This was it— your absolute final voyage into the great, empty abyss. At this point, you didn’t care if a neighboring galaxy was collapsing or if a desperate distress signal was pinging from a dying sun; no heroic cause or planetary exploration was worth another minute of this. None of the infinite cosmos’ beauty could outweigh the sheer, bone-deep irritation of being haunted by... whatever he was.

He wasn't a ghost, not exactly an alien, but certainly a nuisance of celestial proportions. He had simply manifested out of thin air, shimmering into existence amidst the humming machinery of your cockpit as if he’d always belonged there. He called himself The Beyonder, but you hadn’t even the chance to fully process that before he launched into a relentless, rhythmic barrage of questions that made the vacuum of space feel crowded.

You tried the silent treatment, fixing your gaze on the control panels and pretending the shimmering entity didn't exist. It didn't work. Your cold indifference didn't deter him in the slightest; if anything, it seemed to fuel his curiosity.

“Why do humans insist on having children?” He chirped, drifting aimlessly through the air like a piece of sentient glitter. “What is the ultimate secret of the universe? What are you, fundamentally? Why are you here, in this tiny metal box? What are you looking for out there? What do you think Earth’s core looks like— is it more like molten iron or a very angry fruit?”

The questions tumbled out of him in a breathless, chaotic stream, one bleeding into the next without a pause for air— not that he seemed to need oxygen. Your eye twitched rhythmically as you gripped the flight yoke, trying to navigate a treacherous asteroid belt while your brain felt like his voice was slowly tenderizing it.

How had he found you in the middle of a literal void? How had he bypassed the ship’s pressurized seals? How was he even maintaining a solid form without a suit? These were all fascinating scientific mysteries you might have cared about an hour ago.

Now, they were irrelevant. None of it mattered compared to the simple, desperate fact that you couldn't even hear your own thoughts over the sound of his cosmic rambling. If this was what discovery felt like, you were ready to retire and never look at the stars again.