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The neutral buoyancy lab always smelled faintly metallic to Christina. Chlorine, machinery, damp concrete, the constant hum of pumps beneath the surface—it all blended into something uniquely NASA. Familiar. Comforting, even.
Most people found the massive underwater training facility intimidating.
Christina found it calming.
“Copy that, EV1, you’re clear to continue translation,” Jeremy Hansen’s voice crackled through the comm loop.
“Copy,” Christina answered easily.
Forty feet below the surface, she moved carefully along the mock truss segment attached to the training structure. Every movement underwater had to be deliberate. Slow. Efficient. The EMU training suit was cumbersome even in simulated microgravity, and one wrong motion could twist a tether or throw off balance.
Above the waterline, Reid Wiseman watched the monitors with Victor Glover beside him while the dive team tracked Christina and Jeremy’s progress.
“She’s ahead of timeline again,” Victor muttered.
Reid snorted softly. “Of course she is.”
Jeremy’s voice came back through the loop. “You know, Koch, one day you could pretend to struggle so the rest of us feel better.”
“No.”
Victor laughed under his breath.
The Artemis II crew had been training together long enough that the rhythm between them felt almost effortless now. Reid was steady leadership. Victor was calm and endlessly observant. Jeremy balanced humor with precision. Christina was relentless competence wrapped in quiet understatement.
None of them really knew how to handle her when she got hurt.
Mostly because she never acted hurt.
—
“Okay, EV1, we’re going to reset your position for the next procedure.”
Christina adjusted her grip on the handrail and shifted her body carefully.
Then one of the tether lines snagged.
It happened fast.
A diver reached to correct it at the same moment Christina instinctively rotated to compensate. The bulky glove slipped against wet metal. Her right hand hit the truss awkwardly while the momentum of the suit kept moving.
There was a sharp crack inside her wrist.
Pain exploded up her arm.
Not dull.
Not manageable.
Bright.
Hot.
Immediate.
Christina inhaled sharply through her nose.
Above the waterline, Reid straightened immediately. “Hold on.”
Victor looked over. “What?”
On the monitor, Christina had gone still.
Jeremy noticed too. “Koch?”
There was a two-second silence.
Then Christina said, perfectly calm, “I think I broke my wrist.”
The room froze.
Victor blinked. “What?”
Underwater, Christina flexed instinctively and immediately regretted it. Pain shot through her forearm hard enough to make her nauseous.
Yep.
Definitely broken.
“Uh,” Jeremy said carefully, “that sounds medically significant.”
“I’m aware.”
“You sound weirdly relaxed about it.”
“I don’t think panicking would help.”
Reid was already moving toward the dive supervisor. “Get her out.”
“Reid, I’m fine,” Christina said immediately.
“No, you are absolutely not fine.”
“I can finish the procedure.”
Victor actually barked out a laugh at that. “Christina.”
“What?”
“You just announced a broken bone like you were commenting on the weather.”
“It’s my right wrist, not a spinal injury.”
Jeremy muttered, “I’m begging you to start valuing your skeleton slightly more.”
The dive team began moving quickly.
Christina tolerated the ascent process with visible patience, though her jaw tightened every time the wrist shifted inside the glove. By the time they got her out of the suit, the swelling had already started.
A medic gently took her arm.
Christina glanced down at it.
“Hm.”
Victor stared. “Hm?”
“It’s swelling faster than I expected.”
Jeremy looked mildly horrified. “You say things like a scientist observing an interesting fungus.”
“She is a scientist observing an interesting fungus,” Reid replied.
Christina rolled her eyes.
The medic carefully palpated the wrist.
Christina didn’t flinch.
The medic looked up suspiciously. “Pain level?”
“Four?”
Victor nearly choked. “That is not a four.”
“It’s manageable.”
The medic pressed slightly near the distal radius.
Christina went pale instantly.
“…Okay,” she admitted after a beat. “Maybe six.”
Jeremy crossed his arms. “You’re one of those people who would rate being stabbed as ‘slightly unpleasant,’ aren’t you?”
“I’ve never been stabbed, so I can’t provide accurate data.”
Victor laughed so hard he had to turn away.
Even Reid cracked a reluctant smile despite the tension.
But he stayed close while the medics secured her wrist in a temporary splint.
“You dizzy?” he asked quietly.
“No.”
“Nauseous?”
“A little.”
“That’s from pain.”
“Or from Jere’s commentary.”
“Rude,” Jeremy said.
The medic interrupted gently. “We need imaging.”
Christina sighed like someone had mildly inconvenienced her schedule.
“Fine.”
“You’re taking this way too well,” Victor observed.
She shrugged with her left shoulder. “I’d rather break my wrist in training than during mission operations.”
That shut everyone up for a second.
Because she was right.
That was the thing about Christina: practicality always won.
Still, as they walked with her toward medical, Jeremy leaned closer to Victor and muttered, “I genuinely think she might be indestructible.”
“She’s not,” Reid said quietly from ahead of them.
The three men fell silent.
