Chapter Text
Mark Watney
I never really believed I’d survive long enough to be rescued. Not until the end, when the Ares IV MAV was in sight, and I finally dared to hope.
So of course, I did not think about what it might feel like to be rescued. But if I had, I might have imagined feeling ecstatic. Relieved.
Safe.
But I’m being rescued right now, and all I feel is dizzy.
“Watney, you OK?” Beck says, fuzzy in my comms.
My brain sends a message to my body to respond but all that happens is my eyelids sag. The world spins around me.
“Watney, respond!”
I force air out of my lungs in the sound of a grunt. Sharp pain lances through my side. I grit my teeth in response.
"We need to get him to the sick bay now," Beck says, panicked.
He’s frightened, I think numbly. For me.
“Everyone,” Lewis commands, “Remain at your stations until I give the all-clear. Beck, take Watney to the sick bay.” A chorus of “Yes ma’am’s” responds to her. He’s not the only one.
Without waiting for my consent, Beck pulls me to the sick bay, where we float and wait for re-pressurization to complete.
“I set our comms so it’s just the two of us broadcasting to each other,” Beck says. “It is so good to fucking see you. So fucking good. How are you doing, huh?” He asks firmly. “Underneath that suit?”
I think of my bruises. My dirty teeth. My bones, jutting out of my sides. My matted hair and beard, sloppily cut off hours before launch, when I remembered I’m possibly seeing people again.
I do not think of what it was like to feel the scream building in my throat as I climbed the dune I woke up on, hearing no reply on the radio. What it was like to walk over my frozen potato plants, feeling them crunch beneath my EVA suit. What it was like to cower beneath a sandstorm, listening to mission-scrub-intensity wind gusting against the Hab.
I do not think of the ache in my chest. Of what it feels like to curl up on the floor and starve.
“Mark, respond!” Beck says, on the edge of losing it. “Talk to me!”
I don’t want Beck to lose it. He does not need to lose it. I’m here. I’m fine.
Right?
I dig in and find the willpower to respond.
“’M fine,” I mumble vacantly.
"Mark, stay with me," he orders. "I need a status report."
Stay with Beck. Of course. Where else would I go?
Oh, I realize numbly, I would pass out and never wake up again.
Part of me thinks that sounds pretty nice right about now.
Status report. What is my status?
Not dead.
I draw a jagged, painful breath.
“Not so bad.” I mumble. “You know, all things considered.”
Beck heaves an audible sigh of relief.
“You’re alive,” he says flatly. “And verbal. And ambulatory. You’re a miracle, Watney. You know, all things considered.”
I think of hallucinations on the horizon. Of throwing metal dishes at the wall of the Hab, part of me hoping one would pierce the side and kill me. You don’t know everything, Beck.
I decide in one split second that I do not want Beck to know how fucked up I am. Was. Or the rest of the crew. Or Houston. Or my doctors back home. Or, indeed, anyone, anywhere, in the entire goddamn universe.
If there’s anything surviving Mars taught me, it’s how to pull it together. So I grit my teeth against the dark, piercing, twisting sensation in my heart stabbing through me like a knife, and pull it together.
“My mom didn’t think that when I was seven and shattering her ceramic holiday dishes,” I say.
Beck laughs, a sound full of joy.
“I bet you could do that again when you turn fifty and she wouldn’t even complain.”
“So they’re still alive, then?” I ask casually. “My parents?”
“Yes,” Beck says quickly. “Yes, your parents are doing fine, Watney. Probably throwing a party as we speak.”
A rush of relief slackens my shoulders. “Good,” I say again, still casually. “Buzz?”
“I admit, I don’t know about your dog,” Beck says. “I haven’t heard anything.”
A wave of relief washes over me. No news is good news. “Sounds like everything is same-old same-old,” I say.
“For the rest of us, pretty much. There is something huge going on in the news, though. United the entire planet.”
Of course I missed something! “What?!”
“That astronaut who was stranded on Mars was rescued today.”
I blink.
