Resolutely crumbling beneath concrete sidewalks, or sparkling with an enlightened Sol above, the city of New York had remained an inspiration to all, a place of pride for her people, since their union of counties & boroughs over eleven hundred years ago.

Took a certain state of mind, a particular groove to get used to, but from 52nd Street to Welcome to New York, from windy subway grates to public library ghosts, and from Emma Lazarus to Walt Whitman, there had been no limit to the songs sung, stills shot & sonnets scribbled within, about, and in tribute, to this crown jewel of the States.

And why wouldn't there be?

Courtesy of the men & madams of those maiden centuries, and their thousand years of tireless, brilliant pioneering in science, engineering, aviation, robotics & medicine since, she had grown and solidified into as commendable a city as could ever be created. A city that, despite several devastating invasions, multiple occasions of complete destruction, and even periods of human slavery, still stood proud as proof that you couldn't keep a true New Yorker down.

A city that those original pioneers, as stars shining above the smooth sprawl of skyscrapers, landmarks of legacy and ambitious architecture every night, could never have imagined.

But were they alive, they would've shared sombre second glances for Planet Express Delivery Company and, familiar to such regrettable occasions lately, for the five colleagues huddled together in its conference room. A short walk from the Hudson River, they sat as silent as those waters, contemptuous of that giant green table and, fast growing cobwebs, their delivery spaceship.

First in order of importance was Professor Hubert J. Farnsworth, the owner, founder & CEO who had his hands clasped calmly amidst the chaos. Second was Hermes Conrad who, staring around shuffling his papers, kept all their fiddly affairs wrapped up.

The very close third was Turanga Leela, cyclopean captain & Head Pilot, whose eye and shoulders were slumped across the desk. Amy Wong aside her, full-time intern & her co-pilot, bored & browsing catalogues on the clock.

And least important, by some significant distance, was John Zoidberg, the Decapodian doctor of dubious distinction who, despite good intentions, often failed miserably in treating the crew.

With twice as many meetings as deliveries made, the loss of two beloved employees—missing or dead—and heavy hits to numbers like customer satisfaction, average deliveries and stock prices over the past several months, years perhaps, an insidious creature had seeped through the headquarters and choked whatever life & happiness might've been left.

At least Hermes could always use the criticism to re-kindle his incinerator, allowing heat bills to stay down. Right now, they were barely scraping numbers to survive beyond next week, never mind indefinitely.

Hell, consider the captain of the crew. Usually bossy & no-nonsense, never shy of any word or opinion, the fact that she had taken a comparative vow of silence these past twelve months had genuinely worried her colleagues, to the point of persistent discussion. As for why, goodness… How long would you have to listen?

Business blunders and bankruptcy threats aside, her biggest grief was left for the loss of her oldest crew & closest friends. For Bender, a defective Bending Unit who nonetheless lived life as he pleased, damn the consequences. And without question, for her boyfriend/lover Fry. A lazy juvenile idiot at first, but deep within, as genuine & golden-hearted a guy as she could ever meet.

With a pitiable moan she had slumped further, heating the usually cold-hearted Hermes to the point of purpose. Standing up with a palm out, he demanded the truth from her:

"Sweet Doritos of Ocho Rios, what 'de hell is wrong with you Cap'n?"

A subtle shift in her seat, an uncomfortable stare towards the boss's bureaucrat, and another sigh before she rested her head, threat of dreadful silence once more. Soon started speaking into her arms, the near-muffle forcing everyone to lean forward.

"I don't know why the hell I'm even here, trapped in this damned vicious circle… Worthless busywork most days; starship checks, stocktakes, small talk & stupid logs. Then go back home, lost and lonely, living for absolutely nothing, loafing in misery. At least when we had…"

She stopped herself short, taking deep breaths against the desperate heaves in her chest. Wouldn't let her professionalism betray any tears, even with her co-pilot pressing out of impatience.

"Leela, gleesh, don't cut us off like that! At least when we had who? You mean…"

A soft-spoken, yet dangerous whisper of "Was nothing" before Leela sat silent & still once more. Such subjects scarred too fresh to close yet, and certainly not for the first time, she thought of quitting and starting fresh.

