On July 26th, 2008, the following email was sent to all Foundation personnel.

The morning alarm rang in the International Space Station, and the three occupying the artificial satellite got up and started getting ready for the day ahead. Commander Davis launched himself towards the john as quickly as possible; holding up the toilet for Flight Engineer Popov, who very patiently waited outside while Flight Engineer Torres' rummaged through the MREs in search of breakfast. As he waited for Davis to finish up, Popov glanced out one of the nearby windows as he usually did and admired his planet's beauty.

Though it took him a moment to notice it, the deserts of Earth had turned into oceans of green overnight. He floated closer to the glass and pressed his face against it to get a better look. Sure enough, the Sahara, Arabian, and Turkestan deserts were green as his grandmother's thumb. How could this be? The Russian shook his head; it was probably a trick of the light. Things did get quite weird in space after all, not to mention he was quite tired as well.

"Alright, Popov, sorry for the wait. Really had to go. She's all yours now!" Davis exited the bathroom, leaving the door open for his companion to use the facilities. "Isa, did you find anything good in there?" the American looked over to the third crewwoman, who was currently floating alongside several bags of meals she wasn't interested in. Popov entered the restroom as Torres poked her head back out.

"Yes, sir!" She chimed in, teasing him. "Your favorite! MRE Menu 4, Cheese and Veggie Omelette." She gently shoved the brown bag, which floated gently towards the American. He scoffed playfully and pushed it back.

"Please. I'd rather die than eat that crap." Davis chuckled, moving back towards his private quarters to change and get ready for breakfast.

By 07:30 AM, all three crew members were ready and waiting for the daily debriefing with Houston. Davis and Popov floated about idly while Torres worked away at her word finder book. She marked down 'Aislamiento', thus finishing the page she was currently working on. Though sometimes technical difficulties would delay NASA's call to the ISS, it typically wouldn't keep them more than ten minutes. And yet, the clock's hands kept ticking until they read 8:02 AM. Losing patience, Davis angled himself forward and initiated the call. Much to his chagrin, there was no answer.

"Odd. They said we'd have a debriefing about the incoming supplies." Davis frowned, trying the call again. Popov nodded in affirmation while Torres shrugged and returned to her book. He tried eight more times before folding his arms and allowing himself to float backward. "Should we be worried?" He looked to the crew for opinions. Torres abandoned her pencil and book to weightlessness as she moved ahead, nudging the American aside. Popov bit his lip as the two men looked at each other in unease.

"Let me try INTA." She clicked away at the terminal, switching the dialer over to the Spanish space command, which was manned 24/7 in case of emergency. With a press of a button, the call was sent out and the three spacefarers got into frame as their webcam flicked on. Torres looked at the other two with a smirk, which was quickly wiped from her face as she turned back around.

The call had gone through successfully and the video feed went live, but the usually occupied mission control was empty. Torres glanced at the local time clock on the wall; Madrid read '2:01 PM', so there should be someone there. She ripped the microphone from its velcro attachment on the wall and spoke into it.

Hello? Is anyone there? This is Flight Engineer Isabella Torres requesting help, is anyone there? Hello? "¿Aló? ¿Se encuentra alguien ahí? Yo soy Ingeniera de Vuelo Isabella Torres pidiendo ayuda, ¿hay alguien allí? ¿Aló?"

The resounding silence made the woman increasingly agitated, it was evident something was wrong. Popov turned around, heading towards the Russian Orbital Segment of the ISS. Davis watched as Torres slowly grew more and more disheveled until he put his hand on her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. She turned around, her face red and her eyes wide with fear. The two stared for a moment before Torres turned back around, stopping the call. She gently placed the microphone back on its velcro and then floated towards the common area, leaving Davis behind.

Davis turned his attention back to their conference terminal. Something was definitely wrong.

He continued to stare at the communication terminal for some time, pondering his next action. Use of the terminal for personal reasons during non-sanctioned periods of time was a highly punishable offense, but at the same time, there had been no answer from NASA or INTA, and he assumed Popov wasn't having much luck with his compatriots, either. Davis took a deep breath and toggled the function to that of personal calls. He gently grabbed the microphone off the wall and readied himself as the program dialed out.

"Robert?" A female voice answered. Davis was visibly relieved, his eyes softening and a sigh escaping his lips. He smiled in anticipation of the image of his wife slowly loading into the display.

"Oh thank god… April, I was so worried something was wrong; it's been dead quiet up here. Please tell me everything is okay?" The seasoned pilot could feel his nerves weakening as his wife's video failed to load.

"Robert, I'm so glad you called… It's a shame you can't see what's going on, darling. Everything is so beautiful. The daisies, the roses…" Her tone was off. Davis grew anxious, he had never heard his wife act like this; not since her mother died. Where was she? Why was she talking about flowers?

