Incoming transmission. "What was that?" Grace jolts from his curl of blankets.
Alright. So, as it just so happens — and, holy cow, the surprises really are just coming like hotcakes! — despite being a very cool coffin, the Hail Mary, man's beacon, can actually talk. Or perhaps it's better to say it can potentially communicate, an alien sound funneling tinnily through the flee-floating chambers. Oh my gosh! There's someone! Somewhere there! Or probably something? Grace jumps up. He floats and swims to the pilot's chair.
Don't hang up! I'm comingggg! "Hi! Yes! Uh... Is this thing on? Oh, wow. I have, like, no idea if this thing's on." Fudge. "Can you hear me? I think you're breaking up."
Grace panics. That was gibberish. Sort of. He wasn't expecting to play host at any point flung so far into such an unforgiving expanse, but there like a speck in the starry-pocked sea, it is there: perhaps aid, a brain-eater, or even a friend.
Who knows. He primes to be treated like a steak dinner for an hour. And then: a knock. At his airlock. It's time. His mother always taught him never to let unfamiliar extraterrestrial strangers into the home (especially those that weren't offering a fee mow of the lawn), but just this once, Elizabeth née Delaney has to sit this out. Grace swallows. He floats to the airlock before putting on his spacesuit, and then? Well, then, the chamber's de-pressurized, and the crank is turned. "Okay. So. Just so you know, I don't usually bring people over without learning their name first." Is he going to die? He just carefully pokes his head out. "I'm Grace. And you're-- Woah."
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