“You know, the one who’s been in the news every day for nearly two years now?”
“Oh,” I say faintly.
“Yeah,” Beck says. “You’re famous, dude. But famous or not, I need a status report. A real one.”
The re-pressurization chime dings. Beck begins doffing his space-suit.
Everything that happened between Sol 6 and now rushes torrentially through my mind, shock and grief and despair and loneliness and starvation and desperation and hallucinations and oh god, make it stop —
I can’t say how I’m actually doing. I cannot.
Although, I suppose they aren’t expecting me to feel like a spring chicken.
“I feel like shit. Is that a status?”
“What hurts?”
“Everywhere,” I say. “Anywhere. I don’t know. Poke me and find out.” That much is not a lie.
Right on cue, Beck finishes doffing his and doffs mine.
I see Beck working heroically to keep a straight face as he takes my suit off. His nose wrinkles, but he otherwise doesn’t react to what I suddenly realize is a very bad smell. Shame trickles down my shoulders and pools in my stomach.
The feeling knocks me on my ass. I haven’t felt shame since I was fourteen years old and embarrassed myself at a talent show. The talent show was a bust, but it taught me a valuable lesson; you can’t feel shame if you don’t care what others think.
Except there are apparently some limits, because I care very much what Beck thinks right now.
The joke I would have made dies on the way to my mouth.
Beck is ready with a world-class bedside manner. His face is inscrutable as he takes my suit off, one piece after another. Common sense tells me he should be grief-stricken and horrified, but he’s looking over my broken body with no more interest than one would a day-old newspaper.
I’m thankful he’s not getting emotional. If Beck got emotional, I’d break down. It was one thing for me to break down alone, on Mars, where my life was the only one in danger. Breaking down with the crew would be a disaster.
Except a small part of me in the back of my mind would like him to get emotional, actually, because then I could finally let myself feel—
I push those thoughts out of my mind so quickly I barely register I had them.
After cutting my clothes away, Beck pulls out a tablet and takes some notes, handing me a small cotton medical gown.
Nothing more fun than floating, bruised and covered in human feces, in front of a doctor while he stares at you and takes notes.
I look down at the floor, studiously ignoring the sight of my body in my peripheral vision.
“I can’t clear you for a shower yet,” Beck says, voice flat. “There are a number of problems you could have that would make showering dangerous.”
“I understand,” I respond. Of all the indignities I’ve suffered on this mission, this seems one of the more insignificant.
Beck’s eyes find my antenna scar and get stuck.
My heart starts to pound.
“Scarred like a motherfucker,” I tell him, “But it healed up fine.”
Beck reaches a gloved hand out to touch. His inspection is nothing but professional, but I can only imagine he’s struggling to contain his emotions. Well, that makes two of us.
Finding nothing that medically concerns him, Beck straps me to a table and starts poking and prodding me. Literally. On a spaceship with no gravity and limited equipment, physical examination is the best way for him to make sure all my bones are where they’re supposed to be.
As he does so, my vision blurs again. I would love to pass out right here and skip this entire medical examination, thank you, but it doesn’t quite happen.
When Beck’s fingers pass over somewhere that hurts, I grit my teeth and hiss.
“Are you okay?” He asks.
“Fine,” I say shortly.
Beck glances at me out of the corner of his eye.
We’re both thinking the same thing: me being heroic isn’t like me.
During training, when Beck asked us how we were doing, I was quick to complain. A doctor can’t treat you adequately if he doesn’t know all your symptoms, I always said. There’s no shame in complying with a medical exam. In fact, if you ask me, what’s shameful is hiding an injury, not getting adequate treatment, and then causing a bigger problem later for your entire crew. It’s a no-shit decision.
But right now, the last thing I want anyone to know is how badly I’m hurt.
“Watney, I need you to be honest with me,” Beck says slowly. “If I miss something during this exam, you could die.”
A wave of vertigo washes over me. My vision spins.
I don’t want to have gone through all that just to die now.
My response is quiet. “It hurts.”
