Chapter Text
107 Days Until Launch
You noticed a lot of things. You had always been a highly observant individual, and the first thing you noticed about Project Hail Mary was the secrecy.
For a mission supposedly designed to “save humanity,” the people running it seemed remarkably committed to telling humanity absolutely nothing.
Six months ago, the President of the United States had appeared on every television, phone, tablet, and laptop screen in the world and announced that the Sun was dying, and that Earth had roughly thirty years left before things became catastrophic. Ever since then, every well-known scientist on the planet had become a micro-celebrity. People held onto their uncertain words and hoped by some miracle that this was all just a dream.
Every news station had become a twenty-four-hour apocalypse-style channel, and every lunch break you took was spent hunched over your laptop, obsessively reading every article, leaked document, and wild conspiracy theory you could find.
Not because you were worried, obviously.
Well, you were worried.
Just not publicly.
“You’re seriously still reading those Hail Mary articles?”
You looked up from your screen.
Your co-worker Brandon stood in the doorway of the break room holding a clipboard. He looked exhausted in the way everyone in the emergency department looked exhausted, but somehow Brandon always managed to wear his exhaustion like it was a fashion statement. Dark circles under his eyes, coffee stains on his scrubs, yet his smug grin remained firmly intact.
You considered throwing your unopened sandwich at him.
Instead, you raised an eyebrow.
“What gave it away? The forty-seven tabs?”
Brandon stepped closer and peered down at your screen.
“Closer to sixty.”
You glanced at the top of your browser.
“…Okay, fair.”
Brandon made his way back to the doorframe.
“Elliot told me to tell you to check your emails.”
You frowned. Elliot never asked anyone to check their emails.
“Why?”
“No idea.” He shrugged.
“You are so helpful.”
“I try.” He looked down at his clipboard.
“Anyway, your break’s over. Male, thirty-four, seizure at work. Witnesses say it lasted about two minutes. No history.”
You immediately closed your laptop.
The sandwich was forgotten.
“So people saw him seize?”
“Yep.”
“How are his vitals?”
“Stable now. Postictal when he arrived. Confused, but he said his migraine is gradually improving.”
You were already standing.
Together, you stepped back into the organized chaos of the emergency department. Monitors beeped, phones rang, someone somewhere was arguing loudly with a nurse.
A normal Tuesday. Or Wednesday?
“Bed seven?” you asked.
Brandon nodded.
“I’ve got Julia giving him IV paracetamol for the migraine.”
“Good.”
As you walked, you rubbed hand sanitizer across your palms.
“Why didn’t you take this one yourself?”
Brandon gave you a look.
“Because you’re the best doctor in this department when somebody’s brain starts doing weird things.”
You rolled your eyes. “I’m an ER physician, not a neurologist.”
“Okay, yeah, but you’re also the person who spots things neurologists miss.”
“That happened once.”
“Twice.”
Your nose twitched. You weren’t particularly fond of compliments.
“Once and a half.”
Brandon ignored you.
“The neurology team is still upstairs with the highway incident anyway.”
“Still?”
You received a curt nod in response. You winced. That collision had arrived nearly three hours earlier. Things mustn’t have been looking good.
Brandon pointed toward another section of the ward.
“I’m checking on bed four.”
“The kidney stone guy?”
“Yep, him.”
“How’s he doing?”
“He informed me twenty minutes ago that he would rather experience a fight with a bear.”
You nodded thoughtfully.
“That’s reasonable.”
“Right? Entirely reasonable.”
Brandon started walking backwards toward bed four.
“Anyway, have fun.”
“You’re abandoning me?” you called, as you both began heading in opposite directions.
“Correct. Nurse duty is calling.”
He grabbed the handles of the nearest medical trolley and began wheeling it in his direction. “Ciao!”
“Piss off,” you called back, hiding a smile.
His laughter disappeared into the noise of the department.
You pushed through the curtain surrounding bed seven.
“Good afternoon! My name is Dr. Y/L/N…”
The next two hours disappeared.
You sent the patient in bed seven downstairs for a CT scan and wrote a thorough report for the neurologists to have when they returned from upstairs with the victims of the collision. You lost count of how many times a nurse approached you to ask for your opinion, and you confirmed with absolute certainty that you were going to hear the constant chimes of the IV pumps in your sleep.
That was the thing about the emergency room.
Time wasn’t real.
A ten-minute consultation became forty minutes. A quick chart review became an hour. A shift ending at seven somehow became leaving at nine-thirty.
When you finally stumbled through the front door of your apartment at half past ten that night, you felt like you’d been hit by a bus.
The apartment greeted you with silence, just like always. No partner, no children, no pets. Not even a goldfish.
Just darkness and the faint hum of the refrigerator.
You kicked off your shoes, and they landed somewhere near the wall. Close enough. Your hospital bag slipped from your shoulder and collapsed onto the couch.
The couch that still didn’t have pillows. You’d been meaning to buy pillows for eight months. One day you would, preferably before the Sun died.
You headed straight for the fridge and opened the door, watching the light flicker on. Its contents could generously be described as tragic. Depressing, even.
Two eggs, a bottle of ketchup, and a block of cheese. You scratched your head and sighed.
“Right.”
You turned around and kicked the door closed.
Ten minutes later, you sat cross-legged on the couch wearing an oversized T-shirt, eating microwaved mac and cheese straight from the pot you cooked it in, while your laptop balanced precariously on one knee.
The mac and cheese tasted exactly how you imagined recycled cardboard would taste if someone added plastic cheese.
Still, it was better than hospital coffee. Kind of.
Most people unwound after work.
You checked your emails. “God, I need to get out more,” you muttered.
You focused on your inbox as it loaded. Scanning through, you noticed the usual crap. Shift change requests, scheduling updates, training reminders, an email chain that somehow contained twenty-three replies despite nobody having anything useful to say.
And, naturally, rainbow reaction emojis from Brandon.
You smiled and scrolled past it immediately.
Then you noticed a message near the top of your inbox, and the sender made you pause.
FROM: Dr. Elliot Hayes (Head of Emergency Medicine)
SUBJECT: Recruitment Opportunity.
“Ah.” Brandon had mentioned this email to you earlier and it had completely slipped your mind.
The interesting thing about Elliot was that he didn’t send emails unless he absolutely had to, that man treated unnecessary communication like a personal insult.
Curious, you opened it.
"Okaay?" The message contained only a few words, yet you read them hungrily.
Dr. Y/L/N,
Review the attached listing and tell me if you’re interested.
You scrolled down on the email with your mousepad. When you found the link, you wasted no time clicking on it. Several loading screens later, you found yourself staring at a page you’d never seen before, a page with exactly one listing. At the top, in bold black letters, were three words.
EMERGENCY PHYSICIANS NEEDED.
You blinked. "Hm."
Then you sat up a little straighter, and just when you did, two more items loaded onto the page. An application form and an email address.
"What is phm-" You scoffed, picking back up her mac and cheese. A beat passed and then- wait.
"Oh."