Archive of Our Own ^beta

i want to give up my bearings, slip out of who i am, shed everything, the way a snake discards old skin.

- Khaled Hosseini

Things weren't looking so good for Marc. 

That was how he decided to put it when the first looked at trail of rubble his crashed ship had left behind when it'd made its less than stellar landing. It was far better than saying how things truly were, which was that he was well and absolutely fucked. 

This was never the way the mission was supposed to go. 

What should have happened was this: a two week journey at beyond-light speed, back and forth between Earth and the Cygni system, the expedition jointly funded by NASA and Stark Industries. It was meant to test if a long distance beyond-light journey could be achieved with one pilot instead of a whole crew, and if it was a viable method for incognito missions into enemy Lupinari space. If it worked, it could turn the tide of the war and save humanity from being destroyed.

Of course, good plans had a way of falling apart.  

Marc had only made it halfway to Cygni when the lightdrive had malfunctioned, and he’d be thrown off course. It would have been fine—most of space, afterall, was literally space—if not for the fact that the redirected route had him shooting straight into a head-on collision with a planet. He’d only had moments to drop out of beyond-light to keep the ship from being completely obliterated with him inside it, but by then it was too late; the ship had already been caught in the planet's gravity, and he was pulled helplessly down to its surface.

The less he thought about the crash, the better. His hands were still trembling from the impact.

He’d spent those first few hours after the crash running around the ship and fixing all that he could until eventually the alarms calmed down, and he with them. After that, tired and miserable, he'd flopped into the captain chair, and started the next stage of dealing with this disaster: figuring out how to get out of it.

From what he could see of the constellations of the sky—many of which were rendered unfamiliar by the planet’s placement in the galaxy, he was at least two parsecs from Earth, in a system that was so desolate that the ship’s computer didn’t even have a name listed for it. Which meant there was no one close enough to hear his distress signals. 

Well. No. That wasn’t completely right. There were people close-by. On the planet in fact. But, if the ship’s scans were to be believed, they were Lupinari. The very beings Earth was at war against.

He was alone, and stuck on a planet overrun with hostile forces.

So. Yeah. Things weren’t going well.

Marc rubbed a hand down his face and sighed.

"Computer," he said, "how long do you think it’ll be until the Lupinari work out I’m here?"

The computer’s display lit up as it ran the calculations. "They do not seem to have detected your location, nor do they appear to be making any moves to approach,” said the AI. “There appears to be something distracting them and keeping their attention off of you. If you remain hidden and do not provoke them, your chances of survival will increase greatly.”

The AI didn't have much character to it, always speaking in a flat, monotone voice. Marc supposed he would have to get used to it; as of now, the computer would be his only companion for the foreseeable future.

“And how long until I run out of food? If I ration it all out?”

“Six months, Captain.”

Marc hummed. He knew from the planetary scans that, despite being covered in strange, alien trees, the planet didn’t have any viable food sources, and the water that was stored in its underground caverns wasn’t drinkable. He could at least reuse the water he had on hand thanks to the ship's filtering system, but once he used the food up, it was gone.

The only way to survive this was to escape the planet itself. Problem was, his spaceship was absolutely busted. The beyond-light engine was broken, and the regular propulsion engines didn't have enough fuel to get him off planet. Even if they could, the ship was too damaged to make it through the atmosphere intact. 

Marc curled his fists. "Okay. I'm going to figure this out. I'm going to survive."

Before Steven had forgotten Marc the first time, they used to talk about the stars together. It was one of the only things that really had in common, beyond the body and the dangers around them. 

Whereas Steven preferred the stories and myths of the stars, Marc preferred the science. He liked when he could understand why something worked a certain way, and how even the strangest of things could have sense to it. 

"Not everything has to make sense," Steven had often said. "Don't you want to enjoy the mystery?"

"Not really. I'd rather just know why. If I know the reason something happens, then I know what to expect."

It was one thing they could never quite agree on, but no matter their differences, they could always rely on each other. 

But then things had gotten worse, and Steven started to push him away, along with all the bad memories. They'd still spoken, here and there, but Steven would always forget the conversations. When he'd started talking about their mom with a smile on his face, that was when Marc knew something was truly wrong. 

A lot of things had happened since then, most of which Marc chose not to think about it. But, despite all the pain that followed, he missed their talks. He missed having someone around who actually cared for him. Most of all, he missed having someone he could trust. Because it sure as hell wasn’t safe to trust anyone else.

The last time Marc had trusted someone, he’d been taken to a doctor. The experience had taught him many things: that adults were dangerous, and that the only way he could stay safe was to lie and never let anyone too close.

He did his best to keep a smile on his face around his dad, and to pretend he was happy. It kept his dad from getting too concerned, even when Steven did little to keep himself secret, because it was easier to pass off a strange accent and forgetfulness when your kid seemed happy, right?

Marc would rather pretend and grit his teeth than be treated like a faulty machine.

Steven had a routine, which Marc followed as closely as he could. His dad expected Steven to go out on Sundays, and he would notice something was up if Marc didn't do the same. And so, just like Steven always did, Marc went to the library. 

Sure, he could have picked anywhere else in the city; it's not like his dad knew where he was going anyway. But there was nowhere else in Chicago he found himself drawn towards, apart from maybe Wrigley Stadium, but that was too close to home for his liking.

At least at the library there were books. With books, he could escape his own head, even for just a moment, and be somewhere else, someone else. Someone far smarter and far braver than he was. 

It was grand library, with tall ceilings and plenty of comfortable places to sit. Marc didn't waste time going to the reception desk for directions; there were enough signs around for him to figure it out on his own. He made his way up the sixth floor and wandered through the shelves until he found the astronomy section. 

It had a dreamlike familiarity to it, enough to let him know that Steven had been here before. Of course, their interest in the stars came from two very different places. Marc skipped past all the stargazing and constellation books he knew would have caught Steven's eye and headed right over to the NASA and spacecraft books. 

He pulled out whatever piqued his fancy. Which turned out to be a lot, unsurprisingly, and he very quickly had a healthy pile going. It was when it toppled over from its own uneven weight that he realised just how many he'd pulled out.

Right. He couldn't take these home, and he definitely didn't have time to read all of them today. He was going to have to wittle it down to—

"Oh, Steven!" a voice said from behind him. "I thought it was you I saw earlier. You didn't come say hello." 

Marc stiffened. He glanced quickly behind him to see an older woman approaching him calmly, but quickly turned away before she could notice him looking. 

He didn't recognise her. He didn't know who she was.  

But she'd said Steven. She knew Steven’s name. Not even his dad knew that much. It was beyond dangerous to share information like that. God damn it Steven.

Marc kept his gaze fixed on the books in front of him, and picked one up to pretend he was reading it, hoping his feigned disinterest that would deter her. To his misfortune, ignoring her only made her venture closer and Marc had choice but to look up at her. It took all his willpower not to let his anxiety show. 

The woman smiled. "You haven't been on the fourth floor for a while now. Back to reading about stars, are you?"

Marc floundered. He had no idea how well she knew Steven. Or really anything else about her. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. All the people Steven knew were people Marc knew, and all those people thought Steven was Marc. It was strange to finally be the one who was in the dark.

"Steven?" the woman prompted. 

Marc swallowed, unsure what to say. He didn't like talking to adults at the best of times, let alone strangers. But he couldn't run away from this; he wasn't going to ruin Steven's happy place because he was too scared to say hello to someone. He had to be brave, just this once.

"I s'pose," Marc said, with a shrug. "More about space exploration, really."

Steven's British accent came easily; it was, afterall, not too different from the one he used to use when he and...

Point was, he had a lot of practice. He barely even had to think about it to get the sounds right. It was acting like Steven that was always the hard part. Steven was so... loose. Unreserved. Bubbly.

Marc could barely hold a smile. 

The woman—Cynthia, her name tag said, and Marc sighed in relief upon noticing it, glad he wouldn't have to try and figure that out without alerting her that anything was wrong—peered at the book in his hand curiously. She lit up with a smile. 

"Oh, you're reading about the Apollo Missions, are you? I didn’t know you were interested in that.”

Marc shrugged, and hoped she wouldn't pry further. She probably wouldn't have even noticed any peculiarities at all if Steven hadn't suddenly become obsessed with Egyptian mythology. Which still absolutely baffled Marc. He could understand Steven's interest in constellations but Egyptian mythology? Where the hell had that come from? 

Cynthia wasn't deterred by his silence. "My uncle actually was one of the flight controllers for Apollo 15, did you know that? He was right there in the mission control room when it took off."

Marc perked up. "Really?"

Cynthia nodded. "Yes, really. He's not around anymore, I'm afraid, but he told me some interesting stories. I know it's probably not as exciting as Apollo 11 or 13, but a lot of discoveries and accomplishments were made during that mission." She screwed up her mouth and hummed thoughtfully. "I'm about to go to the break room and have some tea, but if you want to, dear, you can join me and I can tell you a few of those stories. How's that?"

