Space, the final frontier. Where you were told "Don't panic" upon entry. Where we were not alone, yet no-one could hear you scream. Where the adventure was often about getting back home.

Centuries upon centuries ago, words like those made millions dream of the infinite possibilities beyond our Earth. Today, they were sinister quips of tried-and-true advice for the would-be explorer, or for anyone reckless, foolish or just plain unlucky enough.

The realm of space had proven quite the harsh mistress, a tyrant that didn't tolerate mistakes no matter how tiny they'd been, or whoever was responsible.

In one of her territories dubbed the "Malumnus System", some 150,000 light years from Earth, there laid in between wicked worlds—of mobsters, Annihilators, scammers, telemarketers & extremists—a planet of stark contrasts.

A surface covered in fertile fields of forests and grass, that from end-to-end beared trees anywhere from acacia to yew, and which boasted clean lakes and rivers that you could fit a world-ending meteor in. And it wasn't just what sprouted from seeds or rose from roots that gave this ball its reputation.

There were also the millions of animals, from aardvark to zebra, that would roam the open fields, or scuttle and scurry beneath their feet. A kill-and-eat buffet for the gamest hunters, and a near-infinite forage for those who preferred the peace.

One might've called it paradise, and invaded it as such, if not for whoever ruled from the sunset-hilled dominion that loomed above those lush fields. A soot-black monolith; either castle, compound, or a clear compensation.

Front and centre past the drawbridge, a flag and fancy crest imbued over the cloth. A shield where letters scripted R and A stood in opposite corners, as golden lions and three-headed dragons claimed the surrounding spaces. Arched under on a golden plaque-like shape, a swooping scrawl of the phrase "Melius abundare quam deficere".

None knew the phrase's true meaning for centuries, but nobody would've taken that effort if it weren't deliberate.

Just for starters, they had their showcase of outfits; dozens of portraits featuring a man of large frame, a magnificent moustache, ruffled red hair and green eyes. There he'd stand, giving great airs of gentry in sharp bejewelled suits or fashionable gowns, all made to make silk out like a Saguaro.

There followed his lab; stuffed to rival any university in any known galaxy. Right beside, his lounge; enough screens, seating and snack bars to send even the Siskels and Eberts into envious fits. Beyond that his king-like bedroom, an arcade-size games room, and a gym to wet any trainer's pants in glee.

But the most impressive sight of all had to be the guards' quarters, a quarter-mile from the main compound that featured thick, embossed encasings of steel for every wall & floor. Flanked by sliding doors, hand-painted crests aside them, and golden personnel numbers to bedazzle the blind.

All spotless and in order; not a bedsheet out of place, nor speck of dust to float, nor stray hair to hover around. All save for one room, one that had a resident evil festering within…

Soldier #1077.

The sole occupant of a double residence, sitting among stains from corner to corner, breathing in enough dust for a forsaken library, and feeling the scatterings of loose skin flakes and hair laid about. Where they sat in soaked sheets, a hum in their veins that'd often manifest into baseball-sized wall dents, splintered olivewood furniture, and bowed-in floors… Untapped, yet destructive, potential.

To imagine thousands of those creatures over time… Even against entire military forces, they'd dispatch them like a Brady in Little League, a Gretzky in street hockey, or a Jordan in a pick-up game.

A particular outfit, comprised of a jumpsuit, platform shoes and cape to their boot tops, given a metallic black-and-gold look. Supposedly a noble knight of sorts, all topped off by a spiked black mullet, ginger-tipped.

Often an intense effort dedicated towards the photo frame on their bedside, to try and distract themselves from the raspy breathing, the fraying sanity, and the dwindling reserves of hope.

In their heart of hearts, and against the beast that laid within, the folks within were so important that they'd fight an intense battle to regain a semblance of their humanity. Never had good odds outside, but in their ten-by-ten sanctuary of sorts, a better chance to become their true self.

A man of fiery ginger hair, green eyes and a lively face, cruising towards thirty. And not that he could tell or even remember, but the kidnap victim of that entire year ago.

Philip J. Fry was the name, and he was once a 20th century pizza delivery boy from Brooklyn.

And upon such a reveal, a recognition of the creatures whose lives he fell into, and of their fates according to his master's word…

The weird crab known for genuine grace & generosity? Butter and lemon helped him go down well.

The bureaucrat who blessed great depths and efficiency upon them? Central Bureaucracy gave him permanent paid vacation, against an obscure law he had broken.