“Where? Out of ten.”
“Everywhere,” I whisper. “My ribs. Back. Side. Legs. Large muscles. Nine right now. It’s been higher. Like fucking fifteen.”
Beck’s professional mask slips. His eyes shine with grief. “Mark —“
My chest feels like it’s being crushed. My breath catches. Tears pool in the corner of my eyes.
Too much. I cannot do this, I cannot —
I turn toward the wall. “Just keep me alive,” I say roughly.
A beat passes.
“Okay,” he whispers.
He takes a deep breath.
Another beat passes.
He slowly, gently presses his gloved fingers along my ribs.
I turn back to him, and his expression is carefully neutral.
“These two ribs are broken,” he says tonelessly. “Nothing to do about those but wait for them to heal. Your back?”
“Yes.”
“When did this start?”
“First two weeks. Hauling dirt. Got worse every time I did manual labor.”
Beck nods. He pokes and prods, ignoring me hissing through my teeth and maintaining a positively robotic expression.
I’m not an idiot. He’s clearly repressing intense emotions right now. I don’t like putting him in that position, but if he so much as sheds a single tear I might start screaming and never stop.
“Well, I’ve ruled out everything I can rule out with my fingertips and a portable x-ray. I think you have a herniated disk, but there’s no way to be sure. The only treatment available on board is painkillers and bed rest. What else hurts?”
“My side. The antenna scar pulls uncomfortably on the inside, like there’s a string tied inside me. Made it hard for me to lift stuff. I pushed through, but now I feel a sharp pain all the time.”
Beck presses his lips together. “Scar tissue. Surgery can repair this on Earth, but for now you’ll have to live with it. What else?”
“All my large muscles hurt. I’m guessing that’s from starvation, right? So now that I’ll be getting regular meals, that should ease up.”
Beck turns a shade whiter, but says nothing. He’s a doctor, after all. He must have learned about how bad starvation hurts.
By the time I understood how badly it would hurt, it was already too late.
“And also, like, my wrists and my ankles and my spine and my teeth. All my bones and joints, really.”
I can see Beck’s composure slipping.
“See, this is why I didn’t mention it. This will all get better now that I have food to eat, right?” I say, growing angry. I don’t want him to feel guilty. I don’t want to think about how anyone feels at all. I don’t want to think about any of this ever again. “So can we get this over with?”
“Yes,” Beck says. He pokes and prods in a dozen more places as fast as he can without compromising the exam. He takes my vitals two more times. By the end of it all, he looks like he’s not nearly happy enough with the results of his exam but cannot justify holding me down and prodding me any longer.
“I declare it safe for you to shower,” Beck says neutrally. “Please enjoy all forty minutes of today’s shower time should you so desire.”
“Oh, I do desire,” I say eagerly, putting on the soiled spacesuit lining for the last time.
Over the next week or so, the strength slowly starts to return to my muscles, a tingle here, a flex there. For the first time in a long time, I’m not getting weaker, I’m getting stronger. The sensation of healing, even if it’s minuscule, is an amazing change of pace.
Every other day, Beck grudgingly allows me to venture out to the Rec. It's a victory each time, a concession wrestled out of his overbearing concern for my health. His displeasure is clear on his face, but too bad, Beck. I've had my fill of being cooped up in tiny NASA spaces as if my life depends on it.
One day, Lewis joins me during one of Beck's twice-daily checkups in the sick bay. It’s a small space, harsh with overhead lighting, the corners stacked with supply crates. As Beck takes my vitals, she observes quietly, her fingers tapping on the edge of the medical table. She wears a look of reserved optimism as she studies the results.
"You're making progress, Watney," she says once Beck's done. There's something almost fierce in the way she says it, like she's daring the universe to disagree.
"Yeah, I'm aware," I retort, rolling my eyes at her needless update. My body's the one reminding me of the progress every waking second, after all. "I don't need a cheerleader for my checkups, Lewis."
She chuckles lightly, leaning against the wall. "Just keeping an eye on my crew," she replies, the corners of her lips twitching upwards.