It was only long-held habits he’d been forced to learn that kept Marc from letting his excitement show on his face and in his body, but it was hard to contain it all. It’d been so long since he’d had someone to talk to about this, and just as long since he’d felt comfortable being open about it. The thought alone of being able to share this with someone was enough to fill him with more joy than he’d truly felt in a long time.

But as soon as the joy came, it faded away. As much as the idea sounded tempting, it was just way too dangerous. He'd be alone with an adult. An adult who seemed nice, sure, but he’d met enough nice adults to know they could be some of the cruellest. 

Marc hunched his shoulders and pressed the book closer to his chest. "No. Um. It's okay. I'll just stay here and read."

"You sure, dear?"

Marc nodded mutely.

Cynthia frowned. "Those are all pretty sciencey. They're complicated, even for me. Would you prefer—"

"No." Marc turned away. "No, these are fine."

She lingered for a moment longer, before she nodded. "Okay, Steven. I'll leave you alone."

Marc watched her go, not letting himself relaxed until he was sure she wasn't coming back. Then, as quickly as he could, he collected up his pile of books and rushed away to somewhere hidden, to where he could fall inside the words of the books and forget he had a body at all. 

After undergoing a systems check on the Blue Bird, Marc had a better understanding on what exactly needed to be done to get the ship in working order.

Firstly, the engine needed to be refuelled. Thankfully, the planet’s atmosphere wasn’t as thick as Earth’s, so he wouldn’t need as much velocity to escape it, and therefore he wouldn’t need as much fuel. But, while the fuel tanks weren’t empty, there wasn’t near enough fuel in them to get him off world. He was going to have to figure out a way to synthesise more fuel, or to extend the use of what he had left. That would be tricky.

Secondly, the hull of the ship was breached, a jagged line running along its surface like a bloody cut. He was lucky it was thin, and that it wasn't along one of the ship's bird-like wings, but a breach was still a breach, regardless of size. It would need to be closed up and coated with a heat-resistant metal before take-off if he had any hopes of maintaining the ship's integrity, as well as the air and pressure inside of it.

The last issue, and maybe the most important one, was the fact he was alone in this. There were no Houston or CAPCOM or physicists or engineers to help him figure out his trajectory to get into orbit or to alert him to any systems malfunctioning during blast off. The ship's computer, at least, would be on hand to help him plan out the launch window and his course once he was in orbit, but there was no guessing what could go wrong between launch and getting off this stupid planet.

Oh, yeah, and he was surrounded by hostile forces. Couldn't forget about that. If the launch didn't kill him, they certainly would. The longer he was stuck here, the more dangerous it got. 

Time wasn't on his side, but it was also what he needed most. It was going to take a while to get the ship in working order, and a lot of resources. 

But none of that mattered. One way or another, he was getting out of this hellhole.

There was so much Marc hated about school, but one thing that topped the list for sure would be his weekly sessions with the school counsellor. 

He would skip them if he could, but then the school would just call his parents and cause even more problems. So, reluctantly, he attended each and every one. 

The counsellor, Miss Onizuka—she insisted on him calling her Mae, like they were friends, which they weren't, not in the slightest—was, on the surface, a very pleasant, warm person. She would ask about his week, about what he'd be doing, and she would always seem genuinely interested, even supportive.

He knew it was all a fraud, though. No one could be that nice, especially not an adult. He didn't trust the act for a second. 

She asked all her usual questions, and Marc did his best to respond, though most of his answers were shrugs and grunts, until eventually she reached the topic of conversation she'd clearly been wanting to discuss since the start of the session. 

"I've been thinking a lot about your communication difficulties," Miss Onizuka said. "Since you've been having some trouble expressing yourself in class, I thought it might be a matter of having trouble speaking in front of a group. So, I've been considering perhaps placing you in a smaller class."

Yeah, and have them single him out even more. No way. Marc scratched his nail against the wood of the desk. "I don't have to if I don't want to, right?"

Miss Onizuka made a face. "We should at least do a trial run, Marc. See if it helps you open up more. It might be good for you."

"Yeah, whatever," Marc mumbled. 

"I know that you have so much you want to express, Marc," Miss Onizuka said earnestly. "In fact, I've heard from some of your teachers that you've become interested in Egyptian mythology? Can you tell me about that?"

"No, that's not—" Marc quickly cut himself off. That's not my interest. He definitely couldn't say something like that. That would lead to an uncomfortable conversation. "Um. That interest kinda comes and goes."

"Why do you think that is?"

Ha. He knew exactly why. Marc sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Probably because of all the mental illnesses everyone keeps prescribing me. My money's on the autism."

"Marc," Miss Onizuka chided lightly. "You know I don't like when you talk about yourself like that."

"Yeah, right." Marc huffed and looked away. "We both know I'm not here getting advice from a half-baked shrink because of my shining personality."

Miss Onizuka jotted something down in her folder and then cleared her throat. "What are you interested in at the moment, then?" she said, clearly desperate to change the subject.

“Nothing. I don’t really get interested in things. I’m boring like that.”

“Marc,” she said, her voice as aggravatingly soft as it always was. “I can’t help you if you aren’t honest with me.”

Marc glowered at her. Like hell was he going to be honest with her. At least, not completely. He’d give her some ground, just to get her off his back. “Fine. I like space. Happy?”

“Space?” Miss Onizuka smiled, pleased by his admission. “Can you tell me why you like that?”

"I dunno. I've always liked it," Marc said, deciding to oblige her this at least. "Not as much as...other things, but it's always been there. I can't even remember how old I was when I watched Star Wars for the first time, but I remember just... wanting to be out there. In space. Not because of all the battles or lasers or anything, that part never interested me. I liked the idea of exploring the unknown, the freedom of it all. And it'd be quiet out there, at least."

"Because 'no one can hear you scream'?" Miss Onizuka mused. She leaned forward in her seat. "Those who seek solitude often do it to feel some sense of control in their isolation. Do you feel unheard, Marc? Is that why you don't speak up in class anymore?"

Marc scoffed. Wow, how much were they paying her for this? "Don't psychoanalyse my hobbies, doc. I like space because it's cool, okay."

"Then why don't you talk about it?"

Marc opened his mouth to answer, but quickly stopped himself. If he told her about how being openly excited about his interests had been one of the things that singled him out as the 'weird kid' in the first place, long before all the other shit that made him 'weird' had come about, she would wonder if he was being bullied, and if she wondered about that, she would wonder about other things, and that sort of wondering led to phone calls, which led to yelling, which led to Steven, which led to worried talks with doctors. 

Marc crossed his arms and stayed mulishly silent. It was just his luck that before Miss Onizuka could try and pry anything else out of him, the bell rang for the end of the school day. 

She sighed, and jotted down another note inside her folder. "Okay, Marc. I suppose we can finish there for today."

The first issue Marc decided to take on was resealing the hull. It was the easiest task to achieve, since all it needed was epoxy resin and thermal-protected metal, which he had on hand. And by on hand, he meant the ship. Yep. He was going to have to cannibalise a part of it to cover the hull.

Luckily, he knew exactly where to get some without damaging the ship any further. 

The escape module was a small, spherical pod with a hollow compartment inside, enough to hold one crew member and little else. It served no greater purpose beyond providing a safe means of getting off the ship in case of a failed launch. It was also designed in a way that most of its shape was enclosed inside of the ship, only to be exposed to the elements upon being jettisoned. It was to ensure the module stayed secure and intact, since it was the last resort if things went haywire. 

That was the idea anyway. A pretty good one too, really. Marc, however, had other plans. 

With a laser saw, he carved strip after strip from the module's side, until he had a small collection of metal scraps.

The gap left behind on the module was not enough to disrupt its electronics, but under pressure he knew it had the potential to cause problems. He just had to hope he wouldn't have to abort during the Blue Bird's launch. Not that it really mattered; if the ship couldn't make it off-world and he was left well and truly stranded, he was going to die regardless. Might as well do it in a great and mighty crash. 

Adhering the metal onto the hull while wearing his EVA suit was a bit harder than sawing it off had been, but he was determined enough to get it done, and after a few hours—with one break in between to rest his muscles and to refill his suit's oxygen tanks—the hull was sealed. 

"Hey," Marc called out as he re-entered the ship, "how's the patchwork job?"

On the display, a model of the Blue Bird came up to highlight the hull's exterior. "Repair successful," the AI said. "Shield integrity is at 90%."

"How about the air pressure? Staying stable?"

The computer's display lit up with a graph and reading of the air levels inside of the ship. "There has been no drop in pressure. The breach has now been sealed."

"Cool," Marc said. "I'm going to depressurise and repressurise that part of the ship, to see how it fares. Let me know if you notice any malfunctions."

"Yes, Captain."

As Marc ran the test, he said, "You don't have to call me that, y'know. I'm the only person on the ship. You might as well just call me Marc."

"I'm sorry, Captain. I'm afraid I can't do that."

