Commander Eli Bennett led the way, his suit reflecting the stark white glare as he approached the alien craft. Specialist Maria Okoye followed, her visor fogged with awe and trepidation. The radio crackled in their helmets, a voice faint but insistent: Mission Control.
"Bring it home. Repeat, bring it home."
Specialist Okoye reached out, her gloved hand trembling as she disconnected the softly pulsing tubes from the pilot’s face, revealing deep-set eyes that shimmered beneath a layer of frost. Commander Bennett gathered small, intricate artifacts scattered around the cockpit, each one etched with strange symbols.
"After all these years, someone was waiting to be found," she whispered, reverence in her voice.
The astronauts are quickly ushered aside as Director Maseka, a tall, dark-skinned man in a black suit, strides forward, flanked by a silent security team. Black screens are erected around the capsule’s hatch as the ancient pilot is carefully removed, her body encased in a sealed pod.
"Level ‘two above secret.’ Move her to containment. Debrief the crew separately."
Director Maseka stands at the edge, his hands hovering over the artifacts, eyes closed in concentration. The scientists carefully disconnect technology from the pilot’s body, cataloguing each piece before it disappears into secure vaults. Footage of every motion is recorded, every secret sealed under layers of bureaucracy and silence.
Noah splices together long-lost footage: the moon landing, the alien ship, the ancient pilot, the secretive laboratory. The screen glows as snippets of the mission—once too secret to share—are restored, ready to be shown to the world.
For twelve minutes, they watch in awe—the astronauts climbing into the alien ship, the pilot’s strange tubes, the shadowy laboratory where science and secrecy collide. Noah leans forward, voice trembling with hope.
"This is the good bit. This is what my grandfather wanted the world to see."
[@ch_6]Producer Lin[/@ch_6_d]"Where did you get this film footage?"[/@ch_6_d]
Noah explains, the truth tumbling out—his grandfather’s role, the secret retrieval, the decades of silence. Suddenly, the conference doors burst open. A team of tall, dark-skinned men—eerily reminiscent of Director Maseka—stride in, their presence both authoritative and enigmatic. Without a word, one lifts his hand, signaling the room to silence.
They turn and leave as suddenly as they arrived, leaving the producers and Noah frozen in uncertainty, the weight of history and secrecy pressing in from every side.