The Professor, his only living family? So gravened against his loss he was on the cusp of death.

Amy, that spunky intern and once-fling? Had not only vowed never to return, but was last working against them to bankrupt the lot.

And the two truest lowlights of all? Had to be both Bender and Leela, who he gave nothing but silence and a shake of the head for.

For his once best friend turned traitor, and for the woman he had lusted for ever since he'd been defrosted, the worst part was the uncertainty. While those photo colleagues and only friends gave warm smiles & waves, he tried to hold his tears as he spoke to them.

"Hey guys, it's me, Fry. Listen, I never had any chance to do so, but thank you all for such an amazing journey. Swear only my dreams to return keep me alive, even against this damned virus. Nursing my ugliest sides, my worst headaches with pictures… Making a monster of me, and I can't be rid of it!"

After quite the rambling, he again reached that point, as always, of realisation and no return. For the man formerly known as Captain Yesterday, it was here where everything always hit home.

"Again, everyone I ever knew or cared about, they're all gone; my best friends, my colleagues… My soulmate, too."

At that moment, almost an entire galaxy apart, he found himself cry on Leela's same wavelength, a trail of tears upon the bed as he squeezed his only friends once more.

Hadn't always been this lucky, to say the least…

New Year's Eve, 1999. Caught in dead-end work, dumped by his then-girlfriend, and riding past celebrators on what became ANOTHER crank call, he hadn't much to celebrate in Applied Cryogenics that night. Fates had thought otherwise, as during his toast to a "lousy millennium", he found himself tipping head-over-heels into an open cryonic vat. Panicked sounds as his back thudded against it, the vat slammed shut, and he was sent a thousand years into the future.

Through a great-to-umpteenth relative, he'd bring a crew towards a new job at Planet Express, where he would enjoy and become the catalyst for several incredible adventures as they delivered all over the universe. First, among the creatures always beyond his understanding, but never outside a welcoming heart.

Second, amongst women. In a mystery for the ages, he had this unusual knack of dating right from the start, even though the only lady he had eyes for was his Captain and fellow heroine. Shoulder-to-shoulder, as usual, while everyone waved on.

Who'd have thought a simple coin toss could reap him such precious treasured memories?

Third, among others, experiences of wondrous wealth and ruthless moguls. A millennium of compound interest had earned him billions, only for naiveté or unbelievable stupidity to lose it all in mere days.

But since last year & beyond, it was a once petty, grudge-bearing crook that had hurt him the most. One who was the obvious victor in their ugly battle, yet had returned as a true supervillain eager to 'correct' their history.

Sick of the forced slavery, afraid of the loneliness, and tired of the burning, untold anger that ate him inside, he tried to dream of flying in that mighty spaceship again. Dream of cherishing those customers once more. Dream of returning to that cute cyclops who captained the crew, and him on occasion.

Always the questions in his mind, as he struggled to sleep… Was he still the Bonnie to her Clyde? The Juliet to her Romeo? The Watson to her Sherlock?

Did she still chase him, did she even know where he was, and could she actually help save his life? Perhaps most painful to ask… Did she still care even after all this time? Indeed, did anyone else in his new life remember him enough to be worth rescue?

The only times he could ever consider such thoughts, until and when his virus once again ingrained itself into his mind & body. If he dared try to fight against it, an immediate, aggressive force would send him to his knees. To that virus, only his master was his friend, and he couldn't do anything to change that.

Were anyone else in his shoes, they'd have hung themselves already…

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Almost a thousand years ago, thousands of miles apart… Between New New York and one small suburb of Victoria, one could spot a thousand differences, and hardly for the better.

Once had the whole nation toasting to great ambitions & dreams, thinking big for the beacon of hope and prosperity to come. Angled as the 'Town of Tomorrow' by the local councillors, and puffed up as such by the state's governors and newspapers, they bragged of the perfect life one could have by moving there.

The jobs, transport, housing and community… Lies, all of it.

Only low-paying scrap remained for those who couldn't leave, and they'd compete beyond legal means to obtain it. Courtesy of the constant delays & cancellations, such lucky workers were often late to start and later to finish. And they'd always return to houses whose collapses could be triggered by even a stiff wind.

Combine those against the project's early abandonment, and you had a community that'd sooner kill each other than co-exist.

Inside one of those mud-bricked, coal-roofed dwellings, laying and squirming upon their bed, was a former flunky for some public agency, one of several he had seen pop up in a few short years.