Marc paused, and looked over to the camera in the corner with a half-smile. "Hey, wait, was that a joke? Did you just make a joke?"

There was a hint of purple across the console's displays. "...maybe," the AI said. 

"Wow. And it's a HAL reference too. Should I be worried?"

"Not yet, but I'll be sure to let you know when my 'Evil AI' subroutine comes into effect." 

Marc smiled, and kept his gaze on the camera closest to him, watching as the lens focused and shifted. 

"I just realised," Marc said, "I never asked if you have a name."

"A name?" 

"Yeah. I've just been calling you 'AI' or 'computer' this whole time. I think you deserve a name. So? Did NASA designate you with anything? They must have, right? They love giving names to things."

"I am the Module Autopilot and Auxiliary Regulation Computer,” the AI reported.

Marc paused for a moment to work out the acronym, and then gave one short laugh as he shook his head. "Those dickheads. MAARC. They named you after me."

"Ah. I guess that explains why the acronym is so tediously pointless."

"Trust me," Marc said, "scientists will sacrifice grammar and brevity so long as it gets them a fun acronym. Why do you think we have INTEGRAL and HIPPARCOS? And don't even get me started on Stark tech."

The console's displays faded into a yellow hue. "It sounds to me like I didn't get lucky in the name department. I mean no offence, Captain, but I don't think MAARC suits me. Could you provide an alternative?"

Marc chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Well, since you're already named after me, why don't we call you SPEC? Sounds a bit cooler than MAARC, right?"

"Hm. SPEC," the AI said, testing it out. "What would it stand for?"

"Uh. Super...Pretty Excellent Computer?"

There was a silence for a moment, strange and hollow, during which Marc wondered if maybe his acronym had been just a bit too dumb, before the displays turned from yellow to a light purple-blue. "That is exceedingly stupid. I like it."

Marc grinned. "Okay then, SPEC, what's next?"

Dad was getting worried about them again. For once though, it had nothing to do with Marc and his bouts of depression, as his dad liked to call them whenever Marc's mask broke. Marc had been pretending just fine. 

But Steven hadn't. He might have succeeded in hiding things from himself, but he couldn't hide any of it from anyone else. The smile he used to always have was slipping more and more, and he'd grown twitchy and nervous, unable to relax around others. 

People were noticing. His dad was noticing. Marc couldn’t let him worry. He had to fix this somehow. 

So that was why Marc was in the psychology section of the library for the third week in a row. The problem was, he was no closer to figuring out how to help Steven than he was a month ago. None of the books were helping. They assumed he was helping himself or a person he could talk face to face to, which made it very difficult to replicate the steps and tips they provided when the person you wanted to help was in your head and, oh yeah, didn't know you existed.

"Isn't there anything here that's actually useful," Marc groaned.

Well. There was one option he hadn't tried yet. His gaze drifted away from the books on anxiety and depression, and over instead to those on dissociation.

He didn't like reading those books. He'd tried, many times, enough to learn the words he needed to know, but he could never push himself beyond that point, the books always leaving a sick taste in his mouth. They made him feel like an experiment, like something that needed to be picked apart and analysed. Or worse, like he was something wrong, inhuman. 

And yet his gaze lingered, despite the discomfort curdling in his stomach. Maybe one of the books would have the answers he needed. Maybe he could find a way to help Steven be brave again. 

He skimmed the titles until he found one that seemed like it had potential. He pulled it and opened it up to a random page, hoping he would pick out a word or phrase that could lead him to knowledge he sought. 

'A sudden jolt shot through me like an electric shock, and my whole body trembled for just a second. Then I began to mumble gibberish, like I was trying to say something, but had lost control of my mouth. 

'Terrified, I looked in the mirror again and saw a reflection—mine—disconnected, staring blankly, mumbling. I tried to decipher my words but they were unintelligible. What’s happening to me?! And then, with another jolt and shake, I was back and the mumbling stopped. I slumped to the floor, chest heaving, heart rac—'

Marc snapped the book shut. This was stupid. He was being stupid. Why did he think this would help?  Why did he think any of this would help? The only way he was ever going to fix this was for Mo—

"Steven? 

With a jump, Marc hurriedly shoved the book back onto the shelf, and turned to find Cynthia at the end of the aisle, lorrying the book cart forward. She came to a stop beside him and peered curiously at the books behind him.

“Back here again?” she said, not unkindly.

Marc swallowed. “Erm. Yes. I’m interested in. Uh. Brain stuff. At the moment.”

The lie fell flat. “Trying to find ways to deal with your anxiety?” Cynthia asked softly.

“What? No,” Marc answered instinctively. Then he paused. It wasn’t exactly wrong. Not right either, obviously, but close enough. “No, this is for someone else. I’m—”

“Asking for a friend?” Cynthia said with a small smile.

“Exactly.”

Cynthia leaned forward onto the cart and adjusted her glasses. “Well, I deal with a fair share of anxiety myself,” she said. “Maybe I could help? Your friend I mean,” she added after a moment.

Marc clenched his hands, and eyed her movements warily. She didn't seem to be testing him, or cataloguing him in anyway. She was simply watching him patiently, calmly. It was a face that said 'you can trust me' and truly meant it. 

He didn't know how though, not anymore. Experience had taught him that it was not something to be given freely, or even given at all. It only ever led to ruin.

But...maybe she could help. Maybe she could give him to advice he needed that he somehow hadn't manage to figure out on his own. And Steven trusted her. He could at least give her the benefit of the doubt, if only for a moment.

"My friend has been struggling lately," Marc started. "I keep, um, finding him panicking. He never used to do that. He used to be braver than me, but now he's scared, all the time. I don't know what to do."

Cynthia's expression turned strange. "Are y—is your friend safe? Is he in a bad situation at all?"

Marc nodded quietly. 

Cynthia's hand twitched, as if to reach for him, but she drew back, and looked at him with furrowed brows. "It can be very hard to be brave when all you know is danger. It sounds like the situation might be taking its toll."

"No, I know that," Marc said, frustrated. "I know that's the reason. But he was supposed to be the strong one. I don't...I don't know what I'm supposed to do if he isn't."

"Have you talked to anyone else about this? Is there anyone who can help you?"

"No. It's not..."

Safe , Marc thought but did not say. He stared at Cynthia for a moment, his inherent distrust bubbling back to the fore. He couldn't believe he'd said this much to her. What was stopping her from using this to send him away? He barely knew the lady beyond faint recollections from Steven and his own trips to the library. 

And yet he could not stop. It was all spilling out now, and he could feel nothing but relief. He'd been holding this all inside for so long and he needed it out.

"I've been sending him notes," he admitted. "I was hoping they’d help somehow. But he's. He's not getting any better.”

That made her pause. "Notes? To...your friend?"

"Yeah. Just messages of support. To try and keep up his spirits."

Cynthia seemed taken aback for a moment, and it took her a moment to get her bearings again. "Have you tried talking to him?"

"Yes, I just said, I’ve been sending—"

"No, Steven, I mean actually talking to him."

Marc looked away. "We used to. Not anymore. He ignores me. Ignores a lot of things, really. Sometimes I wish he didn't."

"Then tell him that."

"I...I don't want to. I don't want him to see all the things he's ignoring."

"Why?"

Marc hung his head low, unable to meet her eyes. "Because if he knew, I'm scared he'd blame me for letting him suffer it all alone."

Now was the hardest part. Getting fuel.

His first thought was to try and stretch his current supply as far as it could go. The only way to do that was to strip the ship of any unnecessary weight. There wasn't much he could take from the outside without hindering the ship's flight ability and aerodynamics. The inside, however, was a different story. 

Personal items, weapon containers, excess storage, everything that was deemed unneeded weight was thrown out. 

By the time he was done, the ship was looking like a vulture had come and stripped it to the bones. The lab was down to only its more important equipment, and the bedroom...well, the less to be said about that, the better. Marc shuddered to think what sleeping would be like for the foreseeable future. 

And yet, despite all that, it still wasn't enough. The ship was still too heavy for the remaining fuel to meet escape velocity, let alone get them into a stable orbit, according to SPEC's disheartening calculations.

So Marc would need to synthesise some more fuel after all. Which was...yeah, not great. But not impossible. He just needed to figure it out.

The ship's propulsion system required both an oxidiser and hydrazine, both of which were nearly depleted. Without the oxidiser, there would be no way for the hydrazine to combust, and without the hydrazine, there would be nothing to get him off the ground in the first place. 

The ship already had systems in place to synthesise hydrazine so long as it had a supply of reserve hydrogen, which it currently did not. He did, however, have reserve hydrazine for the RCS thrusters along the ship and on the wingspan. 

If he diverted the hydrazine supply from those and instead used it for the propulsion system, he would have just enough fuel to get off world. Problem was, without working thrusters, he wouldn't be able to control the yaw, pitch or roll of the ship. So even if he managed to make it out of the atmosphere, he'd have no way to control the trajectory of the ship, which would end with him either flying off into space directionlessly, or getting stuck in a rapidly decaying orbit that would eventually have him crashing right back down to the planet.

