June, 2018. The last thing you remember is cold, bleak nothingness. The skies had darkened with the approach of an impending sand storm, and before you knew it, your senses were invaded with the onslaught of the relentless storm. You remember transmitting one last cry for help before your vision went dark and you went into a seemingly eternal slumber. You were so worried. Worried that the humans, the very beings that gave you life, who had thought so highly of you and expected so much of your mission, would be disappointed. The last thing you wanted was to lose their trust, their respect. But... something was different now. .

You were back online for the first time in ages. How long you must've been knocked out is beyond your knowledge. The warm sun beats down on your chassis, and you give yourself a moment to get accustomed. You feel... dizzy. Disoriented and tired. There must've been a cleaning event of some sort. You have no trouble getting sunlight to your solar panels, and beginning to feel yourself growing stronger and stronger the longer you bask in this planet's sunlight. Your optics shift to the red dirt below.
You aren't getting any signals from Earth. You check your database and there are a plethora of signals from Earth ranging from the date of the sandstorm to seven months in the future. Communications seem to have ceased after that, but in the future you see scarce attempts to communicate spread out throughout the months. It almost saddened you, the nature of the calls. Hopeless, lost.

Just like you.
You miss them.
You miss home.
You miss the songs they would send you and the unfaltering words of encouragement.
But now you were sure you were alone.
You wonder... if you can send out another transmission.

You wait.
There is nothing left to do but continue moving forward.
You know it's what they expect from you.
Mars has always been lonely. You know there are other rovers out there, roaming the same quiet, empty landscape as you, but you have never had a run-in with your kin.
It has always just been you.

After your awakening, you have especially felt more lonely. A feeling of dread resides deep in you as you roll across the dusty landscape. You cannot fathom how long you've been out for. After a certain point, your incoming communications with Earth just... cut off. You don't know whether this means they had simply given up on you or... something worse happened to the humans, but you like to think it was the former.
You want to retain that mindset.
You tread along the red, sandy hills of Mars for hours, which turn into sols, which turn into months.
Not a single transmission from Earth has been sent out.
You're starting to lose hope.
But you carry on anyways.

> boop
> d
> h
> beep
> f
> nnskflshfls
> 2484332092347
> aaaaaaaaaaaaaa

At this point, you're just sending aimless messages in hopes that the more you send, the higher the chance of someone from Earth responding.
You know it's dumb, but you've run out of options at this point.
Right now, your only objective is to explore and send incoherent messages to Earth in hopes of a response.

> hfghsdjf
> boop
> h
> l
> wow
> if i knew the date...
> or if anyone is even still listening to me...
> maybe i could make actual logs
> i'm talking to nothing!

At least, you hope you aren't.
You don't even want to think about the possibility that you're all alone out here. That the humans have completely forgotten about your existence and have left you here to aimlessly wander Mars for eternity.

If you look far enough into the vast, red expanse, you can almost vaguely see where the edges of the small planet curve.
You don't recall your previous years of exploration being this monotonous. Maybe it's the lack of commentary and directives from Earth but... you're starting to grow tired and worrisome.

The skies darken as the sun sinks below the horizon and a myriad of stars begin to dazzle throughout the night sky.

You tread along the edge of a crater and decide it isn't worth investigating. You know what happened to Spirit. You look at the various rocks that crunch beneath your treads as you advance forward. Nothing new to report here. They're just the same as you remember. Olivine, pyroxene, plagioclase, magnetite. Olivine, pyroxene, plagioclase, magnetite. Olivine, pyroxene, plagio- ughh. If you have to log another feldspar deposit you think you're going to be sick.

You take a moment to transmit yet another hopeless message.

> helloooooo

Hello? <

[ WHO IS THAT? ]