Twelve arms hold hands as they spin faster, faster, round and round. Locked tight and shut, authorization denied, they'll make it or they'll break it there has never been any turning back.
The twelve – thirteen if you count the puppet master but the twelve never does – all know. One has to know to tell and the thirteenth – the first, really, should one be counting in dimensions not yet conquered – will take everything with him to the grave. To be laid to rest in a shallow grave where there once was more than dust.
The world's been telling them to leave for a while now.
The twelve hold hands. Family for a year – moments, merely moments in the face of things– and strangers for all of time.
Approaching unchartered space. Last salvation. Maybe.
What are they saving? Not the ones left back before – too late. Not their dear ones – too late. Not themselves – too late. An idea of people as a group, a species, the essence will be the same wherever whenever however, are they real if they don't know nothing but the taste of corn?
The thirteenth has it easy, in that sense. A truth long since acknowledged who one of the next chosen ones will be. Sent through years of space because a chance is better than hopeless.
Someone has to be there to tell them. The twelve knows, dying is not permitted. Or, no. Death is everything. There can't be life without death and they need just the one. Just the one.
Just the one.
They're dead men walking – Lazarus, there has to be hope in Lazarus – and they were picked for a reason. There won't be any children crying themselves to sleep because of them and, more importantly, there won't be any for them to cry over either.
Surpass the instinct. Be more. Be less.
Dead men and monsters.
o
This is the last goodbye.
The twelve spin for one last turn – dancing through the night and into hopefully day – and sing to the nothing of what they hope will be. Locked tight and shut, authorization approved, they'll make it or they'll break it there has never been any turning back.
The wheel stops spinning.
Main thrusters down. Releasing Ranger One through Twelve. Detach.
Commencing takeoff in one, two…
They shoot out as stars and leave trailing fire in their wake, a slowly drifting shell all that is left to tell of the family that only were for a moment. Testament to all of mankind.
It's funny how these things work out.
o
They disappear one by one. Dive into the unknown and hope they hit their mark. Praying for themselves because no one else will.
It's always been a one way trip.
Always.
o
(but not forever)