In front of him, John Fitzgerald could see all the stars of the milky way, spread out over the void, mocking him. An alarm droned over and over from the speaker in his helmet. There was no way to turn it off, his suit had long run its main power supply dry. Auxiliary power kept him warm, and alive for now, but it couldn’t run the motors required to use his limbs. He was useless. A flaw in the design he thought, though he never considered this situation. Drifting through space as an alarm pecked at his skull like a woodpecker. He wondered what would happen first. Would he run out of oxygen or…

He wanted to be the first to reach another star. To be among the great names that adorned the history of spaceflight. Yuri Gagarin, Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, names that lived on in history. He had worked his whole life for the chance, established a fortune, started his own company. Everything he did was so he could be the first to reach another star, and he was so close.

The stars in front of him began to move, slowly at first. The alarming moment passed when he realised he was the one that was moving. Somehow he began to turn, toward his fate. Slowly the stars were replaced by nothing but a pure black void. John chuckled, his name wouldn’t be among the greats, but he was the first to make it to another star.

It’s just that this one was dead.

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