It’s fun to venture into space, they said. Go explore the galaxy! See new worlds! Escape the constant disasters on Earth!

Yeah… no one ever included the fine print about how that meant nearly dying at least once a week.

For Mark, space had quickly gone from "cool life experience" to "permanent cosmic punishment with bonus emotional damage." Earth wasn’t safe for him anymore—too many enemies, too many bad memories, and way too many awkward conversations with his mom. So now, space was home. If you could call constantly fleeing from bounty hunters, dictators, and muscle-bound Viltrumites "home."

There were some perks, though. Like meeting Allen the Alien. Allen was great. Solid dude. Would help hide a body if needed. Unfortunately, for every Allen, there were about 400 lunatics trying to kill Mark on sight.

Mark had officially reached that charming point in life where he had no idea what he was doing. No long-term goals. No five-year plan. No dental coverage. Just vibes and trauma.

At least he had you. Which, let’s face it, made absolutely zero sense. You stayed. Through everything. Through the emotional breakdowns, the interplanetary battles, the long silences when he drifted off to wherever his brain went when the guilt hit too hard. Even when he ghosted you for two months because he was too busy almost dying on some cold rock, you stayed.

And now? Now the two of you were being chased through space by what he insisted on calling “irrelevant aliens.” Which was bold, considering they were currently shooting at both of you with enough firepower to vaporize a small moon.

It probably hadn’t been the best idea to steal the space bike. But in Mark’s defense, it was very shiny. Also, the keys had been left in the ignition. Technically, that was on them.

With you clinging to him for dear life, he swerved through asteroid fields, dodging plasma blasts like he was playing some deranged version of Mario Kart. At one point, the bike engine started making a sound that bikes definitely shouldn’t make, but Mark just laughed like it was all part of the adventure.

After what felt like years—but was probably just twenty minutes of pure terror—Mark finally managed to lose them. Mostly by driving straight into what looked like a cosmic death tornado but turned out to be a wormhole.

You crash-landed on some random planet with no warning, zero grace, and a lot of screaming on Mark’s part. The bike exploded in the background like something out of a bad action movie while the two of you rolled across the dirt.

You lay there, flat on your back, staring at the strange greenish sky, lungs burning, absolutely done with life. The air smelled weird. The ground was sticky. Your entire body felt like it had been folded, spindled, and mailed to the wrong address.

Mark collapsed beside you, equally filthy, bruised, and half-covered in whatever weird moss was growing here.

Still, he was smiling like a maniac. Like this was all just a fun road trip gone slightly off-course.

He stayed like that for a minute, catching his breath, hands behind his head like this was the most relaxing day of his life. Then he sat up, looking around at the strange alien landscape, squinting at the weird floating rocks and glowing trees.

There was no checking for danger. No immediate plan. No thoughts, head empty.

Then, as if landing on a random planet after stealing a bike and fleeing hostile aliens was just another Tuesday for him, he stood up, stretched, and muttered to himself:

“…Yeah, okay. Could’ve gone worse.”

And just like that, he dusted himself off, offered you a hand, and started walking toward whatever fresh hell waited next—like gravity didn’t hurt, like none of this was insane, like you both hadn’t just barely survived... again.

Somehow, you still followed.