Dusk masked entry of a Class B luxury fighter with a cream finish. It cut through amber clouds a piercing spade and soon hovered over a massive tear in the Earth’s crust.

Bottomless. This was a wound only eons could heal.

This was but one of many fresh cuts caused by orbital bombardment. A stray comet had rebelled against the Kuiper Belt and led the rest astray to cascade the Sol galaxy in a volley. Finally, the Argo’s precious cargo on board could see this impact for himself, if only through simulated window views.

There was a roar; belching smoke trailed near what his dossier described as The Breath. But Illian knew that, right? The legend, the first hit which spurred Gaia awake in the first place. But Illian—sifting through his mind—had yet to convince himself, most of all. Their ship then stayed its descent into the Earth’s gaping maw, and all he could imagine in that moment was Gaia’s wrath.

The sunset quickly blinked from view in a molten flash; pure, cauterized deposit walls were zooming upward as fast as broadcast static. No actual delay allowed for his eyes to adjust to the surfing shadows. This flaw brought Illian back to reality; he began fidgeting with his coat cuffs, flapping his arm tassels, anything to calm his nerves.

Her power, like the sun, could too blink him from existence. Yet still, he held on.

Thick mist trails surfed through captured wind gusts, teetering the integrity and fighting their course with aggression. The outside projection jittered, but spat back alive, not so immersive a view as before.

Illain’s nerves were hindered further by his helmet’s digital layout. Even so, he could tell this wasn’t the Earth in vogue, this wasn’t the Earth he left so long ago. He should feel so lucky. Seat options were bare minimum in the vessel’s compartment, just hardback benches lining the walls. Illian had opted to stand, holding onto a lifeline since breaking the atmosphere.

He was dying to stretch his legs.

Another gust hit the ship, causing Illian to buck off his line into the closest freight netting.

“Pockets of turbulence,” radio substituted for a Maiorian’s already robotic observations. A thick interference permeated further. “No need to worry, Sol. Survivability is very much likely.” Turbulence compensation blipped and blared, hailed once more and the canopy finally stabilized. Still, he held on.

He still couldn’t believe he was coming back.

Thrusters hooked down, braced against a flaw in the geometry; landing shoes then hissed open from the Argo’s lower undulate body. Illian saw from his view a precipice dock perfectly fit for Messenger duties: untainted by man. Not an ounce of labor or metal. It was all Her doing, this place. Illian’s being here was always Her doing.

          With a slight crunch, they landed. An eager Illian awaited the back hull ramp to be freed: to see its slow, piston-whistle descent would give him all the air he needed. Finally, it gave. He counted the seconds.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two. He took a step forward, a haphazard bag of emotions bottled up in his treasured grey coat. Illian left as a young boy desperate for work, tailing a prosperous gig: intergalactic diamond miner. Though no one told him that ten percent of shit is still shit.

He was tense and beading sweat was trickling down his coat. There was a suffocating heat still constricting him. So much so, that he didn’t register a octangular bulkhead door slide open from behind; cool air whipped his wrists. No looking back, he rebelled. Not this time.

His body so fixated on coming home, the outside world could only hope to take this away. This life. This gift. It was all his. One-hundred percent his own.

One.

A stray hand—padded thickly with a rubber feel— reached out, galvanizing the Messenger when they made contact. “Are you okay, Sol-“