Because underneath the jokes, underneath Christina’s calm, there was still a sharp jolt of fear sitting in all their chests.
Astronauts trained for contingencies constantly.
But seeing one of their own injured—even moderately—hit differently.
Especially this close to mission timelines.
—
The x-rays confirmed a distal radius fracture.
Clean.
Non-displaced.
Painful as hell.
Christina studied the images with professional curiosity while the orthopedic specialist explained the treatment plan.
“You’ll need immobilization for several weeks.”
“Okay.”
“No strenuous upper-body activity.”
“Okay.”
“No EVA training until cleared.”
That finally made her grimace.
Victor pointed immediately. “There it is.”
“There what is?”
“Actual emotional distress.”
She ignored him.
Jeremy leaned against the wall. “You know what’s terrifying? If this happened to me, I’d be acting like I survived a bear attack.”
“You once requested antibiotics for a paper cut,” Victor reminded him.
“It looked infected.”
“It looked insulting.”
Reid sat beside Christina while the doctor discussed rehab expectations.
“You okay?” he asked quietly again.
She nodded once.
But after a moment she admitted, “I’m annoyed.”
“At yourself?”
“No. At physics.”
That got a laugh out of him.
The cast went from below her elbow to her knuckles, rigid and unforgiving.
Christina stared at it afterward with visible skepticism.
“This seems excessive.”
The doctor blinked. “You broke your wrist.”
“Yes, but did we need this much cast?”
Victor muttered, “This is like listening to someone negotiate with gravity.”
Jeremy snapped a photo once she was cleared to leave medical.
Christina pointed accusingly with her good hand. “Delete that.”
“No.”
“You’re exploiting my suffering.”
“You are sitting upright eating crackers.”
“My suffering is internal.”
—
By evening, the adrenaline had worn off.
That was worse.
Pain settled deep into the bone, throbbing steadily with every heartbeat. Christina sat on the couch in the astronaut crew quarters with an ice pack balanced against the cast while trying unsuccessfully to open a water bottle one-handed.
Victor appeared silently beside her and took it.
“Thanks.”
“You need help?”
“I can do things myself.”
“You’re trying to arm-wrestle a Dasani.”
She narrowed her eyes.
Victor grinned and handed it back.
A few minutes later Jeremy arrived carrying enough takeout for six people.
“I panic-bought noodles,” he announced.
Reid walked in behind him. “He really did. It was impressive.”
“I handle stress through carbohydrates.”
Christina sat up straighter. “That’s medically valid.”
The four of them settled around the small table.
For a while conversation stayed easy. Training schedules. Flight simulations. Jeremy complaining dramatically about Canadian paperwork.
But every now and then someone glanced at Christina’s cast.
Like they still couldn’t quite believe it.
Eventually Victor asked, “How bad does it actually hurt?”
Christina considered.
“Pretty bad.”
Jeremy pointed triumphantly. “HA.”
“But not unbearable.”
Reid gave her a look. “You know your definition of unbearable is concerning, right?”
She smiled faintly. “Probably.”
There was a pause.
Then Jeremy asked carefully, “You scared at all about delays?”
“A little,” she admitted.
Honesty from Christina always landed heavily because she used it sparingly.
Victor leaned back in his chair. “You’ll recover.”
“I know.”
“And even if schedules shift, we adapt.”
“I know.”
Jeremy pointed his chopsticks at her. “You are still absolutely insufferable for wanting to continue the EVA.”
“It was going well.”
“You broke a bone.”
“A minor one.”
Reid laughed under his breath. “Orthopedics everywhere just felt personally offended.”
Christina finally smiled fully.
And just like that, the tension eased.
Because she was still herself.
Still steady.
Still Christina.
—
Bob met her at the door wearing sweatpants and immediate concern.
“Oh no.”
Christina blinked. “That’s your greeting?”
“You have a cast.”
“It’s temporary.”
Bob stared at her wrist in horror like it had personally betrayed him.
“What happened?”
“Training accident.”
“You BROKE it?”
“Technically fractured.”
“That is the same thing!”
She smiled tiredly as he ushered her inside with absurd gentleness.
Bob had always reacted to her injuries like they were catastrophic even when she clearly wasn’t worried. Christina suspected it came from spending years watching her do dangerous things professionally while pretending he was emotionally okay with it.
He helped her sit down carefully.
“Pain meds?”
“They gave me some.”
“Did you take them?”
“…Eventually.”
“Christina.”
“What?”
“You are the only person I know who treats broken bones like administrative paperwork.”
She laughed softly.
That helped him relax a little.
Bob crouched in front of her and carefully touched the edge of the cast.
“Does it hurt right now?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Honestly?”
“Please.”
“Seven.”
His face fell immediately.
Christina reached with her left hand and squeezed his shoulder. “Hey.”
“I hate when you’re hurt.”
“I know.”
“You always act like it’s fine.”
“It is fine.”
“It’s still allowed to suck.”
That made her go quiet.