But her company's barrel-bottom reputation, finances and prospects had utterly tanked her shares, a penny per piece that left her imprisoned to Farnsworth's will. Still desired change, but knew that her tips—trickles though they now were—had turned into her only ticket out of the streets. Feeling her faux pas about Fry, Amy flushed red and gracelessly failed to flip her pages, while Zoidberg clacked his claws and offered his opinion.

"Y'know, even if we go complete bupkis, you ALL still have Zoidberg… You'll always have my dumpster and empty cans, and that's a promise."

A genuine though misguided kindness, which earned him quite the snappish glare from Leela.

"Zoidberg, without hesitation, I'd take complete bupkis over even a solitary minute of such friendship."

"Awwww…"

Those familiar, festering feelings of anger & dejection soon gave way to winces, when the horrible echoes of cracking bones raced 'round the room. Farnsworth, with youthful fervour despite being a century older than the rest, began blasting his underlings about how everyone's efforts, except his, had been appalling.

Dithering 'round the table, devolving into demented ranting, he demanded that everyone, starting from today, worked harder to get all those packages delivered quicker & better. Of course, he had rigged the Captain to explode, offended by his sheer nerve that she didn't work enough.

She sure knew better, and even before he reached his hover-chair, she slammed the table with both hands, launched herself out of her seat, and ripped into him:

Are you friggin' kidding me?! Seriously, we don't work hard enough, Professor? I just can't believe you'd say such…"

She gripped her head, groaned with a great huff, and glared square into his eyes before continuing.

Once again, let me enlighten you… We can't work harder when there AREN'T any extra packages to deliver, and hasn't been for months! And how can we when your stupid inventions—of which you sell or market NONE of them—take priority over our ship and equipment? Tell me something, you senile twit… Who wants to hire a company who could be engulfed in flames the moment they break the atmosphere?"

"Leela, that's no way to address the Professor!" a miffed Hermes pointed harshly.

"Hu-whaa? I don't recall anyone having problems with the ship lately."

"What other proof do you need aside from the half-dozen repair & maintenance logs I hand off every single month, huh? Even though they're stacked higher than your boiled monster egg lately, you STILL haven't done a single God-damn thing about them!"

Farnsworth, at first facing her like he knew, then shrugged his shoulders towards her and stared at his starship, his absent mind letting the accused stew & burn in fury. Didn't pay a lick more attention after that, and while one could argue that he lived longer than most had literal rights to, his completely clueless choices as the chief decision maker were frightening to witness. After all, he created this business to directly fund his research.

The results of said research over decades of expenses & experiments? One-off bullshit inventions, among them a self-indulgent voice impersonator, a failed time machine, and a worthless make-up line for dogs. Leela's palms met her face, remembering the other three hundred times she had such concerns shot down.

Resigned to the fact that she'd never have a hope nor a chance of bringing her thickly bespectacled boss back to reality, she just waved her hands in frustrated surrender, having finally cracked:

"Such ridiculous nonsense, seriously… Thanks to Methuselah we've done nothing but circle this black hole since last year! So sick of this worthless wasting away… So tired having this noose taut & tighten 'round my neck… So afraid of coming back tomorrow, finding this place foreclosed and forsaken…"

Zoidberg lifted his armpit. "Perhaps a squirt of the empathy bladder will help, Leela?"

"I… HAVE HAD… ENOUGH!"

And with that sudden, scary shout, she seized her lime-green jacket & handbag and stomped away for the lobby. Always stayed to the end in every company meeting, even while she juggled hero duties almost 24/7. Hell, even Hermes, never a more heartless bureaucrat within fifty miles, had collected his papers and called the others to attention, his head aware of her serious problems.

"Okay den, that concludes all our end-of-day business, and I shall see you all bright & early tomorrow."

Rushing out with papers in suitcase, he had to stop and stare back, whispering "All Gods willing" before he left. Zoidberg, however, had concerns of his own, and clacked his claws after his dearest friend of all… Or so he believed.