Beck finishes up, running his gloved fingers across my newly healing abrasions one last time, a look of satisfaction on his face. "Keep up the good work, Watney. Your body's healing well."
"Your body may be healing well, but how about the rest of you?" Lewis's question cuts through the air.
Oh great, a question about my mental health. I was wondering when those would start.
"I'm fine, Lewis," I say, irritation creeping into my voice.
She winces at my tone. "Mark,” she starts, her voice softer now, “We’re not only worried about your physical condition. You've been through a lot."
I cross my arms over my chest, feeling cornered. "Is this where we cue the violins and hold hands?" I ask scathingly.
This emotional state is so foreign to me. I wasn’t angry and unapproachable before this disaster of a mission. I would have never made such a cutting remark before.
Beck steps forward. “Mark, this isn't a joke," he says, his gaze meeting mine. "We're talking about your mental health.”
“Mental health?” I laugh bitterly. “Up until a few weeks ago, I wasn't sure I'd even be alive to have this little chat. So please, spare me.”
They exchange glances, the silence in the room growing tense.
It’s not unreasonable for them to take an interest in my mental health. It doesn’t take a genius to know what they just rescued me from was a traumatic experience. But I hate feeling like an equation they need to balance. I don’t need their probing questions right now.
I take a deep breath, mustering all the limited patience I have.
"Listen, I appreciate the concern," I say finally, breaking the silence. "But all I need is some time. I promise."
"And you'll have it, Watney," Lewis assures, her voice firm yet gentle. "Just know we're here for you. Whenever you're ready."
"Ready for what? Therapy?” I grumble, but there's no heat behind my words.
"Well, we were thinking more along the lines of a movie night," Beck quips, the smile returning to his face.
"Only if we watch old Marvel movies,” I say.
"Old Marvel movies?" Lewis chuckles, folding her arms. "Of all things you could ask for, Watney, you go for superhero flicks."
"Hey, they're classics," I protest, fighting back a smile.
Beck snorts, shaking his head. "Only you, Watney. Only you would bring space superhero movies to space.”
“Of course I brought space superhero movies to space!” I exclaim. “There’s nothing cooler than watching space movies in space. Plus, it would be pretty great to have superpowers right now. I could use some spider-man healing factor.”
Lewis's lips twitch. "I'll flag it with NASA. 'Super soldier serum: priority one.'" She says it deadpan, but her eyes are warm. "Though knowing their budget timeline, you'll be back to marathon running before they finish the feasibility study."
"You do that, Lewis," I grin, propping myself up a little straighter on the medical table. "And in the meantime, I'll continue my very exciting duties of… laying around and sleeping a lot.”
"Well," Beck cuts in, his professional demeanor returning as he gathers his medical tools, “As long as you're improving, Watney. That's what matters."
"And I am," I assure him, meeting his gaze head-on. "Really, I am."
Physically, at least.
Mentally? We’ll see.
"Alright, team, let's get this show on the road!" Martinez announces, hovering over the 45” crew display monitor in the Rec. This monitor is meant to display Hermes ship status readouts and mission-critical information during meetings, but Ares II figured out how to hijack it. At the urging of the psych team, NASA signed off on repurposing it one night a week, giving us a great big display upon which to watch our media.
The room is filled with soft chatter and the rustling of rehydrated snack packets as everyone settles down for our makeshift movie night.
Lewis is the first to sit, watching Martinez with an amused glint in her eye. "Amazing. A flight engineer who struggles with a monitor. Didn't see that one coming."
Martinez shoots a look at Lewis. "In my defense, Lewis, we usually deal with a little more specialized equipment."
Johanssen laughs—a bright, genuine sound—and nudges Martinez aside with her hip. "Move over, flyboy. Watch and learn." She taps at the display, humming softly under her breath, and in less than a minute we're ready to go. "All set," she says, settling back down and tucking her feet up under her on the seat.
Vogel glances up from his tablet. "Martinez, this is a user interface. It is designed for users."
