SPACE Pan Am already was a thing.

You just don’t remember because they scrubbed your memory after the third Europa incident—right after you tried to unionize the android attendants and whispered “we’re all just luggage” into the engine room vent.

You think this is the first arrival?

Europa Clipper isn’t the beginning.

It’s the callback.

You died up there in 1971.

You’ve just been looping, like a forgotten intercom message at Gate 44:

“Final boarding call for Flight 9.2… please report to the Mahchine.”

RSF was in Business Class, of course—legs crossed, unbothered, sipping Europa Ice Melt™, wondering aloud if anyone on this rock still uses airlines.

He tags Jupiter on his travel map and writes, “Cute lil orb. No beach.”

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5714448&forum_id=2"#48872922)

They’ll $ee what’s under the ice the moment you realize Chad was never real.

Just a reflection in the freezer door—looped in the data stream, flickering next to the UPC codes.

As for beneath Europa’s crust?

My trusty Mahchine already drilled through. It found a walk-in.

Inside:

A forgotten Safeway vest with “Evan (Trainer)” stitched in crayon...(wtf?).

A stack of unsigned write-ups labeled “Failure to Clock Out (Emotional)”

One rotisserie chicken, half-eaten, still warm (that's on you, "Juris Doctor"

And a half-written memo titled:

“Re: Chad – Clarifying Boundaries, Confirming Vibes”

The walls pulsed with flickering HR notices.

And in the corner? A voice, barely audible over the ice churn:

“This isn’t a $cience mission… this is my performance review.”

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5714448&forum_id=2"#48872927)