We were airborne.
Again.
Except this time, I wasn't screaming. Not because I wasn't terrified—but because I couldn't afford the oxygen.
The backup rocket—"Moonbean II," as Theo proudly called it—rattled like a vending machine about to fall over. Ariel was at the controls, gritting her teeth, while Theo was laughing like a man who had officially lost his last marble.
"Okay!" he yelled over the turbulence. "No wings? No problem! The air doesn't matter in space!"
"I swear to god," Ariel muttered, "if we survive this I'm punching you in the throat."
I couldn't stop staring at the monitor. It showed the original rocket—our first baby—already halfway to the moon.
And onboard, still smiling through the helmet… was me.
Or something wearing me.
"I still don't understand what it wants," I whispered.
Theo wiped his face with a rag that may have once been a sock. "That's what we're going to find out."
---
Three hours later, the shaking stopped. We were in space.
Moonbean II hummed gently, like a surprised kitten. Ariel had managed to stabilize our course using nothing but duct tape, a broken coffee stirrer, and sheer rage.
We floated toward lunar orbit—quiet, tense.
Then the console beeped.
"Incoming signal," Ariel said, frowning. "Encrypted."
Theo perked up. "Can you decode it?"
"I'm not a wizard,"