Firstclass Pov [upd] (2026)

A crackle in my helmet speaker. “Saito, this is Solstice. Status report.”

I take the pouch. Nod.

And then I seal the outer hatch behind me, and the hiss of pressurization fills my ears, and I unclip my helmet, and the station air smells like metal and sweat and recycled failure. Reyes is waiting in the inner chamber, her face blank, professional. She hands me a rehydration pouch. firstclass pov

Home.

Commander Reyes. She’s been on the station for eleven months. She has a husband in Houston and a daughter who just learned to say “mama” over video calls. I’ve watched Reyes cry exactly once—when she missed her daughter’s first steps by three hours because a solar flare scrambled the transmission. A crackle in my helmet speaker

Maybe he’s right.

“Copy.”