"Oh, you're all comedians now," Martinez says, rolling his eyes, grinning as he plops down on a seat next to Johanssen.
Beside me, Beck is strangely silent, watching the playful banter unfold with a thoughtful expression.
When he catches me looking at him, he gives me a small smile. "This is nice," he says quietly to me, gesturing towards everyone. "Having everyone here, together. It's been a while."
I swallow thickly. "Yeah," I agree, my voice barely above a whisper.
As Johanssen presses play, the room falls silent, the movie filling the common area with the familiar sounds of the Marvel universe. God, I missed Marvel.
Halfway through the movie, Martinez turns to me, an empty snack packet in hand. "Hey, Watney, pass the shitty NASA chips?”
I laugh, grabbing the requested snack from a nearby can. "Always mooching off my stash, Martinez."
A ripple of laughter moves through the room, a comforting sound that soothes the jagged edges of my psyche.
For the first time in years, years and years and years, I’m not Mark Watney the stranded Astronaut or Dr. Mark Watney the Ares III astronaut. I’m just Mark, watching one of my favorite movies with my friends. My eyes well with tears.
It's been three weeks they rescued me now, and life has fallen into a predictable routine. The thrill of my miraculous rescue has faded some, replaced by the grim reality of my injuries and the long road to recovery.
My crew mates have been incredibly supportive, treating me with a mix of friendly banter and cautious concern, which I appreciate. Martinez and Johanssen, in particular, are always there with a joke or a story to lighten the mood, their efforts to distract me from my thoughts both obvious and endearing.
But despite their best attempts, the isolation of my bunk room weighs heavily on me, the four walls often feeling like a prison from which there's no escape. There's only so much rest and recuperation one can take before confinement begins to gnaw at the edges of one’s sanity.
That's why, one day, sitting in the Rec with Martinez and Johanssen, I decide to broach the subject of returning to work.
"I think it's time for me to get back to the lab. I'm feeling a lot better, and I've been missing my work,” I say jovially.
Martinez grins, clapping me on the shoulder. "That's the spirit! Can't keep a good botanist down."
Johanssen nods in agreement. "We could definitely use your expertise around here. I’m sure your plants have been feeling neglected.”
Lewis overhears their conversation and joins them. "I think it's a good idea. As long as Beck gives you the green light, you can start spending some time in your lab. But take it slow, okay?"
I nod, grateful for their support. "Thanks, guys. I promise I'll take it easy. Mind if I go take a look now?”
“If you’re up to it,” Lewis says. “You know where we’ll be.”
With a light pat on my back from Martinez and a smile from Johanssen, I turn and make my way towards the lab.
The trek from the Rec to the lab area feels much longer than it used to. By the time I’m in the laboratory wing, only a few dozen meters and two ladders away, my lungs are burning.
As I approach the botany lab, the scent of damp earth and vegetation wafts over me.
It smells like a garden.
It smells like home.
The feeling of longing hits my chest like a semi.
God, I miss home.
I didn’t let myself feel this longing on Mars because it made me feel sentimental and emotional, which made me ineffective, and ineffectiveness would have gotten me killed. But I wish I was home, god damnit, I wish I was on Earth, I wish it so fucking much —
For a moment, I want to tell the crew how I feel — I don’t have to crush this feeling down because the crew knows what this feels like too — when I suddenly remember I’m the reason none of us are on Earth.
They’d all be on Earth right now if I’d just died when I should have.
My breath catches in my throat.
My hands shake as I clutch the frame of the door, knuckles white.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to the empty corridor, words barely a breath.
I should have died. They shouldn't have had to turn around. They shouldn't be stuck with me.
A sense of despair washes over me. I lean heavily against the door frame. My vision blurs.
I force myself to take deep, shuddering breaths. I can't fall apart now, standing here in the hallway for everyone to see.
"Hey, Watney," I hear behind me.
I turn to see Martinez standing there, concern etched on his face. "You okay?"