Because Bob understood something the others sometimes missed: Christina minimized pain not because she was fearless, but because compartmentalization was how she functioned.
If she let herself fully feel every risk of the job, every injury, every danger—
she wouldn’t be able to do it.
Bob stood and disappeared briefly into the kitchen.
He returned with water, medication, and the heating pad she always used after long training days.
“You don’t have to hover,” she said.
“I absolutely do.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“You broke your wrist in astronaut training. I earned dramatic.”
Fair.
She took the meds obediently.
Bob settled beside her on the couch and carefully tucked a blanket around her legs.
“You know,” he said after a moment, “normal couples deal with things like forgotten anniversaries.”
“We’ve had those too.”
“Yes, but ours also include orbital mechanics injuries.”
She snorted.
He kissed the top of her head gently.
Then, quieter:
“Did it scare you?”
Christina leaned back against him.
“…A little.”
“The crew okay?”
“Overreacting appropriately.”
“That means they care.”
“I know.”
Bob smiled faintly. “Did Reid go full commander mode?”
“Immediately.”
“Victor?”
“Concern hidden behind jokes.”
“Jeremy?”
“He told me I value my skeleton incorrectly.”
Bob laughed.
“Accurate.”
—
Later that night, after Christina finally fell asleep on the couch from exhaustion and pain medication, Bob carefully texted the crew group chat.
She’s asleep. Still stubborn. Thanks for looking after her today.
Victor replied first.
Tell her she scared ten years off my life.
Jeremy sent:
I maintain she tried to negotiate with a fracture.
Reid’s response came last.
We’re just glad she’s okay.
Bob stared at that one for a second.
Because underneath all the professionalism, all the training, all the composure—
they loved each other like family.
Maybe not in the traditional sense.
But in the very specific, deeply bonded way that came from trusting people with your life.
—
The next morning, Jeremy absolutely told his family.
Not dramatically.
But immediately.
His wife listened patiently while he explained the accident over video call.
“She’s okay?” she asked.
“Yeah. Broken wrist. Cast. Very calm about the whole thing, which honestly made it worse somehow.”
“Worse?”
“She announced it like she misplaced a coffee mug.”
His wife laughed softly.
Jeremy shook his head. “It just reminded me how quickly stuff happens in this job.”
That was the real reason he’d called.
Not just to share news.
To hear home.
To ground himself again after the sharp reminder that even training could go sideways instantly.
Before hanging up, she smiled and said, “Take care of each other.”
“We do.”
And they did.
—
Victor told his family too.
Mostly because his daughters would eventually hear about it somewhere anyway, and he preferred hearing things from him directly.
“She’s alright,” he reassured them.
“But it’s still scary,” one of them said.
Victor leaned back thoughtfully.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Sometimes it is.”
Not because the injury itself was catastrophic.
But because spaceflight always carried that underlying reality: human beings were fragile.
Even the strongest ones.
Especially the strongest ones, sometimes, because they pushed themselves hardest.
“She’ll recover,” he added.
“You sound protective.”
Victor smiled faintly.
“She’s crew.”
That explained everything.
—
Reid waited the longest to mention it to his family.
Not because he was hiding it.
Because he was thinking.
Leadership complicated things.
Every injury became a thousand quiet calculations in his head:
mission readiness,
crew morale,
schedule shifts,
risk reassessment,
medical evaluations.
But beneath all that technical consideration had been one very simple emotional response when Christina said, I think I broke my wrist.
Fear.
Pure and immediate.
That stayed with him more than he expected.
When he finally talked to his wife that evening, he kept the explanation straightforward.
“She’s okay now.”
“But?”
Reid exhaled slowly.
“It’s strange how fast you remember people aren’t invincible.”
His wife smiled gently. “You never really think your team is.”
“No,” he admitted. “I think maybe I do.”
Because astronauts trained themselves into seeming indestructible.
Competent.
Controlled.
Capable under pressure.
But moments like yesterday stripped all that away in an instant.
One bad angle.
One slip.
One crack of bone underwater.
Human again.
—
Three weeks later, Christina walked back into training wearing a smaller brace instead of a cast.
Jeremy spotted it first.
“Oh good, the cyborg returns.”
“I was never gone.”
Victor eyed the brace. “Medical clear you?”
“Yes.”
“For what level of activity?”
Christina smiled innocently.
“That feels like an evasive answer,” Reid said from behind them.
She looked offended. “I would never evade.”
All three men stared at her.
Jeremy pointed. “You tried to continue EVA operations with a broken wrist.”
“In fairness, I hadn’t seen the x-ray yet.”
Victor laughed.
Reid shook his head slowly, though he was smiling now.
“Good to have you back, Christina.”
Something warm settled briefly across her expression at that.
Good to be back.
And she meant it.
Because this crew—these people—had become part of the rhythm of her life.
The teasing.
The trust.
The relentless training.
The quiet understanding underneath all of it.
They would go to the Moon together soon.
But first they would survive each other’s stubbornness on Earth.
Which, honestly, might have been the harder mission.