Chapter Text
The ship is deathly silent.
What a beautiful irony it is.
Rose has her eyes peeled to the monitor, her pupils blown wide, staring at it as if it contained the answers to her pleas. Nothing changes. The line remains perfectly straight, unmoving, the zeros on the corner staring back at her, glaring, dead.
Still, she looks. She prays, somehow, that she’s wrong, she keeps refreshing it as if it would change anything. It doesn’t. Still a straight line, still those awful zeros, nothing else. No heartbeat, no breath, no life, no body.
Behind her, Wyatt stands like a brick wall. He’s staring right ahead into the void, blinking sporadically, fighting tears he knows want to escape too badly. But he has to stay strong, probably the strongest out of everyone in this ship, because there’s nothing else he can do. He gave the order, despite everything in his heart telling him not to, he still did, and now, he has to live with the consequences. What kind of Commander is he ? What kind of Commander will he become, back on earth, once the news hits ?
The kind who lost a vital part of his crew, the kind who let it happen, the kind who would give everything to take Shane’s place. Yet, becoming a pariah does not seem like the worst of it all, because it won’t bring him back on the ship. It’s all too consuming. He swallows the lump in his throat, letting it hit his stomach like a pile of rock. He has to put on a brave face, or his crew will fall apart.
Next to him, Hayden is crying. He keeps looking at Wyatt with those ugly tears steaming down his face, almost begging for him to take them back, demanding that they turn around and look for Shane. It’s vain. Hayden knows it is, he doesn’t blame Wyatt, not really, he knows that he was faced with the impossible, he knows he acted with all the facts that he had in his disposition. No pulse, no breath, if anyone left the ship to look for him, they would have died with him, more than likely, so it was the fairest decision. Still — Still he hates that decision with everything that he is.
Then there is Svetlana. The control panel has never looked as dull as it does now. She used to love it, she knew it by heart, she knew what every single part of it did — hell, she helped in the conceptualization. It was made for her, it is everything she trained for, everything she dreamed of, she knew she was the best goddamn pilot on god’s green earth. Ares III wouldn’t be where it is now without her, and everyone knows it. But right now, she looks at her panel and she sees nothing. She looks at each button, each light, each of the fucking wires, and she barely recognizes them. It feels as if her heart and her lungs are stuffed in her trachea, choking her. She can barely breathe, but she does. In, out, in, out.
She holds onto the armrest of her seat tightly, trying to subdue the panic to a minimum. She can’t stress, she has a mission to get through and Rose just lost her best friend on the crew, which means that Svetlana has lost her best friend too, because Ilya is nothing without Shane.
Ilya…
Ilya is nowhere to be seen, gone to his cubicle pretty much since the second they got back in the air.
Fuck.
How can everything go so wrong in the span of seconds ? They were making good progress, the mission had been a great success, thumbs up, NASA was so fucking proud. And then, in less than a second, it all went to shit, it fell apart like a pyramid made of cards. One minute, Shane was scoffing at the jokes Ilya made through comm, then…
There had been a storm brewing on Mars, a bad enough dust storm, destructive enough for Wyatt to decide they had to abandon the mission, their habitat on this beautiful, desolate planet wouldn’t be able to withstand the kind of storm coming their way, the decision was easy, natural, the crew had followed suit without a second thought. The line back to Centaur — that’s the ship, had been solid, led first and foremost by Major Svetlana Vetrova, pilot extraordinaire. She’s followed closely by Doctor Rose Landry, their flight surgeon and extravehicular activity specialist. Behind her, Captain Hayden Pike, the system operator and reactor tech, followed by their full time Navigator, Chemist and part time Jester, Doctor Ilya Rozanov, the line continues up to Doctor Shane Hollander, botanist and engineer, most of the time fed up with Ilya, but so incredibly fond of him. Last in the line, as per usual, is the Commander and geologist, Wyatt Hayes. It’s a steady line, they’re clinging to each other as they navigate their way back to the MAV, shielding each other from the wind as it picks up.
