After the third rocket failed, people began to suspect that it was no longer coincidence. After the seventh, they knew for sure.

Space travel was cursed. No matter the country, no matter the coalition, humanity could no longer get their feet any higher than cruising altitude.

Dr. Manchester slammed his hand on his desk then the spacebar to end the broadcast. The darkened red from the fiery screen abruptly ceased and his command center returned to its sanitized white. It was his third failed launch. A fact which the other dozen scientists in the room were distinctly aware of.

He didn’t move for several minutes, hands laced behind his head like they could hold the sanity in. Around him, the hurricane raged as the others talked quickly into phones and tapped their screens, mobilizing the waiting firefighters and medics. It was an efficient response. An expected effort.

A few of the braver scientists stopped to express their condolences or their optimism for the next launch. He shook them off, nimbly sidestepping the champagne stand whose dust covered bottles that had become a forlorn fixture of the room.

He stopped on the threshold and grimaced then turned to the room. “I’m sorry everyone-” He started before his voice gave in to emotion. He coughed once, then continued. “I want detailed reports of the failure by tomorrow. We will learn, adapt, and succeed. God himself could not keep me from the stars.”

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A ragged applause went up. The doctor bowed his head and left, knowing that each failure scraped closer to the bottom of their barrel of hope. He had already run empty.

He trudged through the bright halls, hands in his pockets as aides rushed by him with a quick nod of respect. After the third one, he began to look to the floor to avoid their deference.

Finally he arrived at his office, closing the door and flipping the lock but not the lightswitch. His shoulders dropped farther.

It was a large office, but bare and barely visible through the low light that filtered in through the blinds. A desk sat against the wall, stacked to the ceiling with reports and blueprints, all useless.

A single mirror sat on a closet tucked in the corner. Dr. Manchester crossed the room to stare into it, eyes taking in the detailed misery of his face.

Then he reached up his hands and pulled it off.

His true eyes, the ones like tiny red stars stared back at him. Heat radiated through the air, warping it as he released the cloud of emotion he had been suppressing.

He threw a fist into the mirror, shattering it before he could see that same misery etched into his true face. He re-donned the mask and sat heavily at his desk.

God himself could not keep him from the stars. 

But the Solar Alliance was above God and they intended to uphold his banishment.

Even if it meant punishing the whole of humanity to do so.