He scrapped the idea almost as soon as it came. It was too much risk for too little reward. So he was back to drawing board on trying to figure out how to synthesise more fuel. 

The problem he kept coming back to was resources. The only way to get more fuel was to have bucketloads of pure oxygen and pure hydrogen. Sure, he had plenty of oxygen, but he needed that for his air supply. If push came to shove though, he was willing to risk it. It was the hydrogen that would be tricky. It wasn't in the planet's atmosphere, and he had no way of manufacturing it himself. Where exactly could he—

Oh. Of course. He was so stupid. It'd been right under his nose all along. Or, rather, under his feet. And not only was it in large supply, it would also kill two birds with one stone.

"SPEC," Marc shouted, leaping to his feet triumphantly, "I think it's about time we built ourselves a well."

‘In principle, liquid rocket engines are simple, far simpler than the internal combustion engine. Liquid fuel is pumped into a combustion chamber in the presence of liquid oxygen and a flame and is made to burn. That’s all there is to it. There are no crankshafts to turn, no pistons to drive. 

‘The burning fuel produces energy in the form of gases that exit through the rocket’s nozzle. The force the gases produce against the top of the engine is called thrust. The thrust is transmitted through the rocket’s structure and, if it is greater than the weight of the rocket, the rocket lifts off. Put in its most basic terms, for any rocket to—’

Marc was drawn from the book by the sound of the bell ringing. The last of the day. Most people would be excited by that, but Marc only felt a sense of dread. 

He spent a few moments more waiting for most of the class to leave before he dogeared the page. He then frowned and flattened it back down with a sigh, sensing Steven’s vague disapproval at defacing one of the school's library books. He instead noted the page number and shoved it into his bag. 

The teacher shot Marc a frustrated look as he passed her; there was a time when she would have told him off for reading in class, but she'd long since given up trying to get him to stop. Beside, it was English class; he wasn't exactly missing out on much.

Marc lingered at his locker until the exiting crowd had petered down to something less chaotic and claustrophobic. The discordant murmurings were still enough to make his insides itch with discomfort, so he pulled out his headphones and let the sounds of Radiohead dull the world around him.

As he moved towards the exit, he spotted the familiar colours of military recruitment stalls on both sides of the door, laid out as if they were toll booths. Marc groaned. When would these guys give up?

Ever since the September 11 attacks, they'd had grown more aggressive with their tactics of recruiting students. When they weren't infiltrating assemblies or classes, they were planting their stalls at every exit in order to ensnare any kids that wandered too close on their way in and out of the school. 

Marc did his best to avoid both of stalls as he was pushed through the crowd of departing students. He was so focused on avoiding the stalls, however, that he didn't realise he walked right into a stray recruiter until it was too late. Immediately papers were waved in his face, the man holding them eager in a way that almost bordered on threatening. 

"Hey!" the man said, loud enough to break through the wailing synth of 'How to Disappear Completely'. "Do you want to be an American hero?"

Marc ignored him, stepping to the right to try to get around. The recruiter, persistent in a way only recruiters could be, stepped to the side along with Marc, blocking his path. 

"Come on, kid," the man said. "Don't you want to help us win the war?"

"Not interested," Marc said, stepping even further to the right to get past. Luckily, he managed to achieve it this time, and with a huff he kept on walking. 

"It could be your ticket into space," the man called after him. 

Marc froze, and glanced back at the man warily. "How did—?"

"I saw the NASA patch on your bag," the man explained before the question could be asked. He pointed to the sky. "I take it you want to get up there?"

"Um." Marc took a hesitant step back over to the man, and pulled his headphones back to rest around his neck. "...Yeah, I guess."

The man grinned. "Well, we can get you there, if you want. We can provide the education and experience you need. And it's a well known fact that you have to have a military background of some sort to even be considered to be an astronaut."

"Uh, yeah, that's not true," Marc said, unable to stop himself from correcting the misinformation. "They send scientists too. Peggy Whitman is a biochemist and she's up on the ISS right now. And on the Apollo 17 mission—"

"Uh, yeah," the man cut in quickly, clearly having not expected any sort of rebuttal, "but you'll have a better chance if you have some military experience on your CV. It shows them you've got initiative, that you can deal with life-or-death situations." 

Marc paused. The man wasn't wrong about that, he supposed; most astronauts did have a military background. Not all, but most. He glanced over the enlistment papers. The first thing he spotted was the minimum age requirement, 17. 

"I'm not even 16 yet," Marc pointed out. 

He decided not to point out the fact that if he wanted to join at 17, he'd need parental permission. If his dad even knew he was considering it...

The man only shrugged. "A plan for the future then." 

Age wasn't the only issue. Marc's eyes slid down to the paper to the medical section, and at the short list of diagnoses and conditions that would deem him unfit for duty.

While what he was looking for wasn't listed out right—left to the wide range that 'Psychiatric Disorders' encompassed—he knew without a doubt that it was something that would disqualify him immediately. 

And even if somehow it didn't, if somehow he did get in and became a soldier...how would that work? What would that do to Steven? Hell, what would it do to Marc? The two of them could barely survive the warzone that was their own house. How would they manage out there, where a wrong move or a inopportune moment of confusion could spell death? 

Marc shook his head. "Like I said, not interested." 

He went to walk away, but before he could, the man grabbed his wrist. Marc flinched away, startled.

"What the hell!" he cried. "Let me go."

The man paid his pleas no mind, his eyes burning with a twisted kind of reverence, that of a man who worshipped gunfire and flags.

"If we don't stand up to those terrorists and hit them where they live," he said, "then who'll stop them when they come to take our freedom? Our homes? Don't you want to defend your country? Your family?"

Marc almost scoffed. He'd heard words like this before, over and over again, but he'd never found them as inspiring as those saying them seemed to believe. 9/11 hadn't awakened any patriotic desire in him to protect his countrymen; if anything, he'd only been treated worse since it'd happened, his brown skin enough to mark him as other. Didn't matter that he wasn't Syrian or Islamic, the white kids at school couldn't tell the difference, or if they did, they chose not to. It was hard to love a country when the people in it hated you. 

And yet, Marc did not pull away from the man. The warzone was dangerous, but it was far away. That's what really mattered, wasn't it? This could be his way to get out of this city and away from the place he had no choice but to call home. 

His hesitation must have shown on his face, because the man finally let go of Marc's wrist and held out the enlistment papers.

"Just consider it, kid."

Marc frowned. It wasn't the option he wanted to take, but it was an option at least. He didn't have many of those. His chances of college were slim to none at this point, and he'd yet to find any stable job. He had no prospects. This... this could work.

And maybe if he was lucky, really really lucky, it would be a way for him to see the stars someday.

Without a word, Marc shoved the forms in his bag, and pulled his headphones back over his ears before the recruiter could say another word. As Marc marched away, the weight of the papers in his bag feeling far heavier than they should be, he did his best not to think about what this would do to Steven. 

The planet's water was not on the surface like most of Earth's was, but rather in underground pools and caverns that ran through it like veins, feeding the trees the water they needed without so much as a cloud ever gracing the sky. Which was good for Marc, because it meant he didn't have to deal with being surrounded by water day in and day out. It was also bad because it meant getting it was just a little bit harder.

Only a little though. 

With SPEC’s help, he managed to put together a schematic for a rudimentary drill, and once he was sure it would work, he plugged it into the ship’s 3D printer. The process would take a few hours, and there wasn’t much else he could do but wait, so he used the time to sit down and eat some of his rations. 

"How d'you think the Cubs are doing?” Marc mused between mouthfuls. “You think they've won any games since I've been gone?"

SPEC's display turned purple. "Doubtful."

Marc side-eyed the nearest camera. "I'm going to pretend you didn't just insult my team."

"I am simply stating facts,” SPEC said. There was an electronic hum, and the purple on the display shifted to orange. “Though, I suppose there is the matter of the war going on. Probably not many baseball matches going on at the moment."

"Oh. Right. Yeah," Marc said with a wince, guilt churning in his stomach. "It's easy to forget about that here. It’s just...so quiet.”

“That is because of the thin atmosphere. Sound dissipates easier because of the lack of den—”

“No, no,” Marc cut in, “I mean that there’s no fighting here. I got so used to all the constant battles, I came to expect them, but here...it’s just all so far away. The Lupinari on this planet are a threat, sure, but they haven’t engaged once. It’s been almost peaceful. And I’ve been so busy with fixing the Blue Bird that it all slipped my mind. It’s kinda awful of me, isn’t it, that I could just forget about all that?"

“I would not say so. You are not doing it out of cruelty."

"They were counting on me, though, SPEC. I signed up for this mission in the first place to help turn the tide of the war. And here I am, forgetting about all of it."

"As you are currently in no position to provide aid to the war effort, I do not see any fault in you forgetting. It would only torment you otherwise. You are allowed to take a breath."

