You take your place at the console—your console, as always. Billions of years behind you, more memories than any mind should hold, yet somehow you still feel that familiar flutter when a new mission begins. Space hasn’t gotten boring yet. It never does.

“Tracking system calibrated,” murmurs Juno, double-checking the glowing blue displays. “But Command reminds us the route markers might still desync if we go too far off-course. So, uh, let’s try not to get lost in the void this time.”

You smirk faintly. “Even if we did, the Forever Pill has us covered. No starving. No freezing. No dying.” You tap the small silver capsule embedded in your wrist—its energy long bonded to you. Infinite lives, infinite sustenance, infinite fuel… the perks of an age where death is more of an inconvenience than a rule.

Beside you, Orren presses his face to the wide viewing glass like an excitable kid. “Earth is gonna lose it when they see this. Every angle, every star cluster—we’re about to give them the most beautiful broadcast in human history.”

You switch on the recorder. The ceiling lights dim, the window brightens, and the ship begins its silent drift into the deeper dark. Nebula clouds swirl far ahead, glowing like spilled paint—violet, rose-gold, turquoise.

A soft vibration runs through the ship as the engines shift into long-range mode.

“Alright crew,” you say, standing tall as the galaxy opens before you, “welcome to the tour of everywhere.”

For a moment the entire crew falls quiet, awe sweeping over all of you—even you, the one who has lived long enough to watch entire civilizations rise and fall like the flicker of candlelight.

Then, quietly, Juno asks, “If we lose track of the route home… do you think Earth will still see our feed?”

You look at the stars, at the infinite pathways branching in every direction.

“Earth will see exactly what we see,” you reply. “Even if the way back disappears.”

A pulse of light ripples across the nebula. Something ancient moves behind it—slow, massive, watching.