politely and tried smiling like a confused tourist in a foreign country. That clearly wasn’t working. Two of them gently grabbed me by the arms and escorted me — or kidnapped me, depending on your perspective — down a narrow glowing path.
And suddenly, a hidden village revealed itself.
It was breathtaking.
There were lush gardens more vivid than anything I’d ever seen on Earth, flowers that shimmered like gemstones, birds that looked like rubber ducks with jetpacks, and marketplaces filled with floating fruits, singing tools, and what looked suspiciously like intergalactic candy floss. The place buzzed with energy — more alive than a Mumbai train station at rush hour.
Then I saw him.
The leader.
Also shirtless (of course), but wearing a shimmering crown that looked like it came from a child’s birthday party. He walked up to me and said, in perfect English:
“We’ve been preserving this place for ages. Humans on Earth were never supposed to find it.”
My jaw dropped. He spoke fluent Earth-English. My brain short-circuited trying to process it.
He explained that their people had been observing Earth for centuries — quietly studying our behavior, our rise, and our inevitable self-destruction. They knew what we were capable of. They had even tried saving my crew after the explosion, but sadly, it was too late for them.
As he talked, I realized I was staring at his shiny crown.
He raised an eyebrow. “What are you looking at?”
“Uh… nothing. Nice hat, Your Majesty,” I mumbled like an idiot.
Then he dropped the biggest truth bomb I’ve ever heard.
“Human civilization began on Saturn. Our ancestors ruined this planet long ago and fled to Earth to start over. Now, you’ve returned. And after destroying Earth and Mars, the circle completes itself.”
I stared at him, stunned.
So we weren’t Earthlings.
We were Saturn refugees.
We left Saturn, trashed Earth, wrecked Mars, and now, here I was — the accidental ambassador of human failure, crash-landing back on our original home like a delivery package no one asked for.
He must’ve noticed my expression. Smiling warmly, he patted my shoulder (and nearly dislocated it) and said:
“Welcome back to Grandpa’s planet. We’re glad you said yes.”
So here I am.
Stuck on Saturn.
The other astronomer - he may have found another civilization on the planet Jupiter.
Possibly the first human in centuries to rediscover our real home.
They won’t let me return to Earth. The Saturnists are cautious — terrified that I’ll tell people about their hidden civilization and history. They don’t trust humans. Honestly, can you blame them?
For now, I’ve traded my mission for mystery, my crew for crown-wearers, and my dream of glory for a bizarre, beautiful secret buried deep in space.
And to think — all of this because I said yes.
React