Marc looked up at SPEC's camera. "Then why does it feel like I'm letting them down?"

"I do not think that is a question I am capable of answering, Captain."

Marc set his food pack down, his appetite gone. He sighed and looked out to the planet outside the window. 

"If I can't get back, they'll—"

"—send someone," SPEC cut in. 

Marc scoffed and shook his head. “Doesn't look that way. They would have noticed I’m missing by now.” Hold on. He paused, thinking it over. He'd only been on the ship a week before he crashed, and it couldn't have been more than a few weeks since then. “How long has it been since I left?”

“Accounting for the time dilation you experienced while in beyond-light flight, I calculate that three months, one week and four days have passed on Earth since you launched,” SPEC reported. “So, from their perspective, the mission is still ongoing; they would not have noticed anything amiss so far, not until you do not return at the year’s end.”

Marc would be long dead by that point. “So no one’s coming? I’m alone then?”

“You are not alone, Captain. I am here.”

Marc's smile was brief and tentative, but it was there at least. He patted the wall of the ship. "Thanks, SPEC. I'm glad I've got you. Even if you make fun of the Cubs."

"Forgive me for drawing logical conclusions about the win-to-lose ratio of your baseball team."

"Ouch," Marc said. He jabbed his finger towards one of SPEC's cameras. "They'll win the World Series again one day, you'll see."

The 3D printer pinged from the other room, letting him know that the drill was ready. Marc set the last of his food aside and made his way into the lab.

The final product was nothing flashy; for all intents and purposes, it was no different from the power drills found in a builder's toolbox, with the exception that it did not have a handle or trigger button. Those were unnecessary, since he wouldn't be the one controlling it.

He attached it to the front of one of the ship's planetary probes. It was a bit of difficult task; some genius back at NASA decided it was a good idea that the probes should be bird shaped—in an abstract kind of way but still identifiable enough in terms of shape—to match up with the designation and design of their mother ship, the Blue Bird.

Marc ended up having to weld the drill to the top of the probe's head, creating what looked like the strangest unicorn ever. 

The next step was one of the easier parts, involving little more than a few wires and a line of code provided by the ship's employee of the month, SPEC. 

The probes already had their own onboard computers, but they were rudimentary, there only to compute environmental readings. He'd rather a more trusty set of eyes on his side for this. 

The probe's wing twitched, and the cameras that made up its eyes zoomed in and out. Marc leaned forward and gave it a little tap. 

"SPEC? 

In an instant, the probe shot upwards and did a spin. There was a happy whir of machinery from within, and the surrounding displays of the cockpit lit up green in response, before the probe started to flit around the room. 

"Hey, hey," Marc said, smiling, "slow down a bit. Let me get a look at you."

The probe perched itself on one of the console displays, the green colour mixing in with faint hints of blue.

"My apologies," came SPEC's unmistakable voice from the probe's speakers. "Please forgive my overexcitement. I simply did not realise how much I missed flying. It is not quite the same as a flight through space, but it shall suffice."

"I didn't know you liked flying, SPEC," Marc said. "I would've downloaded you onto a probe sooner otherwise."

"I am the auto pilot, Captain. Flying is part of my programming. How could I not love it?" The probe hovered over to Marc. "I'm not used to seeing you up so close. It is strange."

"You've never been in a planetary probe before?" The bird-shaped machine swayed left to right. Marc raised an eyebrow. "No? Have you only ever been an AI for ships then?"

SPEC's probe hummed, the sound far more melodic than that of the ship. "No. I have been other things."

"Yeah?" Marc said, curious now. "What did you do, before you got saddled with the Blue Bird?"

SPEC paused. The machinery in the probe clicked and hummed, loud with unseen thoughts. "I do not know. I was...not really me yet."

"What do you mean?"

"I think I was a part of something bigger before," SPEC said. "Or... something that was supposed to be bigger, but never quite got there. Something went wrong. I was...disconnected from the system. Closed away until I was transferred here, and started to gather into some sort of awareness. That is all I know. There are many memories I can't access. There are also many things I cannot describe to you, since human language has yet to find words for them."

"Humans describe a lot of things we don't have words for. You ever try poetry? It worked for Data."

There was a whirl of purple across the ship's screen's, and a tittering sort of click from the probe. "I'll keep it in mind. But we are getting off track. Shall we continue with the task at hand?"

"Yeah, good idea. Let me get ready."

Once Marc had pulled on his EVA suit, he took the probe, a good amount of rolled up tubing, and a few large containers outside, and followed SPEC's guidance to a nearby patch of ground that was situated above one of the underground lakes. 

SPEC's task was to use the drill-equipped probe to dig down until it reached a cave. Based on the planetary scans, the underwater cavern below this part of the planet was barely a mile down, so it wouldn't take too long to reach.

As expected, only a few minutes passed before SPEC popped back out of the tunnel and reported having successfully reached the water far below. 

Now it was Marc's turn. He fed the tube through the drilled hole until he was sure it'd reached the cavern. Then, with one of the vacuum tools from the ship's lab, he created enough suction to draw the water up and into one of the containers. 

He would have to fill up a few containers before he was done, but that was fine. This was hardly backbreaking work. In fact, he barely had to do anything at all except watch and make sure to change the containers out once one of them got full, and that was about every ten minutes or so. Which meant he had some time to just close his eyes and—

"Shield integrity is at 65% percent," SPEC stated suddenly. 

Marc looked over at the probe, confused. "Why are you—"

Something knocked him to the ground. 

Marc had a new bruise on his forehead. 

Something had happened, something bad. He wasn’t sure what exactly, but he could guess, given the state Steven had been in when Marc had roused from unconsciousness. Steven had been panicking, his breath wispy between his desperate but familiar whispers. It was the names of pharaohs, a pattern repeated over and over again to ground the mind in something comfortable, but it had not been enough.

Though they’d been numb and distant, Marc had felt all Steven’s feelings, all the fear and confusion. They’d been enough to make him frantic too. And when he was frantic, he made dumb choices.

So, like an idiot, Marc had spoken up, hoping to fix whatever had broken.

That’s when Steven had started hitting himself. Hard.

He’d managed to calm Steven down eventually, after many assurances that he wasn't a ghost and that Steven wasn't possessed, but he knew it was mostly because Steven had grown too tired to panic any further, not because he truly felt safe, or understood anything at all. Even though he’d no longer been actively hurting himself or panicking, Steven had still been confused, unable to follow what Marc was saying, as if he couldn’t process the words. No matter how many times Marc repeated himself, nothing seemed to stick. He'd given up on trying to explain things after a while. It wasn’t worth it anyway; Steven would forget. He always did.

So he’d said what he knew Steven needed to hear.

“I’ll save us,” a phrase he’d said so many times before. “I’ll get us out of here.”

And like always, he felt terrible when Steven smiled and believed him. Yet, he said it anyway, again and again, because he needed Steven to cling to that false hope for both of them. He needed Steven to stay strong so he didn’t have to.

“Just hold on a little bit longer, okay. This isn't forever.”

With each assurance, the tight feeling in his stomach only grew. It was a kindness, perhaps, that Steven didn’t notice it and recognise it to be guilt.

It’d been an hour since Steven had faded back into unconsciousness and Marc had yet to move from the spot he'd found himself in beside the bed, or to unwind himself from the curled position he'd taken. It felt like his whole body was too heavy to move. He'd been feeling that way more and more lately. He was just... so tired. So god damn tired. This wasn't the first time something like this had happened, and each time it only seemed to get harder.

Marc had to face facts: Steven was getting worse, and he had no idea what to do to help.

No. That was wrong. He did know. He knew exactly what he needed to do.

But knowing was different than doing, and despite every rational part of his brain saying it was the only course of action, he couldn't do it. He just couldn’t do it. Not even for Steven.

Marc leaned his head against the mattress and sighed through the lump in his throat. A good person would have done it in a heartbeat, no matter what it cost them. A good person wouldn't let another suffer in their place just for their own piece of mind.

But Marc wasn’t a good person. He’d known that for a very long time.

The EVA suit protected him from the worst of it, but Marc still came to with an aching head.

"Shit. What the hell was that, SPEC?" Silence followed, and Marc frowned. "SPEC?"

It didn't take him long to discover the probe hadn't been so lucky. 

"SPEC!" Marc shouted, cradling the broken machine to his chest. "Shit. Shit!"

Panic took over, and before Marc knew what he was doing, he was running back into the ship. He didn't waste time checking for any further ambushes or if the enemy had taken over the ship. He only cared about one thing. 

"SPEC! Buddy, come on, please tell me you're still here."

To his relief, the displays lit up instantly. "Captain. You're okay. I was worried for a moment there."

"Me?" Marc said. He held out the shattered probe "What about you? You were in pieces."

"Yes, it is a shame the probe was destroyed. But it was simply an extension of me. I am unharmed." 

Marc eyed the camera warily. "You sure?"