"Hermes, my friend! I'm normally not one to complain, but nobody's been tossing food in my dumpster anymore… I haven't eaten in two weeks!"

"We're not friends, you mouldy Rangoon, so go cram it with cranberry jam!"

Wasn't long before the tears fell pitiably to the tiled floor… "I WISH I COULD!"

Having always hated Zoidberg between his stench, mooching, incompetence or that awful ink, Hermes cracked a malignant smirk before disappearing, one of gradually fewer pleasures fulfilled. Would've had that stinkbug fired & shipped off to The Sun, if he had his way… But bizarrely, his boss insisted on keeping him around.

As a quick aside, to find the words impactful enough to highlight those mountains of issues; clueless complacency and sheer stupidity 'chief' among them, it would've taken another thousand years to do so. The same time it took for the very optimistic idea of Planet Express to ferment in the minds of dreamers and visionaries everywhere.

Borne from the published patrons of pen, paper & ink, matured by the media masterpiece makers who captured that novel essence, and realised by the inspiring heroes and brilliant minds who cracked the once-impossible barriers set out, such tireless effort over those centuries would give birth to spacecraft that would soon capably defy every law of physics and conventional idea ever thought possible.

But to see the final result right here… Sadly, maybe it was for the best that this once-promising company stepped aside.

Though the city's gorgeous orange glow gave way to glittering starry skies, an alluding to a perfect summer start, Leela's city-walk as the only alien orphan in New New York—perhaps this whole universe—had been a long, lonely and lifeless one. Wasn't just the loss of friends plaguing her mind either…

Still remembered her previous life as a cryogenics counsellor, and before then, her youth growing up in that children's home she bitterly called prison. Unappreciated, if not excluded & harshly treated, throughout her whole life.

Used to be after a crummy date, lousy day or rough week that she could come back for a cry, chat or a cuddle from the crew who cared for her, and always would. Didn't enjoy such luxuries lately, and making matters worse, her most vulnerable mind made her miserable walk more so, moving her past place after place that now possessed her most painful memories.

Those that set off her heart's big firework and moved her much closer to Fry.

The Applied Cryogenics lab, where she first met and chased down the 'kid from the Stupid Ages'. Was doing her job, only to inadvertently be led to a better life on his behalf. Gave a sniffle and trudged onward, soon crossing O'Zorgnax's Pub. First time he tried blending in to escape her sight.

Knew that haunt now as the place to clink whiskies or chug beers, the best friends toasting to life or to another top week as they talked about work, their weird world or the wild adventures they went on. Shedding a small tear with a soundless splash on concrete, she trotted off again.

Her tour of tragedy took flight with the National Head Museum, where the world could visit a wealth of celebrities across all spectrums in their prime, as perfectly preserved as the centuries they survived in. Quiet, dignified advice & contemplation, sometimes for free, courtesy of a complex combination of crystalline opal and some compound liquid called H2O-Gfat.

Felt the emotional shivers upon remembering the peace officers she enlisted. Beating Fry and insulting her, she herself would lay upon them a cold can of whoop-ass, discovering for the first time feelings on protecting someone else even at the risk of her job or even her own life. Stroking her ponytail, her personal way of comfort, she rushed away praying she saw nothing else.

But the more one avoids trouble, the more it finds them… The damnedest double whammy of all; the Rocket-Skating rink and her local gym, perfect places where he proudly displayed, deep within, both his infinite patience and his goofy sense of humour.

Just for a few minutes dancing on ice, her man would wait six HOURS just for tickets. Just to see her smile and laugh, he'd lift heavy weights in low gravity, pulling dumb macho faces like a pro.

At that point, all the things she had, what she once enjoyed and what actually made her happy… They just vanished, and as she felt the creases & heaves in her face and chest, she immediately rushed like the river rapids for home.

