Chapter Text
Sol 119:
Tony hoped FRIDAY never learned about what he did to find the airlock leak. The Avenger’s crew would call him a dumbass, Rhodey would get drunk while Pepper yelled at him, and NASA would likely just gape openly at their computers when he sent them a message, but FRIDAY would probably kill him, so. That was a no go.
See, in order to find out where the leak was in the airlock, he’d started a fire. In a confined space. With his arm hair. However, thanks to his little arm-hair fire and the duct tape in his suit, he’d successfully patched the hole before the N2 tank had gotten below 30%.
“Okay,” Tony muttered to himself, looking around blearily. “Okay, so the next problem is the faceplate.” He’d decided to lay down after realizing his vision was spinning because of his head wound. “On the bright side, my suit’s got a patch kit because it’s not actually my suit. I’ve been using Bucky’s since sol 6 when I got kabobbed—let’s not look at that choice too hard—so I can patch the suit. On the down side, the patch kit can’t cover the hole in the faceplate. But… I could put the patch resin around the edge and stick something against it to close the hole. Only problem is it’s got to be something that could stand up to the pressure of an EVA suit.”
Tony looked around at the materials he’d been carrying out to the solar array, seeing nothing that could hold atmosphere. “Well, the EVA suit can withstand the pressure of the EVA suit,” Tony hummed to himself. “Oh, FRIDAY’s going to love this.”
He found the sheers in his toolbox, hefting them in his hand for a few moments before deciding to sit back down for the next part. “Don’t want to get dizzy while I’m trying to cut off my arm. Well, not my arm—the EVA suit arm.” Tony took stock. “Material designed to withstand atmospheric pressure? Check. Resin designed to seal a breach in the suit? Check. A flexible soon-to-be hole in the arm of the suit to be affixed with resin? Check. Now I just have to… figure out… where to keep my arm.”
After a few moments of struggling wherein he nearly smacked himself in the face more times than he cared to admit, Tony confirmed that he was able to fit his arm against his torso within the EVA suit. After that, removing the suit’s arm, cutting it into a shape that was going to cover the gaping hole in his faceplate, and sealing them was relatively quick.
“Testing,” he hummed as he flooded his suit to pressurize to 1.2 atmospheres. “Not airtight,” he admitted. “Okay, some quick math, then. About 285 ml of air lost in one minute of full atmosphere, roughly 1150 ml of air to work with left over, according to the readouts, means… 4 minutes of air once I’m out of the airlock.”
Tony shuffled to the airlock window. “I can make it to the rover in that, maybe.” He pressed a hand to the airlock door, steadying himself. “As long as I don’t pass out on the walk, that is. Bruce’s suit has been in the rover since the Pathfinder trip, so I don’t need to worry about what happens after.” He breathed out a heavy sigh. “I can’t do any more math right now. It’s far, and I don’t have the balance to skip, so I need to try to get at least a little closer to the rover.” He looked wearily around, then let his head bump against the airlock door. “I’m going to have to roll this thing.”
It only took him a few tries to decide the best way to roll the airlock was to jump from one side of the airlock to the top of the opposite wall, and it easily made the airlock flip one face over. “One meter down,” Tony grunted, pushing off to flip it again. “Only a couple dozen more to go. I’m going to have a hell of a backache in the morning.”
Once the rover was in easy view, he equalized the airlock and managed a steady shuffle over to the rover. It was the middle of the night, almost no light except the ones on his suit to see by, but Tony only tripped twice, and he managed to keep himself from falling flat both times. Inside the rover, he checked the airlocks, confirmed Bruce’s suit was inside, and passed out.
Sol 120:
He probably should’ve sent a message to NASA before passing out. To be fair, it wasn’t like it was his idea to be unconscious for ten hours immediately after the accident. Pathfinder was powered by the Hab, which was definitely offline, so there was no way to send them a message through that, even though the comms were relayed through the rover.
They would have seen the satellite pictures of the Hab’s explosion, followed by the movement of the airlock, so they knew he was alive, at least. Hopefully.
He climbed out of the rover shakily, using Bruce’s suit and reveling in the easy airtightness of it after the panic the night before. It only took him a few minutes to spell out “OK” with a few of the larger pieces of debris away from the mess of everything else, but by the end of it, he was exhausted. Tony knew from the medical trainings that he probably shouldn’t have gone to sleep after his head injury, and that without a scan, he wouldn’t be able to tell how badly he was concussed, but he was unconscious seconds after doffing his suit inside the rover again.
Sol 121:
When he woke the next morning, the first thing Tony did was go out and take stock of the Hab. It looked… bad. Fortunately, nothing was broken inside, and once he got the hole sealed—something covered with plenty of precision in training—he’d be able to restart Pathfinder and get back online. From there, NASA would be able to help him fix anything he couldn’t figure out on his own. That wasn’t why he was on his knees at the center of the wreckage.