For 40 hours a week, he'd field calls from clients who'd just spit curses in frequent place of words. Couldn't be heard over his chatty co-workers, nor could he please the she-beast he addressed only as "Ma'am". Such respect that he'd never think her entitled to, no matter her rung in life.

Memories of his final day there, and fruitless attempts to block them out.

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Always the same routine, the same faces as he wriggled and waddled into his jeans. Always the suck-ins as he wrestled his formal shirt. Always the dead stares into mouldy cupboards while he brushed his teeth. Always the wild scrub on his face, or monk's haircut, to scratch through or pat down after a shiver.

Certainly wasn't the prime he'd been promised upon reaching his mid-20s…

Middle of December, Christmas on the horizon. Days where mercury liquid could erupt out of thermometers, to say nothing of the country's tempers. Only scrapes of his runners as the kid dragged himself towards the morning train, towards his own Hell.

The same stops, huge delays, crap excuses, nameless offices… Purgatory, in a sense.

Another contemptuous sneer from that witch near the front, his gum-smacking senior manager. Another skulk among broken computers and cramped cubicles before he found his seat. And another new record, where it took just two callers before he found the disastrous normal he'd come to expect…

Against her endless barrage of F-bombs, no hope in ducking for cover as he tried to verify her account details. Was just what he always wanted, a hostile banshee who didn't even have Tourette's or anything to excuse her hideous screeching.

And of course, he had to be the one to notify her of the ever-dreaded cancelled finances. Some bunch of Gods-knew-what reasons; no idea why, no clue how to advise of or fix it, and no hope from the 'advisors' who the witch had hired on the cheap.

That had her lock n' load her best weapons, and far from those foxholes, the kid only found the firing line…

Best left to the imagination, no shelter could've saved him from the incoming tornado of spittle that shredded his ears. He could only shake and stammer for her calm, even if deep down he knew that it'd be a gigantic waste of time.

Couldn't explain himself, for she wouldn't listen. Couldn't show empathy, for she'd never believe him. Couldn't even bend the knee, for she and they felt entitled to more.

To think he once had the whole world in his hands, and was now behind in virtually everything from rent to utilities to education. What a difference a couple of years could make, when the thoughts of being homeless stayed fresh in his mind…

And yet, even against those risks, those fears of losing everything, he couldn't help but feel the tapping feet, the rapid breaths, the curled lips and the throbbing neck veins. The animal within him had been cornered, and it was about time the latch on his cage was released…

"SHUT UP, SHUT THE HELL UP!"

The woman stunned to silence, those co-workers bobbing or preening over their cubicles.

"What a time to attract an audience…" Not that he'd have cared.

"Oh, do I have your attention? Now you listen to me lady. First, I'M the one who knows your address. Second, spit your threats at me, or send anyone after me once more, and not only will I rip your tongue out of your neck, I'll personally mail those God-damned heads BACK to you. And third, just do yourself a favour and keep your stupid mouth shut… GOT IT?!"

What he'd pay to be a fly on her wall, right at that moment…

"Thank you, and have a nice day, prick."

Logged off, slammed his headset on the desk, and kicked his seat back in storming away. A casserole of contempt stewed up for whoever stared, as he tossed his pass away, virtually tore off his combination lock, snatched his bag and made to leave.

Pay him crumbs to kowtow and snivel to these psychopaths? To be written up and insulted on the regular? To be coerced into overtime shifts and shortened breaks? As if he'd let that beehived wasp lord over him any longer!

Of course, as she stood to block the entrance, she had other ideas.

"Where do you think YOU'RE going, Mayfield?"

"I think I'm leaving, just so we're clear."

"I don't think so, sport! You've still got several shifts to catch up, and you're staying 'till you do."

"Go blow another board member, you wretched c…"

"Watch your mouth, you foul brat. I've been BEGGING to give my new pen some business, and sounds to me like another disciplinary write-up…"

Was enough to flush his face, and almost headbutt her in getting eye-to-eye.

"For your health and mine, let me speak just this once… Shove your shifts, shove your write-ups, shove your business, and finally, SHOVE THE FUCK OFF!"

A dead, eerie hush from the collective, as he blew past and flashed her his favourite finger. No other words had, while he punched the green exit buttons, and made an absolute promise to never return to such a life again…

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That burst of adrenaline had all but vanished once he turned the keys, and left him to contemplate on the rubble and dust that was now his life. All as the wooden bed bowed in, and the mattress poked his sides.

