"Max, please confirm you're not dead."
"Define dead."
"Unmoving. Cold. Inconvenient. Basically what you were before the tether reeled you in."
"I'm breathing, aren't I?"
"Barely. Your oxygen levels dipped low enough to qualify as poetic."
The satellite blinked lazily above him—an ancient, rust-bitten husk still somehow orbiting after all these years. Max floated alongside it, tapping the last seal on the power core shut with a satisfying clunk.
"Fixed. Again. Who knows, maybe this time it'll stay that way."
"Doubtful. But optimism is adorable on you."
He rolled his eyes and drifted back toward the ship's docking hatch. The vacuum tugged at him until the airlock welcomed him in with a hiss. Once inside, he peeled off the grime-caked suit and tossed it to the floor like it had insulted him.
Quick rinse. Half-hearted scrub. Change into something that didn't smell like burnt metal and elastic wires.
He caught his reflection in the small mirror above the sink—eyes tired, hair defiant, jawline hiding under a few weeks of "maybe later." He grinned.
"Still handsome."
"Subjective," VERA chimed in.
"Your sensors are broken. Try again."
"No, I just have taste."
The banter was familiar. A well-worn routine. Max dried his face with the least-wet towel he could find and strolled into the main bay.
He whistled once, sharp and casual, like he was calling a bartender over.
"Alright, VERA. Get Chief Xel on the line. Let's make my freedom official."
He waited. Then frowned. Nothing happened.
"...VERA?"
"I heard you."
"And?"
"Nothing's coming through."
"Nothing as in... delay?"
"Nothing as in static, silence, the existential dread of abandonment. Pick your flavor."
Max leaned over the console, like that would help.
"Check again."
"Dropping the same stone twice won't change where it lands."
"Can't you just say no like a normal AI?"
"You're the one who turned on the sarcasm module. Remember? 'Because it's too lonely up here without personality,' you said. I'm simply honoring your emotional instability."
He stared blankly at the screen. No signal. No flicker of Chief Xel's usual grumpy face telling him he could rot in orbit for all he cared.
"Alright... weird."
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"You sure you're not hiding something?"
"If I were, do you think I'd admit it? I enjoy the drama, Max, but even I draw the line at betrayal."
"You sure?"
"Ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure. That's the margin for you."
Max sighed.
"Okay then. Let's not overthink it. My time's up anyway. Prep the pod—I'm going home."
"To Earth. Again."
"Where else would I go?"
"Well, statistically, your return ends with another felony, another trial, and another glorious reunion with me. It's a full-circle thing."
"I like to keep traditions alive."
VERA sighed—digitally, of course, but somehow it still sounded exasperated.
"Pod's prepped. Door's open. Manual override if you crash. Again."
"Crashing is just aggressive landing."
"And prison is just unexpected vacation."
Max stepped into the launch pod and took his seat, the harness folding over him like a reluctant hug. The ship behind him dimmed as the pod powered up.
He stared at Earth, far off, just a blue-green blur with a bad reputation.
"Coming home," he muttered.
As the pod began its descent, VERA's voice crackled in one last time—calm, crisp, and just a bit too smug.
"Starting the countdown for your return. Six days. Maybe five. I've got a feeling you'll break your own record."
Max closed his eyes and smiled, and so the fall began.