A pathetic dwelling to the skyscrapers sandwiching it, more a shipwreck of the seas than a suitable place to sleep, she was on the bright side a relatively cheap, clean and considerable piece of real estate. Stood as proud proof that appearances weren't everything, judging by the far-from-typical Leela having more than enough room to be comfortable; lounge, kitchen, bedroom and bathroom included.

But bursting through her building's front door and nearly busting her lock in the rush inside, only hurried, uneven breaths were expelled while she rubbed her hands across those rough wooden grains. The scars of DIY repair, all over a door that could've splintered apart at any time.

Glad to avoid those wary public eyes, she slipped into that recreation room—rocked by rueful memories once more—as she found her Hover-Disk player. Her mind and music were most attached to each other, fond of the sweet voices, touching tunes & timeless melodies she had collected over the years.

Shutting her eye she thumbed through her collection, grabbed her disc of choice and clicked that machine's needle, all with swift precision. Knew she done this once too often, but needed it so badly as of late.

This time, didn't matter which disc she picked, anything would do.

Fate had other ideas as familiar one, one-two kick beats, subtle bass guitar strums and sweet synthesisers got sultry with the soulful voice of Bill Withers. Immediate regret, as Just the Two of Us, once a 1980s song of sensual romance, now carried that cruel burden it never meant to.

The same song she played, after her first real date with Fry in years; night-time stroll, delicious, expensive meal, a glass of modest wine and a planned grand finale beneath the sheets. Of course, the hero's duty came calling… And you know the rest.

It was supposed to be a fitting, fantastic finale, a fairy-tale ending for their future.

Tried so hard to keep herself together, but just as a dam could burst open and gush forth with enough cracks in its walls, it wasn't long before she nearly ripped that record out and raced for her bed, heartbroken and devastated tears salting her carpets all the while.

Took a good hour or so of lying on her doona, emptying her box of tissues, before she worked up enough willing to sit up and read. Latest edition of the Nosy Enquirer, flicking through the potential celebrity singles that graced the cover & editorials.

Knew there'd never be any use. Could never replace what she had. But anything to avoid sleep, for the fear of the nightmares to follow…

Close her eyes and relive the moment Fry disappeared, with her imagination forcing one of dozens of gruesome, vivid, and awful scenarios into her head. The buffet of bad dreams, and among the highlights…

He'd be viciously murdered, sliced up Julienne-style. Suffer a ruthless, agonising disease that ate him from inside-out. She'd always fail to save him from one of several preventable accidents, no matter how fast she ran. Finally, he'd just straight-up commit suicide. Despite her words of comfort and love, she could never convince him to come back from the cliff edge.

Every night, those various nightmares would never let up; she'd always spring upright, shivers coursing through her body, crying once more before stroking her ponytail to reassure herself.

Knocked out and shipped back to Earth, the questions on her mind, and by extension, Planet Express, were simple ones: Where did Fry ever disappear to, were such a choice given? What was he doing, assuming he was still alive? Could they find him, if whoever seized him would allow it? And most importantly, who could help her bring him back, were such answers known?

Endless possibilities, and sure prudent to realise that by now, whoever had him either thought of ransom, service, slaughter or maybe all three. But it always begged another question. Though fun-loving, honest and with a heart of gold, Fry could be quite the idiot on several occasions… Why would anyone desire such a man enough, to lure them in and kidnap him?

Then of course came Bender, whose selfish cowardice led her to this point. She doubted that he'd ever come back to Earth, facing all his 'friends' to apologise… That just wasn't in his programming.

But she was still concerned about who else would bother taking him in, given how he had a perfect penchant for pissing people, aliens AND fellow robots off. As for how, chances were good that you'd age and die reading his entire rap sheet, to say nothing of the villainous, borderline tyrannical, deeds he had committed in those adventures with his friends.

And he sure wouldn't give a damn about who forgave him and who didn't… Cared only to be remembered.

Sometimes though, even the most irredeemable sorts got a second chance, from the strangest or shiftiest of sources, and perhaps that was all they needed to get back into society's good graces.

After all, just as sure as the World of Tomorrow was carved from the tombstones of pioneers, maybe the brightest futures could be reached through the darkest, bleakest pasts…