Prompts for space and future stories that start with something already acting strangely: a reactor that reports more fuel than it has, a lake that is perfectly square, a ship that came through the gate the wrong way.
You are a customs officer at the edge of the system. A listening post riding a comet picks up a broadcast in perfect, slightly old-fashioned Welsh. A clone who insists they are the original offers you their seat on the last shuttle out, and they're someone you used to share a cabin with. The catch: the shuttle isn't going where the timetable says, and the seat was paid for by people who want you gone. Before the night crew hands over, the doors will seal, making the choice to stay or go for you — so choose now. Keep the mood cold, precise and paranoid.
Tap any underlined part to roll it again; lock parts in the list below to keep them.
A good sci-fi scene needs one impossible or worrying fact, not a full star map. Each setting here gives you exactly one: the colony's terraformers ran backwards last winter, or a listening post riding a comet picks up a broadcast in perfect, slightly old-fashioned Welsh. Treat it as the thing everyone on board is talking about.
Roles are jobs with a past, which matters on a crew. A navigator grounded after one bad jump, a synthetic who just failed a humanity test, a quartermaster who counts every gram: each knows something about the ship that others don't, and has a reason to keep quiet about it.
Space changes what a deadline means. Clocks in this pack are often physical: the ninety minutes before the eclipse, the eleven minutes the blackout lasts, a letter that can't be caught for forty years. Use them. A conversation held while a window closes is tense even if nobody raises their voice.
Many hidden truths turn on copies, memories and visitors. “Someone you have started to suspect of being a copy” is a relationship the generator can roll, and it pairs well with a “cold, precise and paranoid” tone. If you'd rather have wonder than suspicion, lock “hushed and full of awe” and reroll the secret until it fits.
With three of you, one player can be the captain or contact who brings the hook, and the second character becomes the crew member who knows the secret. Agree beforehand how much hard science you want. Some groups like to work out the orbital maths; others are happy for the reactor simply to be lying, and the prompts hold up either way.
You play a synthetic who just failed a humanity test. A listening post riding a comet picks up a broadcast in perfect, slightly old-fashioned Welsh. A household robot that has outlived three families — whom you have started to suspect of being a copy — asks you to delete the last thirty seconds of a security recording. What you don't yet know: the recording shows a person stepping out of a wall that has no door. Before the signal repeats, the recording will be backed up somewhere you can never reach, and you have to decide how far you'll go.
You are a navigator grounded after one bad jump. The last station on the ice moon runs on a reactor that reports more fuel than it has. A captain running out of crew asks you to smuggle a seed that every colony law forbids, and they're someone you have only spoken to by delayed message. The catch: the seed was made to save failing crops, and the last time it was planted it took over a continent. In the ninety minutes before the eclipse, the fields will fail, leaving the forbidden seed as the only thing left to try — so choose now.
You play a botanist smuggling one forbidden seed. A hospital ship moves between frontier colonies, always three months behind the latest outbreak. The only human who has spoken to the visitors, someone you have started to suspect of being a copy, hands you a letter to deliver to a planet forty light-years away. But the letter tells its reader to stop waiting, and its writer has already changed their mind. Before the night crew hands over, the letter will be sent as written, with no way to catch it for forty years. What do you do?
You play a teenage cadet on work experience. On a planet with kilometre-high tides, the whole settlement rolls inland on rails twice a day. A captain running out of crew — whom you taught to fly — asks you to witness a treaty with a species that has no word for a broken promise. What you don't yet know: the treaty binds the descendants of everyone present, for a thousand years. In the eleven minutes the blackout lasts, the signatures will become binding on every child yet to be born here, and you have to decide how far you'll go.
You are a salvage diver who works derelicts alone. A mining town on a tumbling asteroid holds its elections by counting oxygen tokens. A doctor who keeps two sets of records offers you a copy of yourself to cover your work while you're away, and they're someone you once served under. The catch: the copy was made months ago, and it has been covering for you for a while already. Before the next shift change, the copy will be the one everyone believes, leaving you to prove you're the original — so choose now. Keep the mood playful, with a sharp edge.
You play a chaplain to a crew of sceptics. A luxury cruiser circles a black hole so its guests can watch time slow down from the bar. A captain running out of crew, someone you haven't seen in twenty ship-years, needs you to wake someone from a cryo-pod that isn't on any list. But the sleeper is the original of someone you see every day, and the copy knows. Before the inspection team docks, the copy will reach the pod first and make sure it never opens. What do you do? Keep the mood uncanny but kind.
You play a quartermaster who counts every gram. A luxury cruiser circles a black hole so its guests can watch time slow down from the bar. A bounty hunter who only takes payment in fuel — whom you were betrayed by — asks you to look after a small alien creature for one night. What you don't yet know: the creature is the infant of a species that has just arrived, and they don't know it's missing yet. Before the reactor's next safety check, the first thing the parents learn about humans will be this, and you have to decide how far you'll go. Keep the mood dry and darkly funny.
You play an engineer who built the thing everyone is afraid of. The embassy ship floats in neutral space, its corridors split down the middle by two kinds of air. A museum guide on a station nobody visits any more — whom you beat in the academy finals — begs you to hide a prisoner who says the war ended thirty years ago. What you don't yet know: the prisoner is right, and the people giving the orders have known for years. Before the lights dim for the night, the prisoner will be silenced while the war goes on for no reason at all, and you have to decide how far you'll go. Keep the mood playful, with a sharp edge.
You play a stowaway nobody has noticed for a year. A courier liner jumps between stars in hops that cost each passenger a day of their memory. An android who woke up this morning, someone you owe a life-debt to, asks you to teach a visitor one word before the official talks begin. But whatever word the visitor learns first will be taken as humanity's name. By the end of the next sleep cycle, the talks will open with the word you chose, with no chance to take it back. What do you do? Keep the mood bittersweet, like a long goodbye.
You play a xenolinguist on a first posting. The school on the colony ship has thirty pupils, and none of them has ever seen a sky. A heavy-world miner who finds everything here fragile, someone you testified against, asks you to witness a treaty with a species that has no word for a broken promise. But the treaty binds the descendants of everyone present, for a thousand years. Before the countdown reaches zero, the signatures will become binding on every child yet to be born here. What do you do? Keep the mood brisk and procedural.
You are a translator for a species with no word for lying. A hospital ship moves between frontier colonies, always three months behind the latest outbreak. A scientist who erased their own name asks you to witness a treaty with a species that has no word for a broken promise, and they're someone you haven't seen in twenty ship-years. The catch: the treaty binds the descendants of everyone present, for a thousand years. Before the inspection team docks, the signatures will become binding on every child yet to be born here — so choose now. Keep the mood warm despite the vacuum.
You are a terraforming engineer with a grudge against the weather. A mining town on a tumbling asteroid holds its elections by counting oxygen tokens. A passenger who isn't on the manifest offers you their seat on the last shuttle out, and they're someone you have chased across three systems. The catch: the shuttle isn't going where the timetable says, and the seat was paid for by people who want you gone. In the eleven minutes the blackout lasts, the doors will seal, making the choice to stay or go for you — so choose now. Keep the mood hushed and full of awe.
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