When did such obvious straw become golden words for him? How did he end up as such an embittered bum? Why did his once beautiful world have to be warped and corrupted into this existence of dread, hatred & poverty?

Questions for another life, perhaps. For now, nothing else but what typically drove him to drink…

Awful marathons of 'crossover reality', crap current affairs bits on dishwashing liquids, 'tragedies' about the latest celebrity drug overdose… Commercial free-to-air TV, and its typical weekday fare.

A classic Twilight Zone episode in living colour. A fifth dimension created from the black chasms of man's fears, their tiny molehills of imagination. As vast and infinite as space, and just as disposable that he knew. A place of sight, sound and mind that prided itself on its loud and fake excess, from both the programmes and the ad breaks after.

Least, that was what he once remembered. These days, he'd be lucky to see and hear through the thick fuzz of static on his screen. Kept clicking channels until he somehow found Family Feud, hearable in spite of the crackling fuzz. Third round, double points, top six answers on the board.

Before him, a diminutive presenter in a bright pink suit jacket. Now to wear that and exude such confidence, that took a real man...

"Complete this word or phrase for me… 'Dead' what?"

Deadbeat, dead wrong, dead tired, dead to the world… Rattled off those quick answers without blinking, and only a bitter chuckle to give upon glancing that deadbeat was indeed the top answer. An assurance of some ability, yet also of his entire reality too.

Thought he'd have it all, with his lucrative double degree, high-class awards, scholarships and stints of overseas travel… But like everyone else he knew, that dreaded Catch-22 wave came crashing over him. No job and no experience, so no ability to work. No hope nor ground to connect, for even before the exile, no-one wanted to know him. No way to escape his maze of serrated blades either, and the endless slicing over the same skin.

Well, perhaps save for one way he knew…

The would-be master bartender pounded into the kitchen to break open his bottle of Wild Turkey 101, bringing that and two Classic Cokes into the lounge. Set everything upon the coffee table and sat down, pouring a one-third mix—hell, he made it half instead.

Used to give him such mental bliss, for the happier times where he loved pouring premixes by Dad's side, toasting whiskies alongside his brother, or cracking cans of lemonade for Mum and himself...

Now there he sat, drinking alone, only numbness for every swallow he sampled.

Soon poured a second, no drops spilled by some miracle, and had swallowed that quicker than the first. Only a hydraulic vice grip upon his head to show for it, but gave absolutely no pause before he sloshed a third over his coffee table, and then into his glass...

That too became empty, and this time left him bordering on comatose.

Bright blasts of sunshine flashed in his eyes, as he sat paralysed against the poison corroding him inside. Couldn't breathe, couldn't speak out, couldn't focus to save his life…

Or what little might've remained of it.

Without even a hint of warning, he had condemned both his living room and himself in a hosing of vomit. Soaked all into his carpeted floor, splattered over the coffee table, sprayed into his empty glass… Miserable minutes all as he tried to stand and slipped over, inches from splitting his head on glass or cedar.

Just pitiful cries before he blacked out, all to an evening movie full of audience-facing gunshots. To think even the TV itself turned against him, such was his lifetime of being his own saboteur and social pariah.

First paid job? Gone in mere months. List of useful skills? Just a white sheet of paper.

Support system? Family and friends had abandoned him, and society at large had exiled him.

There was his legacy alright… Against the backdrop of desperate masses and wailing sirens, he was face-down in vomit, to be farewelled as a first-class fuckup. A cautionary tale to convince the little ones to behave. A child given so many second chances, as opposed to those who never had them in the first place. A burnt black mark of very few against the Mayfield clan.

But invading his home on this night, there was something to be convinced otherwise about him…

A fuzzy black creature no taller than a man's ankle, flashing out of nowhere and sporting a giant eyestalk. One which babbled some inconceivable language over a device, got joined by a comrade, and began dragging that corpse to a spacecraft parked behind the house.

One to travel express to New York, stop off at Applied Cryogenics. Further drags of his body up lifts and down corridors, before they found a series of empty freezer tubes. Stuffed him in one, set the timer for centuries ahead, and vanished back into the stars moments after.

For the creature, their latest experiment acquired and a hopeful meeting in due course. For Mayfield, the beginnings of perhaps the greatest adventure he'd ever know in a dozen lifetimes.

Perhaps more than he'd ever know, period, as the sunsets and moonlights flashed past, as the city was destroyed and rebuilt, as the world around him warped into the future…