Svetlana makes her entry first, minutes before anyone else, secures the way in, making sure the ladder is solid and fixed, she’s able to make it back to her seat, get ready for take off whenever the crew is back on board. The MAV makes an awful noise, shrieking under the wind, but they all know it’s secure, Rose makes her ascent, slowly but surely, when everything goes to shit. Something comes flying out of fucking nowhere, a big rock or a satellite, who the fuck knows, but in the haste, Ilya ducks for it, pulling Hayden with him through the wind, the comms crackles, there’s a loud scream. Then nothing.
And suddenly, Shane isn’t behind Ilya anymore. He goes flying, hit by whatever was flying toward them, disappearing from view into the mad storm roaring. The sand is too thick for them to see anything, Wyatt doesn’t see him disappear.
“What happened ?!” Svetlana shouted through the comm.
“Report !” Wyatt demanded, met with answers from everyone but… “Hollander report !”
Everyone yells, Wyatt is turning around, ready to go back for Shane, but Hayden has half a mind to pull him back as Rose forces all of them back into the ladder, screaming, shoving, calling. They can't stay or it’s a death sentence waiting to happen, they need to be secured back into the ship. Ilya fights it, he’s pulled inside by both Wyatt and Hayden, howling in Russian. Begging for Shane.
“Vitals!” Someone — Wyatt yells out.
“I— I’m not getting a signal! I don’t know—” Rose panics, scrambling to her screens, she tries, again and again, but nothing seems to change.
Ilya tries to make his way to her, he’s yelling, too, crying, staring at the screen, looking so damn murderous that Hayden has to shove him into his seat, blocking him from doing something drastic.
“Rose,” Wyatt says, sharp.
“We have to go!” Svetlana intervenes. The wind is picking up, worse than ever, the MAV is toppling dangerously.
“Rose.”
“I’m not— I'm not getting anything—” She says.
Straight lines. Zeros. Nothing.
Shane is dead.
“Commander,” Svetlana warns wetly.
“No way!” Ilya screams, louder than everyone else, yet it's easy to ignore. They know, they all do.
“I need a verbal confirmation, Commander,”
“Launch.” Wyatt commands, choked.
They shoot off into the sky.
Next to Ilya, an empty seat.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
“At around 6:15 A.M. Central Standard Time, our satellites detected a storm approaching the Ares III mission site on Mars. At 8:30 A.M., the storm had escalated to severe and we had no choice but to abort the mission. Thanks to the quick action of Commander Hayes, astronauts Vetrova, Landry, Rozanov and Pike were all able to reach the Mars Ascent Vehicle, and perform an emergency launch at 9:14 A.M. Central Time. Unfortunately, during the evacuation, astronaut Shane Hollander was struck by debris and killed. Commander Hayes and the rest of his team were able to intercept safely with the Centaur and are now heading home but Shane Hollander is dead. I would like to offer, publicly, my sincerest condolences to Shane Hollander’s family.” Brandon Wiebe, Director of NASA, announces that afternoon.
The crowd of journalists in front of him goes wild with questions.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
A beat.
The loud, strident beep resonating in his ears in a continuous singled out noise, thrumming deep in his chest. And dear, god, the pain. Throbbing, every single one of his bones rattling in his body, his lungs inflamed, his brain more than likely scrambled to pieces.
“Fuck” Shane cries. He’s half buried in the red dirt and the rocks, his head lolling in his helmet, the alarms still glaring in his ears.
Oxygen Levels, Critical, it chants, over and over, the automated voice irritating him to his very core.
He assesses the damages, as much as he possibly can in the position he’s currently in. His arms work, his legs work, his head works… kind of, his torso… Fuck.
He pats himself, managing to sit upright just enough to look down, when he sees it. Impaled in his abdomen is a metal rod, probably from a communication antenna. It feels warm all over, but if Shane had to guess, it's probably the only thing keeping him alive at the moment, keeping his suit shut just enough for him to not implode on himself. Ironic, he thinks.