I blink, trying to focus on him. I attempt a smile, but it feels hollow. "Yeah," I say, a lump forming in my throat.
I want to tell him. I want to apologize for the burden I've become. But the words get stuck. I can’t apologize to him. I can’t become even more of a burden.
So I nod, swallow hard, and step into my lab.
Martinez follows me inside, his gaze lingering on me for a moment before he shifts the topic. "You know, while you were gone, we started a couple of experiments of our own in here. Nothing major, just trying to keep your green babies alive." His face breaks into a wide grin, and he launches into a detailed, albeit embellished, account of their horticultural adventures. "Let's just say, we've gained a whole new appreciation for what you do here. Johanssen almost turned the lettuce into an algae experiment."
His story, filled with exaggerated mishaps and close calls, does what it's intended to do. The weight on my chest lightens, just a bit, as laughter bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me. "I can't believe I missed that."
"Yeah, well, it wasn't the same without our resident plant whisperer. The place was too... orderly," he jokes, glancing around at the meticulously arranged lab. Martinez claps me on the back. “Anyway, glad you're back, man. This place needs you. And not just for the plants."
His words, simple and sincere, reach something in me.
"Thanks, Martinez," I say sincerely. "Let's see if I can't teach you a thing or two about not turning lettuce into algae."
After about a week of watching movies in the evening, Martinez suggests we do something different.
“We’ve been watching Marvel movies for a few days,” Martinez says. “Do you maybe want to play a game? We still have a deck of cards and Cards Against Humanity from the trip out here. We also have Monopoly?”
“Yeah,” Johanssen says passionately. “We do have Monopoly! I love Monopoly.”
I remember this about her. She always wanted to play Monopoly in the evenings on the trip out. It would have gotten old, except being in such a tiny space for so long with the same five other people meant we were all craving something interesting to do.
“I’m down,” Lewis says. “It’s been a while since we all got together as a crew and did something fun. Other than watch these movies, of course, but you know what I mean. Something more interactive.”
I consider the notion. Playing Monopoly… a numbers based game involving both extensive problem-solving and a variety of complex conversations and negotiations with other people…
“No thanks,” I say. “You guys feel free, though.”
“You won’t play with us?” Johanssen says, aghast. “Come on, it’ll be fun. You love Monopoly.”
I did love Monopoly. Once. But now the idea of recreationally doing math while also having to navigate social negotiations with other players, let alone handle banter, sounds overwhelming.
“I’d really just rather watch movies,” I say. “I know. It’s lame. But that’s the truth.”
“Didn’t you…” Martinez begins. “I mean, forgive me if this is, like, rude, but didn’t you just spend a year and a half doing nothing but watching movies?”
Yeah, I did. But you know what? Movies are easy. Movies mean I don’t have to look my crew in the eyes and feel the overwhelming maelstrom of rage and pain I feel about what happened on Mars, then the shame so deep and constricting that it feels like I’m being suffocated —
“Your movies,” I say. “Not mine.”
The rest of the crew look between each other.
“Okay,” Lewis says. “But can we start the ant-man movies? I never saw those when they originally came out.”
“You have 70’s TV crammed on your media drive and you haven’t seen the ant-man movies?” I ask incredulously.
“I haven’t watched a lot of movies in the last, I dunno, thirty years. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
“I’ll say.”
The door to my lab opens, revealing Johanssen.
"Hey Mark," Johanssen says, her voice tinged with hesitation. "There's something I need to tell you."
"What's that?" I ask, curiosity piqued.
"Well, you know your MAV files were uploaded," she says, her eyes darting to the side.
Oh yeah. My logs. A knot forms in my stomach. All the logs are on the Hermes database now, where anyone can watch them.
"The day you were rescued, I audited the MAV files. Standard procedure. I watched a few minutes of your logs —“
I freeze solid.
“—before I realized how... personal they are. Once I did, I didn't watch anymore," she confesses, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
My heart feels as if it's caught in a vice.
She’s seen my logs.
I don’t know how much. Probably not a lot, judging by what she’s said. But still. She’s seen them.