"April, what's wrong?" He cautiously proceeded.

"Nothing, Robert. Everything's okay. The world is so beautiful, isn't it, though? Can you see it from up there?" She mused, almost appearing distracted.

"April, please. NASA doesn't answer and the Spaniards won't answer either. What the hell is going on?" His facade had faded, Davis was panicking. His knuckles were white from the intense grip he had on the microphone and he could feel the contents of his stomach churning from anxiety.

"I wish I could tell you what's happening, dear, but the truth is I don't know. All I know is we won't be here tomorrow." April sighed wistfully. The sounds of people conversing and singing in the distance were barely audible. "It's so nice out, too."

"April for the love of God, stop fucking with me. What do you mean 'we won't be here tomorrow'? Are you going somewhere? Has something gone wrong? Please just fucking answer me…" What first started as uproarious anger born of fear and confusion soon became a terrified whimper. He was scared; it had never hit him just how out of the loop and alone he was in space until now.

"We're going to die, Richard… me, Mindy, Junior, May, the neighbors…. all of us. But it's okay. It'll be okay. After all, every good thing comes to an end right? I love you, Richard. I'm sorry you didn't get to be here with me. I'm meeting Junior and the girls at the park. I know you never believed much in reincarnation darling, but maybe we'll meet again. I hope we do. I love you." The call was disconnected before Davis could get another word in. He slowly floated upwards, taking a moment to take in what had just happened.

The realization that he and the crew were completely alone was sinking in. Before he could think too hard on it, something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Davis pushed himself off the wall he had come to rest upon, shooting straight towards a nearby window. His eyes went wide.

"Oh my God." He whispered.

The astronaut had never seen so much green in his life.

Popov flipped the switch on the private Russian communications terminal, looking out the windows of the station while the call to Roscosmos connected. Everything but the oceans of Earth was green now. Even the frozen areas of his homeland seemed to be vibrant with an emerald tint. He was now convinced this was the work of something beyond his understanding.

A cold beep interrupted his pondering, signaling a communication had automatically been established. The cosmonaut pushed himself away from the window and leaned into the integrated terminal microphone, holding onto its hinges as to not float away.

Moscow, can you hear me? This is flight engineer Vadim Popov requesting confirmation, all is well. NASA and INTA are not responding. Can anyone hear me?
"Москва, вы меня слышите? Это бортинженер Вадим Попов запрашивает подтверждение, все в порядке. НАСА и ИНТА не отвечают. Кто-нибудь меня слышит?"He spoke calmly and quietly, requesting an answer from mission control back home. Despite his seemingly cool demeanor, Popov was very much afraid of the silence.

Beep.

There was no response.

Moscow, do you hear me?"Москва, ты слышишь меня?"

He thought of his grandmother; the only parent he truly had. The old crone was a stern and strict guardian, but beneath her embittered demeanor lay a caring and gentle figure. She had raised him almost entirely on her own, slaving away at the aluminum refinery for countless hours and making endless queues so her grandson may have food in his belly. He remembered the warm strawberry kompot she would make in the winters, and how he delighted in its sweet and tart flavors. What he wouldn't give for a pitcher of the red drink right now.

Beep.

"Москва, ты слышишь меня?"

His grandmother would always rant and rave to him about 'plans' as she cooked; something Popov would not come to understand until he was older. And as he became older, so did his grandmother. She would leave him alone in the world when he was just seventeen, just in time for the military to scoop him up for conscription. There he would spend some time learning how to fly, during which he learned just how small the world was. What had seemed like an insurmountable distance was now just a mere blink away in his plane. He loved the rush he felt as he soared through the open skies, admiring the mountains and vast plains of his country.

Beep.

"Москва, ты слышишь меня?"

The first day in that desert country was unbearable. To this day he didn't know how anyone could survive in that heat, much less live. But that didn't matter anymore once he got to the sky. Though this strange, hot country was not as varied in its terrain as his home, it was still beautiful. He would fly for hours, watching the sea of sand and stone stretch as far as the eye could see. But of course, these moments would not last, as he was forced to fight in a conflict he did not understand, and his plane would often be forced to fire on people he couldn't even see.

Beep.

"Москва, ты слышишь меня?"

The excitement he had felt when he had been selected to become a cosmonaut was unparalleled by anything in his life before. Popov had not been the sentimental type, and as such never married or had kids; he had made his career his life. It was not a descision he regretted by any means. Flying his plane was the only time in life in which he truly felt free, and the sensation was one he didn't want to give up by any means. The only thing which rivaled the feeling of flying was knowing he would soon be among the stars.

Beep.

"…"

Popov grew quiet. No one would be coming to answer. This was surely the end, and he accepted it. With nothing else to do, he merely relaxed and allowed his body to float in the cabin.

All life becomes death.
Green flourishes a farewell,
And then it doesn't.