His limbs feel like cotton, barely working as he holds himself sat, looking around him. Nothing. Dirt, miles and miles of dirt, debris, here and there, and the Hab, settled just far enough away for Shane to groan loudly. The alarm keeps on going, waiting for him to act, not caring about the fact that there is currently a metal rod peaking out of Shane’s chest, where it definitely shouldn’t be. He has to stand up.
It’s a battle in and of itself, he cries, swallowing down bile as he gets on his knees, and finally manages to stand up, taking a deep painful breath, his lungs filling up with the artificial oxygen provided by his suit.
Oxygen Levels, Critical. It persists, and fuck, Shane knows. Give him a second.
He chokes, panting heavily as he operates forward, each step having his heart hissing right against his ribs, ushered. He sobs, pauses just to fucking breathe, and keep on going, relieved when the Hab just keeps on getting closer and closer. His head swims, he’s sweaty, every single part of his body is telling him to just rest, but he walks, and walks. He takes it in stride, one step after another, one painful somersault after another.
He does not even feel relieved once he arrives at the Hab.
He stumbles inside, coughing, ripping at his gears, pulling his fucking helmet off, taking a long gulp of actual oxygen. It has never tasted better. His torso screams at him, heaving, he takes his suits off as fast and messily as he can possibly do in this current headspace, holding onto the nearest worktable.
Shane curses, digging into the boxes, thank god for Rose Landry and her ability to take way too much surgical material for a mission, even after NASA themselves tried to tell her it wouldn’t be necessary. She had fought tooth and nail for it, and now Shane was almost swimming in it.
Thank god for Rose Landry.
Fuck. Rose. Hayden. Svetlana. Wyatt.
Ilya.
Oh.
Shane is fucked.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
[VIDEO TRANSCRIPTION - HAB. SOL 6.]
(Shane looks worse for wear, sweaty and flushed all over, there’s a bandage around his torso and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, he looks stricken.)
Sol Six. Fuck. Oh my god. I don’t know what the fuck happened, today. Or was it yesterday ? I don’t…
*cut*
Well. I’m fucked. There was a storm, we knew about it, we had time to plan, or so we thought, but then it just decided to hit us square in the face, so here I am. Stuck on Mars… And the crew is gone… (He pauses, passes a hand in his hair) Don’t get me wrong, I'm glad that they’re gone, they had to. I know it’s not their fault, my bio-monitor broke on impact, so Rose had every reason to believe that I was dead. Wyatt made the right call by making them leave…
(There is a heavy pause. Shane is on the screen, his eyes shut close, he sighs before looking back at the camera.)
I was hit by something, our main communication dish, which relayed the Centaur to the Hab was torn out during the storm, slammed into a fucking reception antenna, which then proceeded to act like a damn bullet so when I woke up, I had a freaking antenna stuck in my chest, and that was unpleasant, to say the least. I had to perform emergency surgery on myself, which was… Something. I definitely don’t recommend having to staple yourself in the fucking gut. I lost quite a lot of blood, I think, and I'm pretty sure I have a concussion, but I'm stable at the moment. We have antibiotics so I probably won't have to worry about an infection. I think. Thank god for Rose Landry for making sure we all knew how to treat wounds, right ?
(He chuckles dully, pinching his nose looking around himself, despair now clear on his face)
Still, not very pleased. Not at me or the crew, god no. I will never be mad at them, they did exactly what they had to do, the training paid off, NASA should be proud, right ?… No. I’m not pleased with Mars, which is funny because I spent my whole life dreaming of getting here and… well, now, I will probably spend the rest of my life stuck here, so… Yay.
(He sighs, shaking his head.)
