Apollo 17

You insisted on unpacking the suits. Apparently, because you’d worked day and night designing them, you had the right to get in the way of everyone else’s observations. Checking the module’s controls, heat shield, or oxygen paled in importance next to unloading helmets. Whatever you say. We’ve had working suits since 1969, you know. All that’s changed is a few more rocks.

You rub your eyes. Of course you’re tired from staying up late in mission control. Some people would have given anything to be in that room. Even to be that close to the module to actually do their jobs instead of being shoved around yet again by a self-important engineer.

Your face screws up as you pick up one of the helmets. Really? You pushed people out of the way to get here and now you don’t want to unload a helmet?

You sneeze.

Okay, so maybe that was dramatic to say. In any case, that’s still gross. All this pushing and shoving just to contaminate your precious work with a sneeze. It even knocked a spray of dust off of the helmet. It had been coated in it from whichever astronaut had fallen on the Moon.

You shove the helmet into another engineer’s arms, startling them. They struggle to balance it with their clipboard. They look even more surprised when you explode into a coughing fit. Just contaminating those helmets more and more, huh? At least you won’t be able to blame anyone else for it the way you always do. Or at least no one will believe your lie if you do anyway.

You rub your eyes and sneeze again. The other engineer reaches their free hand out to steady you as you stagger away from the module. You burst into another coughing fit and they quickly move their hand away.

They ask what’s wrong. You struggle to catch enough air to answer them.

“Eyes watering,” you rasp out, “and my nose is running.” You sneeze again. “Allergies.” You wave their hand away and stumble your way to the door.

The slam rings in the silent room. Allergies. Serves you right.