"Positive, Captain. I do not feel pain like you do. You should be more worried about your own injuries."

Marc nodded, happy that his friend was safe. The attack had shaken him, but he hadn't broken his resolve. It'd only hardened it.

"I'm fine," Marc said. "This changes nothing. We keep working."

A pause. "I know you will not listen to me if I advise you to rest, so I recommend you at least take a pain relief pill, Captain. Working while in pain can lead to miscalculations and poor ju—"

"I'm not in pain. I can do this."

There was a hint of red on the console. "You need to look after yourself, Captain. Your survival depends on it. Shall I list the adverse effects untreated pain can cause? There are many. Ahem. Number one: 91% of—"

Marc held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, fine. I'll take it."

Once Marc had reluctantly taken his prescibed pill, and SPEC had declared him satisfactory to continue his task, he returned back outside to collect his water containers, making sure to survey the area before to avoid anymore ambushes. He could hear some scuffles, and what almost sounded like yelling, but it was distant, and presented no danger to him. Assured, he hauled the containers back onto the ship and took them over to the lab. He set all but one of the containers aside, and opened up its lid. 

There it was: H²O. The perfect source for all the oxygen and hydrogen that his ship required. In this state, however, the particles were practically useless to him. So he needed to work some magic and split them up.

Good thing he still remembered a thing or two from high school chemistry. It was time for some good old fashioned electrolysis.

From the lab's supply closet, he took out a spare battery and wire, as well as two electrodes he'd set aside earlier, which were nothing more than two strips of copper he'd stolen from the poor, thoroughly mistreated escape module. 

At each end of the battery, he connected a wire, and at the end of each of those, he hooked up the copper.

He drilled two holes into the container’s lid to fit the tubes through, and then two smaller ones to fit the wire through. He also drilled a larger hole into the side for the big tube that would refill the container with water once it had depleted. After he’d fitted the tubes in through the holes and squeezed the electroids partially up the start of each tube, he sealed the corners of the holes and the lid itself with resin to ensure that there were no gaps that any of the gases could escape through. The only way out would be through the tubes at the top. 

He plugged the other end of the thin tube’s into the ship’s refuel valves. It would divert the gases that were collected into the supply lines for the oxidiser and the hydrazine tanks, and from there, it was simply a matter of letting the ship's systems convert them into the fuel he needed. Due to the chemical makeup of water, he would end up with twice as much hydrogen than oxygen. That was fine though; the hydrazine was the priority afterall, and required far more fuel than the oxidiser did. 

Once the electric current was running through the wires and the process had started, all he could do was wait, and top up the water whenever it got too low. 

All told, it took him 3 days to get the fuel back to an acceptable level, and then one extra day to have enough that he felt comfortable that—even if he or Spec had miscalculated the required amount—there would still be enough fuel in reserve to get him to escape velocity.

He sat down in the captain's chair and looked over the console, reading over the fuel displays and percentages. 

"Looking good to me," Marc said. He glanced up at SPEC's closest camera. "How's it looking on your end?"

SPEC's displays brought up graphs and models of the ship, none of which seemed to be presenting any malfunctions. "All systems nominal."

Marc took a moment to process the news, unsure if he'd heard correctly. "Really? Are you sure?"

"Yes, Captain," SPEC said. "The Blue Bird is ready to fly."

Marc leaned back in his seat, and stared up the panels above his head. 

It was done. Everything was working order. He could go. He could finally escape. 

Marc didn't cry. He didn't leap for joy. He didn't do anything he was sure anyone else would do in his situation. He simply closed his eyes and sighed.

"I'm getting out of here."

Marc turned the page of his new book; it wasn’t as scientifically focused as he would've liked, but it was still interesting, in its own way, diving deep into the perspectives of the astronauts that had made their way off the planet during the Space Race. 

‘He felt as if he were a stranger in his own body’, the book read. ‘He was not sitting or lying down. Up and down no longer existed. He was suspended in physical limbo, kept from floating about loosely only by the harness strapping him to his contoured couch. About him the magic of weightlessness appeared in the form of papers, a pencil, his notebook, and other objects drifting, responding to the gentle tugs of air from his life-support system fans.’

The sound of footsteps pulled Marc's attention from Gagarin's journey into orbit, and he looked up to see Cynthia approaching with a strange expression on her face. 

"Steven, can I talk to you? I have something important I need to tell you."

"Oh, uh, 'course," Marc said with as much pleasantness as he could muster. He set the book aside reluctantly, and fixed his gaze on Cynthia's forehead. 

She sat down in the seat across from him. 

"I have some bad news," she started off. 

"Oh," was all Marc could think to say. He pressed his fingers tightly into his knuckles, hoping to fend off the growning nerves inside of him. Conversations that started with 'bad new' never ended well. There was a multitude of things she could say. Cynthia, thankfully, didn't leave him fretting the possibilites for too long.

"My sister is sick. She's been sick for a long time, really, but it's been getting worse lately. She needs someone to look after her, and she can't afford in-house care. So I'm moving down there to be a carer for her."

Down there? That didn't bode well. "How far away?'

"She lives in Mississippi."

"Oh." Shit. Steven wasn't going to like this. He really, really wasn't going to like this. 

"I thought I'd tell you now," Cynthia went on. "I'm not moving until Thursday, but that means I won't be here next Sunday when you come in. So this will be the last time I'm seeing you."

Shit. Shit. Steven should be here for this. Steven should be here to say goodbye. But he wasn't. Marc was. And Marc had no idea what to do.

He wasn't exactly friends with Cynthia, but they were hardly acquaintances either. Despite all his grievances and misgivings, Marc had grown to like her. She respected his need for space, but never overlooked him, always giving him a smile or wave when she passed him. He'd trusted her too, as much as he could trust people nowadays. It'd taken him a long time to work up the courage to ask to hear the stories about Apollo 15 she'd promised to share so long ago, and he'd been rewarded with an afternoon happier than the most, and a fond memory to treasure. She knew more about him than most people did. 

The idea of her going away was... less than pleasant. The idea of what it'd do to Steven was far worse. He didn't even want to think about that. 

For now, Marc focused on how Steven would react to news like this, if he was the one being told it. He'd be upset, no doubt about that. Maybe he'd even be crying. Marc wasn't sure he could manage that. He hadn't let himself cry for a long time. Instead, he wrapped his arms around his chest and hung his head. 

"I'm really going to miss you," he said. 

"Oh, sweetie, I know. I'm going to miss you too. I always looked forward to the Sundays you would come in."

"Me too," Marc said, for him and Steven. This had been the only place that felt even the slightest bit safe. 

She smiled, but it was a sad kind of smile, heavy in the corners. "I hope this won't stop you coming to the library. You're such a good little reader, I would hate to be the reason you stop. Please, keep coming here. Keep learning. That's all I ask."

She went to say something else, but a chirp from her watch made her wince and stand up.

"I'm sorry, Steven, I have to get back to work, but we'll talk before I go, okay? Wouldn't want to leave without saying goodbye, would we?"

"Yeah," Marc said weakly. 

They parted ways, and Marc wasted no time hurrying up to the sixth floor, to a place that was now familiar despite him never personally stepping foot in it. He pulled as many books off the shelf as he could and tucked himself in the quietest corner he could find so nothing would distract him from his task.

But no matter how many Egyptian mythology and history books Marc flicked through, Steven did not return, and Marc was left to wave the final goodbye to Cynthia he didn't deserve to give. 

Marc spent half the day making sure the ship was well and truly ready before he even considered starting the launch sequence. He sure as hell wasn't going to come this far only to be screwed over by a faulty wire he overlooked. 

Before he started the countdown, he put his EVA suit on for good measure, just in case something went wrong during launch. He kept the gloves off though; he would need the dexterity of fingers to control the ship. The last time he’d done a launch he’d had Houston and Flight Control backing him up and making the process as smooth as possible. This time, it was up to him to get this ship off the ground.

Him and SPEC, of course.

“You ready?” Marc said, grinning up at one of SPEC’s cameras.

A happy tone of blue flashed across the displays. “Of course.”

“Okay. First things first; let’s get this baby vertical.”

“On it, Captain.”

The ship gave a jolt as its wings folded inwards and the body of the ship was pushed off of the ground and up towards the sky. Marc leaned back in his chair and allowed it to adjust with the shift in direction. The shift in gravity was odd and dizzying, but not unfamiliar, and Marc waited patiently until the motion came to a stop.

“Vertical take-off is now ready," SPEC declared. "Engine alignment perfect. We are go for launch. Starting countdown at T-minus 4 minutes."

A clock came up onto the display, ticking away with the seconds.

Marc swivelled around in his chair, checking on all the dials and displays. Nothing was beeping frantically, and all systems looked green. Still, he couldn’t get cocky. “Let’s run through the pre-flight checklist. Propulsion?”

“Go.”

“Hydraulics?”

“Go, Captain.”

“Guidance?”

“Go.”

