Part One: Orbiting Broke

Dr. Levi Chandler was an American astronomer, a tenured lecturer at King’s College London with a doctorate from Caltech and a bank account that wheezed like a rusted boiler. Despite the prestige of his field and the lectures he gave on galactic formation and dark matter, his daily life bore more resemblance to a rejected sitcom pilot than the life of a respected academic.

He lived in a two-bedroom flat in Hackney with two football hooligans named Darren and Lee. The rent, a modest sum by London standards, was split three ways—but not equally, since Darren was perpetually between jobs and Lee’s primary income came from reselling bootleg matchday scarves on eBay. Levi paid more than his fair share because, as they put it, he had “a posh American salary and a PhD in moon stuff.” Never mind that the exchange rate had gutted his pay and that London rent made L.A. look like a student dormitory.

The flat was a mess: mismatched furniture, beer cans stacked in pyramids on the coffee table, and the lingering scent of curry and unwashed socks. Levi’s room was the only oasis—lined with astronomy posters, bookshelves packed with titles like Gravitational Waves and Cosmic Microwave Background, and a telescope angled awkwardly out the window, mostly collecting pollution data.

Part Two: Football, Brexit, and Broken Pint Glasses

Darren and Lee were twins, 33 years old, with a shared history of broken noses and suspended season tickets. Their religion was football, specifically Arsenal for Darren and West Ham for Lee, a sacrilegious pairing that regularly led to screaming matches and the occasional overturned sofa.

“Mate,” Darren said one night, feet propped on the table, beer in hand, “you gonna come with us to the Arsenal opener? It’s City, innit. Bloody hell, I can’t wait.”

Lee scoffed. “City’s gonna wreck you lot. West Ham’s got more grit this year. Moyes said the new lad from France’s a beast.”

Levi, poring over a stack of student assignments riddled with misused terms like “asteroid storm” and “Martian gravitational lens,” looked up. “Which one of you smashed the mug with the Hubble Space Telescope on it?”

“Wasn’t me,” Darren muttered.

“Probably the cat,” Lee said, despite the flat not having a cat.

London, post-Brexit, was a city of tension. Prices were up, wages flat. Students came in confused droves, unsure whether their tuition covered lectures or just the right to stand in a cold seminar room with a bored American talking about galaxies. Levi spent most of his paycheck on rent, data for his nephew’s gaming rig back in Tulsa, and the occasional overpriced pint at a Camden dive bar.

Part Three: Stars Above and Raves Below

When he wasn’t lecturing or grading, Levi retreated to London’s underground music scene. Techno in abandoned warehouses, punk bands in Shoreditch pubs that still smelled of coal smoke and spilled cider. It was escapism—sound you could lose yourself in. Londoners were angry these days: angry at politics, at landlords, at everything. The music reflected that—a cathartic, pulsing rebellion.

At a rave under Waterloo Bridge one night, Levi met a red-haired DJ named Mika who told him, “Astronomy’s cool, but nobody gives a f*** unless you can dance to it.” She played a mix she titled Black Hole Bass Drop and dedicated it to him.

He nodded along, half amused, half lost in thought. Stars exploding millions of light-years away, unnoticed by everyone moshing under concrete bridges to industrial synth.

Part Four: Family Ties

Every Sunday evening, Levi Skyped with his 14-year-old nephew, Ethan. They talked space stuff, mostly—black holes, Europa’s ice crust, the James Webb telescope.

“You think aliens exist?” Ethan asked once, eyes wide with hope.

“I think the odds are high. But space is big. Like, really big,” Levi said, quoting Douglas Adams with a smile.

Ethan was the only family Levi stayed in touch with. His sister had passed when Ethan was just five, and since then, Levi had done his best to be present, even from a continent away. He sent books, gadgets, and football shirts. Ethan had adopted Arsenal because “Uncle Levi’s crazy roommates yelled about them all the time.”

Part Five: World Cup Dreams and Dirtbag Planning

Over pints at the local, Darren and Lee were planning their pilgrimage to the 2026 World Cup in the U.S.

“Mate,” Lee said, slapping a dog-eared travel guide on the table, “we hit L.A., Vegas, then Dallas. Stadiums are huge there. American beer’s piss, but we’ll manage.”

Darren pointed at Levi. “You’re our bloody ticket in, yeah? Family discount. You’ve got that Yank passport. Let’s do this properly.”

Levi rolled his eyes. “I’m not your visa agent.”

“You’re our mate,” Darren said dramatically, arms outstretched. “We’ve let you live among real men, yeah? The least you can do is take us to a few matches.”

Truth be told, Levi wanted to go. Not just for the football—though the U.S. team wasn’t half-bad these days—but to bring Ethan. Let him see something massive, global, and alive. Maybe even meet Darren and Lee, who, despite being total messes, had hearts the size of Neptune.