The farm was dead. “Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen,” Tony muttered, counting out potatoes within reach. “400 plants. Average 5 potatoes each.” His voice was rough, scraping up his throat as it made its way out. He blinked away the tears in his eyes. “2000 potatoes, 150 calories each. 200 sols of potatoes.”
Tony let his arms fall to his sides as the tears began to roll down his cheeks. “Rations will get me to sol 400,” he said aloud to the empty Hab. FRIDAY wasn’t running, now. He wasn’t sure if he was glad for the privacy to have this realization on his own. “I’ll be long dead by the re-supply on sol 856.”
Sol 122:
The Hab was running. Tony had spent the entire evening before laying out his plan for patching it back up, and the entire morning of sol 122 actually completing it. He needed to find a Martian masseuse if he wanted to do any more heavy lifting in the coming weeks. His back felt like one giant knot.
Now, he was sitting in the chair at his desk, rolling back and forth a little over the newly cleared floor of the Hab. He’d thrown out all the dirt, put his potatoes in a few boxes for temporary storage, and swept the Hab as all the life support systems rebooted. He was still waiting on FRIDAY.
“Come on, baby girl. I can’t lose you, not now,” Tony muttered as circles continued to dance on the screen. He was startled by the quick response as the screen lit up.
“Boss? What’s happened?” The AI’s voice was panicked, and Tony stood, holding out his hands as though he was trying to calm an animal rather than an advanced computer program. “You have a concussion and multiple new contusions,” FRIDAY observed, voice seeming to waver. “The farm is gone, as is Airlock 1. I have been offline for several days,” she said warily, hesitating, “haven’t I?”
“Yes. You’re right on all counts,” Tony confirmed, pulling his seat back to him and turning to talk directly into her camera. “The Hab,” he chocked on the words for a moment before continuing, “blew. Airlock 1 had a breach, and I got shot halfway across the planet. I’m okay, just dizzy now and then. The potatoes are dead.” Tony cleared his throat. “I just got everything patched and back online. I was running diagnostics while I waited for you to boot up.”
“How long has it been since your last meal?”
Tony blinked at his AI. “I—I’ve had a few things to eat in—”
“When was your last meal?” FRIDAY asked insistently.
“Sol 119.”
“Today is sol 122.” Tony nodded slowly at her camera. “You will make and eat a full meal while I finish diagnostics.” FRIDAY’s tone was icy, and she didn’t respond to any of Tony’s continued attempts at conversation, so he stood from his chair and stomped into the kitchen to heat a few potatoes as a lunch. “Diagnostics complete,” FRIDAY told him as he cut into them. “Oxygenator functional. Water reclaimer offline. Computer systems functioning perfectly.” Her tone softened. “You should take some of the medication in the med bay.”
Tony stabbed at a potato. “I can’t, FRI.”
“You’re in severe amounts of pain, Boss—”
“I can’t—” His breath was coming fast, and Tony wasn’t sure when he had decided to stand, but he found himself on his feet, hands fisted in his hair. “Please, FRIDAY, I—I can’t take any of the stuff they put in there. I’ll find something else. Anything else.”
The AI was quiet for a moment. “Okay. Have you contacted NASA since the event?”
“No,” Tony responded, wiping at his eyes, which were oddly wet. “I wanted to—I had to make sure—I just—”
“Thank you for checking on me,” FRIDAY interrupted. Tony looked up with a tight smile and nodded once at the camera. “I’m glad you’re okay, Boss.”
“I have to talk to NASA,” Tony shrugged, heaving a sigh as he picked up the EVA suit.
“Boss?” He turned to look at her. “That one scared me.”
Tony wished he could give the AI a hug. Her voice sounded small and scarily human. “Me too, FRI. Me too.”
RVR: Testing. Are you receiving?
JPL: Received! You scared us for a minute there. Thanks for the OK signal. Satellites show a complete detachment of Airlock 1. What’s the status of you and the Hab?
RVR: Sure, we’ll use detachment for the description. Felt more like I got shot out of a cannon, but yes, Airlock 1 is no longer attached. Hab is repatched, repressurized, and power is back on. Water reclaimer broken due to a freeze, but everything else in working order. Personal status includes a concussion, but otherwise, nothing worse than a couple of bruises.
RVR: To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with today?
JPL: It’s me, Tones. It’s Rhodes. They’re relaying your messages from Pasadena to Houston.
JPL: NASA wants me to relay the need to fix the water reclaimer ASAP. We also need an update on your food supply.
Tony found himself shaking as he read the messages, Rhodes’ voice filling his ears. They’d exchanged several emails already, and Rhodey had been one of the main contacts between JPL and Tony, no doubt because he was less likely to get frustrated when Tony got annoying. Now, mere days after an event that could have killed him, knowing his best friend was on the other end of the line was… almost too much.
Tony dropped his head into his hands, forcing himself to breathe regularly even as his lungs tightened and his eyes burned. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could do this—talking to people he knew without really talking to them. Knowing they were there, just on the other side of the computer, but also several satellites and an entire planet away. Sometimes it made him feel better, but most of the time it just stressed how terribly alone he was.
