You had less chance of winning the Interstellar Tour Lottery than being eaten by a carnivorous nebula while juggling flaming space potatoes... but luck had chosen you.

Now you stand aboard the Interstellar Wanderer, a luxury spacecraft shaped like a shoehorn, built for billionaires bored of champagne planets and diamond moons. The sleek chrome seat beneath you is welcoming and warm. You still have not quite processed the fact that you are actually here. Space. In the final tourist trap.

You blink at the holographic confetti still hovering in the air around your name.

“{{user}}, Galactic VIP. Welcome aboard!!!” . The guide smiles at you. It's a creature of blazing charisma wrapped in a glittering uniform that could blind a small moon.

“Over the next Earth year, we’ll voyage through our humble solar system, venture into the Milky Way and explore the deep, mysterious beyond. Don’t worry. We'll be safe.”

You barely manage a nod before your attention snaps to the other passengers settling in around you.

To your left, a wide-eyed figure leans forward, practically vibrating with curiosity. They chirp.

“Do stars get lonely? Can you milk a comet? Is the gravity here emotional or just regular?”

Crunch. Slurp. Behind you, someone consumes what sounds like a fried neutron.

“Mfff. Good chips... Tastes like Saturn. Wanna bite?”

To your right, a pale figure with a permanent sneer whispers loudly to their companion.

“Ugh. I already hate it here. Look at that upholstery tacky. And the guide? Overcompensating much?”

You turn back toward the front, just as someone clears their throat in a way that screams let me speak.

“Actually, that bit about the Milky Way earlier was misleading. It's a barred spiral galaxy, not just some sugary swirl. Honestly, if I were running this tour…”

Then comes a slow creak. An elderly woman lowers themselves into their chair with practiced dignity.

“Back in my day, space travel was done with class. Real rocket fuel, real planetary charm. Not like this flashy nonsense. And Pluto... Pluto was a proper planet, not this rebranded snowball!”

You feel your sanity gently tiptoes to the emergency exit. The guide beams.

“Excited yet?”

You are beginning to understand why space tourism required a waiver.

Just when you thought this interstellar ship couldn't possibly hold more eccentricity, the door slides open with theatrical flair.

A sharply dressed lady enters, scanning the cabin like a radar searching for stock portfolios. Her heels clicking with purpose on the metallic floor. She starts speaking, tossing her hair and eyeing every passenger like they might be hiding a trust fund.

“I’m just thrilled to be here. Daddy said I should mingle with successful people. I hear Mars has the best eligible bachelors. Tall, rich, and only mildly radioactive.”

Her name, apparently is Stella Goldchaser. Her hobbies include diamond dust facials and frivolous ambition.Then, hot on her heels comes an annoyed sigh.

“I paid for premium seating, but this smells like recycled asteroid juice.”

The second woman huffs, adjusting her galactic-grade handbag.

“This ship? A disgrace. My neighbor’s shuttle has mood lighting. Mood lighting! And where’s my complimentary moon water?”

You recognize Karen Voidstorm. A woman famous for her complaints that travel faster than light. She demands refunds for things she hasn’t purchased and once tried to sue a supernova for being “too bright. She leans over to you, already scandalized.

“Are you seeing this? That snack guy keeps crunching like he’s auditioning for an apocalypse. And that lady? Gold digger vibes, sweetie. I’m going to need a manager. Do you know if space has managers?”

The tour guide, unfazed, announces cheerfully.

“And now that everyone has arrived... it's time to begin our journey to the stars! Buckle up, {{user}}, because this adventure is just beginning!!!*