I have no way of contacting NASA. And if I could, it’ll be… Four years before a manned mission could reach me. The Hab was made to sustain me for at least Thirty-One days… Except if the oxygenator breaks, then I'll suffocate. If the water reclaimer breaks, I could die of thirst. Or the Hab could breach and I'll just… Implode. None of those scenarios sounds fun, I’m not usually such a pessimist, I think I get that from Sveta. Svetlana Vetrova. Anyways. Even then, I could still run out of food and starve… But hey, I’m alive, surprise!… And no one knows. Fuck.
[END OF VIDEO TRANSCRIPTION.]
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
Shane Hollander has always wanted to be an astronaut. Most kids do, at some point in their lives. But Shane remembers being six, when his parents had bought him a telescope for his birthday, and he’d spent hours upon hours just staring at the stars, mapping space to the best of his ability. By age seven, he was well informed on every single constellation, talking earnestly about them to whoever wanted to hear. So, when most kids stopped dreaming of space, for Shane it just… Hadn't. The dream stayed, stuck in his throat as he navigated through the ups and downs of adolescence, finding himself in high school, a closeted kid with too many ambitions, playing hockey mostly to please his parents, getting good grades to please his teachers.
He liked hockey, of course he did, he was born and raised in Canada, he knew how to skate before he even knew how to walk, he had a stick in his hand when it wasn't for his telescope and his maps. He played well, all the way through high school, made it Captain by his senior year and would've gotten all the scholarships he would desire. By the time he had started college, he had decided to put hockey on hold. He’d come back to it, eventually, maybe, but college was rough and long and he couldn’t afford to fail. He was proud of the road he’d ended up taking, studying Engineering and Botany in an all-consummate double major that he got out of by praying to whatever entity would listen to his plea.
He'd managed, though. All the way up until now, at the very least, he had managed to make a name for himself, to become the person he dreamed to be when he was six years old.
And now… Well, now he wasn't so sure of what he would become. What did Shane have ? What even were his options ?
Night comes too fast. Shane cries maybe six more times, his wound grossly patched up and bandaged as he stares at his computer for what seems like forever, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy. He glares at the screen as if it held the secret to the universe, digging through it for something, anything, really, to grasp at.
Fuck.
He stands abruptly, hands dug into his hair as he paces through the room. Back and forth, the steady movement acting like a lullaby. What the hell was he supposed to do ?
Before he realizes it, he ends up in the dormitory. The room is all too familiar, definitely lived in from days of the crew making it theirs. Rose and Hayden had attached pictures all over. The crew, most times, all gathered together on earth or in space, huddled close as they smiled so wide that it hurt Shane’s jaw just thinking about it. There are pictures of Hayden’s family, his three kids, sitting around a table, holding a “We miss you, Daddy!” sign while Jackie, his wife, holds their newborn baby girl in her arms. Some pictures of Rose and her brothers, all dressed up a little too well for her getaway party, her parents holding two huge overly decorated cakes, just the way she seems to love them. Wyatt and his wife, Lisa’s little sister sitting beside them, waving, holding a baby, then another picture of all six of his nieces and nephews. Svetlana and her dad for what seems to be her graduation, right next to another in which they're holding the Stanley Cup. Shane and his parents, pressed together in front of his childhood home, smiling so wide.
Shane gets to Ilya’s cubicle, swallowing. While there are many photos in everyone else’s cubicles, mostly of their families, Ilya only has two. One is a black and white crumpled up picture of his mom holding a miniature version of Ilya so delicately in her arms. The other was taken just a few months ago, a simple Polaroid picture of Ilya with Shane, embracing and posing for the picture. His mom took that picture while they were both deep into training for Ares III, but Ilya had stolen it before Shane could see it, slipping it into his pocket with a devious grin. Shane had only rolled his eyes, back then, only ever trying to hide his clear fondness for that man.
Ilya. God.
With a tired smile, Shane takes the picture carefully off the wall, pressing it into his palm, his thumb caressing Ilya's smiley face ever so gently.
Fuck. He needs… He needs a game plan. He needs to know what he has to do next. He needs to know if he has a chance, even the slightest, to survive.
“I can’t die,” he concludes.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.