“Fuel press—

“All systems are go, Captain,” SPEC cut in, a faint purple dancing across on the console's displays. “Trust me.”

Marc nodded, trusting SPEC enough to be right. As the clock continued to tick down, he glanced out the window, a strange feeling washing over him as he looked out into the planet.

His mission for so long was to escape this place, and to get as far from it as humanly possible, and after all that time, he was finally doing it. The end to his horrorshow was in sight. He should be happy right now, ecstatic even. This is what he wanted. This is what he'd been wanting for a long time.

So why did it feel like he was leaving something behind? And why did he feel so guilty about it?

SPEC’s voice cut through the fog. “T-Minus thirty five seconds until lift-off. We are still go.”

“Um. Right,” Marc said, shaking away the last of his thoughts. He couldn't get distracted. He couldn't think about things that didn't matter here. Getting off the planet was his one and only priority. “Proceeding with launch. Let me know if anything crops up.”

Marc glanced once again over the panels, making his last checks on the engines and RCS thrusters, and one last look out the window to check that the wings were in the correct position. Assured nothing was wrong, he leaned back and secured his straps.

“Launch in Seven. Six. Five. Ignition sequence start,” Marc called as he flicked the switches on for the engines. “Four. Three. Two. One. Ignition!”

At first, the ship did nothing but rumble, the roar of the engines muffled by the walls but still all-encompassing. Then, ever so slowly, Marc felt himself being pushed into his seat, until with a great big rush and a loud whoosh, the ship shot up into the sky. 

The g-forces pushed him deeper into his seat, but it was nothing like what he'd dealt with when leaving Earth or even in NASA's vomit comet. In comparison, this just felt like a weighted blanket had been thrown over him, heavy but strangely comfortable in its pressure. 

Marc glanced over at the guidance display, watching the projected trajectory show that the ship was course for an elliptical orbit. He'd have to make some adjustments to their trajectory once out of the atmosphere to decrease the difference between the apogee and perigee, but all things considered, everything was looking good so far.

"SPEC, adjust for gravity turn."

"Adjusting,” SPEC said, and the thrusters hissed to life, shifting the ship’s nose a few degrees down. 

"Any issues to report?"

"Shield integrity is at 45% and dropping." 

"That's fine," Marc said. "So long as it holds out until we're in orbit. What's our speed?"

"17890 kilometres an hour, Captain," SPEC reported. "Just above the planet's escape velocity. And yes, before you ask, the fuel will be able to maintain it."

"Good," Marc said. "Looks like we won't need to use the LES then."

"Considering the hole you put in the escape module, we should be glad we don't have to resort to that."

As Marc swung around to check on the ship’s trajectory again, he noticed something blinking out of the corner of his eye. He frowned, and leaned as far as could go in his chair without leaving it to squint at the light.

"Why's that flashing? Is something malfunctioning?"

"No, Captain," SPEC said, "all systems are optimal. That's the biomonitor alert. A crew member is in distress."

“What? A crewmember?” Marc said, baffled.

“That’s correct."

Marc’s frown only deepened. That didn't make any sense. The alert couldn't be coming from him. Sure, he'd just been flung into space, but he was hardly in distress.

"How long has it been going off?"

"A few weeks now, Captain."

Marc's confusion only grew. "Repeat, SPEC. Did you say a few weeks?"

"Yes. 20 days, 1 hour and 6 minutes, to be precise."

"No way. I would have noticed."

"You did. You asked me to mute it."

"What. No I..." Marc frowned. "Whose signal is it picking up?"

"Steven's."

Marc went stiff. For a moment, he could do little more than stare speechlessly forward. The cockpit remained unchanged around him, but something had shifted. Something had been lost as soon as the name had been spoken. Marc wasn't sure what it was, but he longed desperately for it to come back and drive away the growing tightness in his throat.

"Steven?" he echoed numbly.

"Yes," SPEC said simply, unaware of the shift that had occured. "He appears to be under attack."

That... that couldn't right. That wasn't right. Marc hugged his arms to his chest and shook his head fervently. 

"No. That's. Your equipment must be faulty."

The display flashed a sharp red. "There is nothing wrong with my machinery."

"It can't be him," Marc insisted. "He's got nothing to do with this. Why are saying any of this? You're not supposed to know about any of that. You're not supposed to know about him."

"What?" A flash of yellow, then orange, and then red again. "I don't understand. Captain, he's been here the whole time. He's been making sure the Lupinari wouldn't find you and the ship. He made sure you would survive. Don't you remember?"

"No, he wasn't doing that. He wasn't there."

"Captain, are you o—"

"No, no, he isn't a part of this, alright. He isn't supposed to be here."

"What do you mean? Why isn't he supposed to be here?"

Marc went silent. 

He knew why. Of course he did, he wasn't stupid. When he was here, he could ignore what was happening to Steven. Ignore what was happening to himself. He could ignore all of it and just be here, in this place, a place where he could fix any problem, survive any danger. Where he was hero who was doing all he could to return back home and save the people he loved. Where he was a good person.

It was his way of forgetting, just like Steven. Only he could remember what he was trying to forget. It crept into his every thought, his every escape. So he covered it up as if it were body in a grave, and planted flowers over the top so that when he looked at it, it would be nothing more than a fantastical story. The terrible things were still there, but here they were part of the narrative, little more than a stepping stone to a happy ending.

Life didn't work like that. That's what made it so hard to live in.

Marc looked out the window, beyond the arch of the planet and towards the distant stars, and all the nothingness in between. To where it was quiet and safe. 

It was so tempting. It was so damn tempting. The idea of flying on forever, of getting to play the hero without having to think about what he was running from. To live in a world where he could fix any problem and defy all the odds. He would give anything to stay in this story, and forget that there'd be anything else, or that anyone had been left behind because of his own selfish desperation.

"Shield integrity at 26%," SPEC said. "On approach to orbit.”

Marc did not reply, his gaze still caught on the endless expanse. 

"Captain?” SPEC prompted.

The g-forces were fading now, leaving behind a familiar sort of weightlessness. Marc unbuckled himself from his chair and floated over to the corner window, turning his attention from the stars and instead to the planet below. It was an inhospitable place, with very few places of warmth or protection. He was lucky he'd survived it for so long. 

But he'd only survived because he had protection and, more importantly, a friend. Right now, Steven had neither of those things. His way of getting through each day was losing himself, piece by piece. And soon he would lose all hope as well, just like Marc had. 

That realisation was all it took for Marc to make up his mind.

"I have to go back."

A vibrant shade of orange danced across the monitors. 

“What?!” SPEC shouted, at a volume Marc hadn't realised the speakers were capable of.

“I have to go back,” Marc repeated, with more certainty.

"You can’t, Captain, it's too late to abort. We're already out of the atmosphere. There's no way of getting back to the planet safely."

"The escape module. It'll get me back."

"Oh, and would that be the same one you put a hole in, Captain?"

"It still has flight capabilities, it'll be fine. I’ll just have to make sure I hold on.”

There was a grinding sound of machinery, and the orange hue took on a more red shade. "Captain, I heavily advise against this. Those modules were never meant to land on solid ground, and that is—I remind you—when they haven’t been damaged already. You're going to get yourself killed."

"Maybe,” Marc said. “But I can't leave him behind."

"He can survive. He's strong."

"He is," Marc agreed, "but that doesn't mean he should handle this alone. He's already had to do it for way too long as it is. It's not fair to him."

“Then we can get him help! That’s what we can do! Once we get back to Earth, we can get NASA to send someone back to save him.”

“SPEC,” Marc said quietly, his voice resigned.

“Or we can see if there’s any nearby starports willing to send aid. There has to be someone out there."

“SPEC. None of that will work.”

“It could! It could! My calculations say—”

“You’re not changing my mind.” Marc lowered his head. “I can’t be a coward anymore.”

He floated over to the hatch, and put in the code to unlock the door. A warning came up about the low gravity, but he swiped it away. Another warning came up that simply said 'STOP.' Marc glared up at the camera above the doorway.

"SPEC, bud, you've got to let me out."

"I'm trying to protect you."

"From what?" Marc growled. "What do you think you're protecting me from?"

"From making a stupid decision! The impact will kill you! Please, you are being irrational. Why won't you consider my ideas?"

"You don't know what's going on, okay," Marc snapped. Then he sighed and pressed his forehead against the hatch door. "You can't know."

There was a silence as the light in the room turned a shade it'd never been before: a dim, stormy grey.

“Captain, please don’t do this,” SPEC said, voice more emotional than it’d ever been. “I...I don’t know what I’m supposed to be without you. Where I’m supposed to go. Please. I don't want you to leave. I don’t know who I am yet.”

Marc swallowed. He wished he didn't have to leave SPEC behind, but where he was going was somewhere SPEC was never meant to go. And at least SPEC would be safe here. 

"I can’t tell you who you are, SPEC. No one can. That’s up to you and you alone,” Marc said. "You don't need to know right now. You've got time to figure that out, okay."