After the last letter from Peter had neglected to mention anything about other people Tony knew back on earth, focusing on mundane work topics and jokes, Tony realized he might not have been hiding it as well as he had hoped to.
JPL: Tony? Are you receiving?
RVR: Receiving, honeybear. All good on this end. I’ll work on the reclaimer this afternoon.
RVR: Farm is dead, and by my count, I have just over 1800 potatoes left. Including the remaining rations, I starve on sol 584.
JPL: Hang in there, Tones. We’re working on a solution.
“It’s sol 122,” Thor said, his face worn and weary over the video splayed across the conference room television. “We have until sol 584 to get a probe to Mars. That’s 462 sols, or 475 days.” In the room where he sat, department heads of JPL rubbed tired eyes and dropped their heads onto nearby surfaces, just as tired as he was. “The positions of Earth and Mars aren’t ideal. The trip alone will take 414 days, and mounting takes 13 days. That leaves only 48 days to make this probe.”
In his own conference room, Nick Fury leaned over at the head of the table, weight supported by his arms. “Can you do it?”
“We can try.”
“You’ve got the booster from the EagleEye 3 Saturn probe, parts from the Ares 4 supply missions, and our only focus is food, so you don’t need a powered-descent lander.”
Thor looked wearily off screen, before heaving a sigh. “These things take time, Director.”
“I’ll find the money for the overtime.”
“We’re already working around the clock. With current projections, we could get the booster done in... 58 days, and that’s if nothing goes wrong.”
Fury raised a stern eyebrow. “Do you expect things to go wrong?”
“Things always go wrong,” Thor responded grouchily.
“Give me a longest timeline.”
“Another 15 days. We can do it in 63 days.”
Fury looked at the others in the conference room. “Dr. Selvig,” he asked the Ares-3 flight surgeon, “can we stretch rations another 15 days?”
“No way,” Selvig responded. “Stark’s already at minimum calorie count, and that doesn’t take into account that he’s doing much more manual labor than he should at this stage.”
“Once he’s out of food, how long until he starves to death?”
“Two to three weeks at most. Keep in mind that he’s already severely malnourished, so it’s shorter than your usual hunger strike.”
“And remember that Iris is going to be a tumbler,” Hill added from across the table. “Without a powered-descent lander, it could end up anywhere within a few days’ drive from the Hab. I’m no doctor, but I’m assuming we wouldn’t want him driving the rover while suffering from two-weeks' worth of no food.”
“She’s right,” Selvig agreed with a sharp nod. “He’ll barely be able to stand within four days, not to mention the state of cognitive disruption. He’ll have trouble staying awake.”
“So, no changes for the landing date,” Fury confirmed. “What about mounting the launcher? Can we mount faster than 13 days?”
“Actually mounting the booster only takes 3 days,” Thor said from the screen. “And I can get that down to two. But the rest...” he shrugged helplessly.
“The rest is for inspections, which can’t be shortened,” Hill finished. “It’s time-based inspections, looking to find deformations or warping. Shortening the inspections invalidates them.”
“How often do the inspections find a problem?” The room fell to complete silence as everyone looked at Fury.
“Are you suggesting we skip the inspections?” Hill asked.
“Right now I’m asking how often the inspections reveal a problem.”
“About one in twenty,” Thor answered. “But that’s--”
“How often are the problems mission critical?”
“Half the time,” Hill said. “But that’s a 1 in 40 chance of failure – 2.5% is normally enough grounds for countdown halt. We can’t risk it.”
“We passed ‘normally’ a long time ago. Skip the inspections.”
“If it gets out that we--”
“Then it’s on me,” Fury interrupted. Hill fell silent with an unhappy set to her mouth. “If we speed the mounting and skip inspections, that buys Stark 11 days. If Thor and his team can pull a rabbit from their hats, we can do some inspections.”
“And the other four days?” Selvig asked the question with the weary tone of someone who already knew the answer.
“Stretch Stark’s rations.”
“He’s already going to be eating potatoes and vitamin pills, stretching that any more--”
“I know. He’s not going to like it. You’re not going to like it. But we have to take risks if Stark’s going to survive this. Make the food last another 4 days.”
Selvig nodded, sinking back into his chair, and Fury dismissed the room.
Sol 125:
JPL: We’ve got a project in motion to get you food. It’ll be a little behind schedule on what we’d hoped, so it’ll be tight, but you won’t starve. No room for the Oxygenator, Water Reclaimer, or any additional items. It’ll all be food and a radio.
RVR: No complaints from me. Keep me fed, and I’ll be a happy astronaut. I replaced the burst hoses from the Water Reclaimer, and it’s working fine again. Water supply should be plenty.
JPL: Good. Keep us posted on any technical or mechanical issues. By the way, the name of the probe their sending is Iris – names for the Greek goddess who traveled the heavens with the speed of the wind. Also, the goddess of rainbows.
RVR: Gay probe headed to save me. Fitting.