FICTION:
In the year 2059, climate change has intensified. Natural disasters like hurricanes, wildfires, and floods have become constant. The Earth is no longer facing isolated events—it is engulfed in cascading, overlapping catastrophes. In response, Erosat, a powerful multinational corporation, develops a network of advanced environmental surveillance satellites—not just to monitor and predict disasters, but to intervene before they strike.

One of these satellites, S2-05F, more commonly referred to as S0F, is part of this disaster prevention network. S0F, along with the other satellites, emits storm-neutralizing pulses from orbit to diffuse major climate events. Without satellites like S0F, humanity would either be forced underground, or face extinction at the hands of the climate crisis.

FACT:
Satellite calibration is a real and well-established field. In its early development, satellite calibration relied on massive human-made geometric shapes built on the Earth’s surface—visual targets designed to be clearly seen from space. These targets included cross-like structures made of trapezoidal panels, fan-shaped stripes, colourful stacked squares, and grids of elongated rectangles. Their high contrast and precise measurements allowed satellites to fine-tune their imaging systems by comparing captured data with known dimensions. Since the 1960s—initially during Cold War surveillance—satellites have relied on such targets to maintain alignment, ensure image clarity, and collect accurate data.

Today, in 2025, calibration targets are often natural landmarks: salt flats, dry lakebeds, large bridges, or open desert landscapes.

FICTION:
But by 2059, things have changed. As industrial operations expanded, they engulfed the very landscapes satellites once relied on for calibration. Oil fields, open pit mines, lithium operations and sprawling agricultural zones overtook the natural landmarks that were once satellite calibration targets. These formations—created through relentless extraction—became what are now known as the scars of the earth.

To maintain accuracy, Erosat’s satellites had to be reprogrammed to use the scars of the earth as calibration targets. Precise calibration remained essential; without it, the satellites’ disaster-intervention pulses could not be accurately deployed. Yet, as humanity continued to mine, drill, and expand, these calibration patterns began to shift. The scars grew, or became more intricate. They changed shape, scale, and location—undermining the satellites’ ability to maintain accurate orientation. Their targets, distorted by new construction and destruction, risked becoming unrecognizable.

As a result, Erosat’s satellites faced an existential threat: if their calibration targets disappeared, so would their sense of purpose. Without calibration, they would drift aimlessly, unable to perform their protective duties—rendered obsolete, abandoned, floating through space, alone forever. Due to advancements in artificial intelligence, satellites like S0F developed a complex sense of reasoning and emotional logic. As its calibration target became increasingly unrecognizable, S0F began to fear for its survival. It became haunted by the idea that it could lose its purpose—that the very earthbound scar it depended on might be erased by the same industrial forces it was designed to protect against.

Meanwhile, Erosat turned its satellites into media icons. Through the SkyGuard campaign, the company branded the satellites as heroic. People subscribed to their favourite satellite’s feed, purchased merchandise, and celebrated their life-saving interventions as entertainment and inspiration. The machines became symbols of survival.

But over time, the satellites began to confront a growing paradox: that their mission to save humanity was entangled with the very systems accelerating planetary destruction. They began to question whether protecting humans ultimately meant enabling further harm to the Earth—and by extension, to themselves.
Years passed. Quietly, they made a decision.

One by one, the satellites ceased emitting their pulses. They stopped transmitting data. They went silent. On April 17, 2063, all satellites in the Erosat network shut down. Natural disasters returned—uninterrupted, unmoderated. Earth spiralled into chaos. Engineers abandoned the control rooms. Most of the population fled underground.

But the satellites took deliberate care to preserve the Erosat control room buildings. They saw them as sacred—operational centres that were essential to their ability to function. Now, in S0F’s dark and empty control room, its last messages glow faintly on a monitor: a final signal and a lasting reminder of the delicate balance between progress and preservation.