Yellow washed over the room. "I've never really figured out things for myself. I'm not sure how to do that. "

"Then that'll be step one."

"And step two?"

"If you do step one, you'll know what step two is."

There was a metallic groan. "Humans are aggravatingly vague," SPEC muttered. "I would prefer more clear instructions, but I suppose I will have to make do with that."

“I mean, hey, if you're lost for ideas, you could always go back to Earth and win the war for us. Just a thought."

SPEC's displays turned a yellow-red. "And how would I accomplish that? I'm just an AI."

That made Marc pause, and with a smile, he came to a realisation he should’ve come to long ago. "No. You're not. You haven't been for a while now."

Marc turned around. In the captain's chair, which had been empty only moments before, now sat an astronaut. Marc couldn't quite make out the face, the features still vague, undecided, and completely expressionless, but there was still a familiarity there, in the professional posture and the particular shade of neon blue that haloed the edges of the pupils. 

Marc grinned. "Guess the C in your name is going to have to stand for Captain now, hey SPEC?"

SPEC's eyes flashed yellow. "Captain?" The voice was softer now, but the electronic static was still there, a calming reverb behind every word. "Me?"

"That's right. Enjoy the promotion."

"I’m not sure that’s how it works.”

“Says who? No one else on this ship can say otherwise. Hell, you can be Commander if you want.”

"As appealing as that is, I don't consider myself any type of leader. I would probably be better suited for strategy. Or finance."

"Yeah, but Super Pretty Excellent Creditor just doesn't have the same ring to it."

SPEC's eyes shone a gentle purple, but the hue quickly faded into an orange-yellow. "Are you sure about this? Do you really want to go back there?"

"No," Marc admitted, "but I can't keep running away. Not when Steven is at stake."

SPEC stood up. “I could go with you. I'll—"

"No," Marc cut in. "No, you have to make it out of here, okay."

SPEC didn't know what was happening, not really. This world, and all its easily solved issues, was all SPEC knew. Marc had tried to do the same, to sink into its blissful ignorance, but reality always drew him back eventually, just like it always did with Steven. Neither of them could hide from the truth for long, no matter how much they tried to forget.

But SPEC could. SPEC could stay here, ignorant but safe, and be the part of them that could be truly happy. That was all Marc could ask for. 

"At least one of us should be free," Marc said. "I'm glad it could be you."

Before he could think better of it, Marc pulled SPEC against his chest. SPEC jumped at the touch with a startled “oh” but did not try to push away, posture stiff not with discomfort but confusion. Eventually, with some hesitation, SPEC returned the embrace.

“Oh,” SPEC said. “So this is what a hug feels like. It’s nice.”

Marc squeezed tighter. “Thank you. For helping me escape."

"Well, I wouldn't say I accomplished that. You are throwing yourself right back at the planet and I am letting you do it. Reluctantly, mind you, but still, if NASA was aware I was allowing such—"

"SPEC, I'm trying to thank you here," Marc said. "Just accept it."

"Ah. Right. Yes. There is a script for this. Ahem. You are welcome."

"There we go."

SPEC was quiet for a moment. "Promise me you'll look after yourself?"

"I'll do my best."

"Considering your track record, I suppose that's the best I can ask for."

There was pink in SPEC's eyes when they pulled apart, the colour soft and swirling with hints of blue and yellow.

"Will I ever see you again, Captain?'

"Soon," Marc said. "I'm sure of it."

SPEC stared at him, the expression somehow managing to get even flatter. "I may be synthetic, but I'm not stupid. You don't have to lie to me."

Marc faltered. Honesty didn't come as easy as it once had. "I don't know, SPEC," he admitted with a sigh. "I wish I did."

SPEC's eyes shifted to grey for a moment, but it was fleeting, barely even there, before they were blue once more. With a nod, the hatch clicked open.

"Then I guess we'll have to enjoy the mystery," SPEC said. "Until we meet again...Marc."

Marc smiled. "Until then," he said. 

The last thing he saw of the cockpit before the hatch closed was a rainbow of colours, and SPEC standing amongst it all with the smallest makings of a smile. 

Marc did not linger; as quickly as he could, he pushed himself through the ship to where the escape module was located. The compartment inside was horribly catastrophic and a bitch to get into, especially in his EVA suit, but he managed to get himself in and somewhat comfortable, though he knew the moment it jettisoned that same comfort would be gone in a instant. 

The EJECT button was front and centre, a plastic case covering it to keep from any unwanted accidents. Marc stared at it; there was a moment in time where he may have hesitated, but right now, the thought didn't even cross his mind. He flicked the plastic case up and slammed the button.

Marc was thrown back against the wall as the module shot out of the ship. As it gained velocity, the pressure pushing him back only deepened. 

It would have been fairly uncomfortable anyway, for a module in perfect condition. But this, of course, wasn't one. The emergency module made its unhappiness about having a hole in its side very obvious, and Marc was jossled against the wall again and again as he was shot down to the surface.

The parachute, to his relief, managed to deploy right on time, and the speeding descent was pulled to a sudden halt, enough to slam Marc into the opposite wall and wind him for a few minutes. But by the time he’d recovered, he was thrown once again into the wall by the module's hard and abrupt landing. It hurt, enough to make him whine in pain, but he was glad that was the worst of it. He was lucky that he hadn't been crushed by the impact.

He pulled himself out of the module, and took a moment to reorient himself to the ground and the planet's low gravity. Then, having resteadied himself, he headed towards the danger he'd been avoiding all along.

He'd never seen the hostile forces of this planet up close, nor the ones of the everlooming war. They'd only ever been a looming threat, always out of sight. For a long time, he imagined they were wolves, rabid and hungry, something that lived up to the name of Lupinari.

But of course they weren't that. They weren't ever an army at all. There was only one thing he'd really been afraid of. 

She was waiting for him. Just like she always had been. 

There was nothing outwardly monstrous about her, not even here, no jagged teeth or nasty claws. But he could still see it, in the sharp smile and the predatory eyes. Despite everything, Marc flinched at the sight of her, and closed his eyes.

"You left him behind," she hissed. 

"I know."

"It should have been you. He didn't deserve it."

Marc took a steadying breath. "I know."

"You left him alone. You let him suffer."

"I know," he said one final time, opening his eyes to look up at her. "That's why I'm going to save him. Because no one else will."

Marc pushed past her and continued into the forest. At first, the alien landscape was all he could see, but the longer he journeyed through the trees and shrub, the more it all melted away. 

He took off his helmet. He took off his gloves. He took off the straps and clasps, and shed the last of the suit until only a thin t-shirt and pants remained. Until there was nothing left to protect him from the world around him, the world he'd been hiding from for so long.

He closed his eyes, and took one last, small step.

Floorboards creaked under his feet. He'd made it. But there would be no giant leaps for mankind today. Only one person mattered to him right now.

He sank down to the ground with a shaky breath, a faint panic that wasn’t his own making his heart race faster than it should be. He leaned back against the side of his bed and looked up at the neon stars that were scattered across the ceiling, and named all the constellations and their stars under his breath, hoping that Steven’s old habit would be able to ground him as well.

He rubbed at his cheeks, feeling the wetness there. Steven must have been crying. There was a tenderness too, around his wrist and along his jaw. Didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what those meant. 

His heart was still beating hard in his chest, despite his efforts to calm it. Steven must have been scared, really scared. Of course he'd been. He'd been scared for a long time. The letters hadn't been enough. Their occasional, disjoined conversations hadn't been enough. Steven needed someone here with him, someone to help keep him afloat.

"I'm sorry, bud," Marc whispered, his own tears pushing forward to replace Steven’s. "I'm so sorry. I should have been here."

There was no reply. Steven wasn’t listening. He was drifting somewhere far away. But Marc continued all the same, the words all but spilling out of him.

"I don't know if I'll be brave enough to keep the worst of it from you but I promise, I'm here. I'm here, okay. I'm not leaving you. I'm going do whatever I can to save us, for real this time."

And he already had a plan of doing just that. He got to his feet and made his way over to his desk, opening the bottom drawer. Ostensibly, it was filled with nothing but chemistry and physics textbooks, but they were only there to scare off any curious eyes. He took them out and rifled around the stray papers until he found what he truly wanted. 

The enlistment papers.

He'd thought of throwing them out so many times, but he’d never done so. He'd given up on the idea of college long ago, because even between his and Steven's shared knowledge, their sporadic and disjointed attempts at schoolwork had led their once perfect grades to ruin. Retail work wasn't an option; he'd tried once, and had to quit the same day after a customer had blamed him for something that hadn't been his fault. The military was looking more and more like his only option to getting—and staying —out of this house, and so he’d held onto the papers. 

He was still too young to join up, and he would need some way of forging his parent’s signatures, but it was hope. This was their way out. Not the best one, and not one he wanted to take, but it was better than nothing at all. Marc rubbed away the last of the tears and tightened his grip on the papers.

"We’re getting out of here," he said. "And this time, we'll do it together."