The crew’s been acting like the whole thing’s been just a particularly challenging camping trip. And you know what? I’m good with that. But she knows the truth.
"Mark?” Johanssen says again, her soft whisper echoing in the empty room, pulling me back to reality.
"It's okay," I manage to mumble, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears. It feels like I've just been stripped bare.
Her words tumble through the room, “I’ve encrypted them... no telling what NASA will do…” and crash against my eardrums.
The idea of those logs, those raw, unfiltered expressions of pain and anguish, falling into the hands of strangers at NASA, of the public, makes my skin crawl.
For Sols that were eternities, those logs were the only form of connection I had. Now that loneliness is accessible to anyone and everyone. Come one, come all, watch Dr. Mark Watney, astronaut in a fishbowl, as he goes crazy in solitary isolation!
"Thank you for encrypting them,” I choke out, meaning every word.
For now, they're safe, locked behind Johanssen's encryption. And for that, I'm profoundly grateful.
“Of course, Watney,” she says. “I’ll delete them if you want me to. It’s mutiny, but that ship already sailed, you know?”
It didn’t take me long to figure out they mutinied to come get me. The official NASA press release says it was their plan all along, but Johanssen let something slip while I was laid up in bed and I figured it out pretty quick. I still don’t know how I feel about it.
“Don’t delete them,” I say quickly. I can’t explain why, but I’m sure I don’t want them deleted. I want to do something with them. Even if I don’t know what yet. “Just… don’t watch any more, okay? Don’t let anyone else either.”
"Of course," she says gently, her eyes soft. "I would never."
"Thank you for protecting them, Johanssen,” I say, trying to put on a brave face.
"Of course," she breathes, and the relief on her face is so genuine it almost hurts to look at.
“Would you, uh,” I say. “Would you mind telling me the encryption password you used?”
Johanssen grabs a piece of paper and scribbles down a nonsense string of characters. “You can change it if you like,” she says, handing it to me. “You don’t have to tell me the new one.”
I take the piece of paper from her, the random assortment of characters dancing in my vision.
Yeah," I manage a chuckle that doesn't reach my eyes, "I might change it. Thanks."
Johanssen lingers for a moment longer, her eyes brimming with empathy. It's a look I've seen often since my rescue; they all wear it from time to time, a blend of sympathy and unspoken admiration that twists the knife in my gut even more.
With a soft nod, she turns, leaving me alone in the lab, alone with the plants, alone with my thoughts and the password to my past. The door slides closed behind her.
Over the next few days, those logs gnaw at me.
They're on my mind when I try to catch some anxious and unwelcoming sleep. During Beck's regular check-ups, those logs are all I think about. And when I'm knee-deep in my science schedule, doing the tasks that used to bring me a sense of normalcy, those logs manage to worm their way in. Even answering the heaps of emails that have piled up over the years can't distract me.
I want to watch the fucking logs.
I know roughly what they contain. I recorded them, after all. I remember doing it. But how reliable are my memories? Probably not very, since I remember giant black wave monsters chasing me across the surface of Mars a scant month ago.
And now, I have this bizarre, compulsive desire to know what the hell I recorded in those logs.
Beck would have a field day with this. He'd say it's a bad idea. A terrible, no good, very bad idea. They could trigger me into killing myself. They could trigger me into insanity.
These aren’t idle fears, either. They are quite plausible, considering how ever since my rescue my mind keeps offering me helpful thoughts about how I ought to have died.
But like with the coffee, I can’t bring myself to care. I want to fucking know.
For years on Mars, I kept my mind focused, relentlessly tethering my thoughts to the challenges of the present moment. Now, safely ensconced within the Hermes, surrounded by my crew, my body nourished by a steady supply of calories, I’m experiencing a need to think what I wouldn’t allow myself to think before that’s bordering on obsessive.
This itch to confront whatever the hell I'd documented in those logs... it's not something I can ignore. I'm not sure I even want to.
The thrumming of the life support system hangs in the air around us, a constant, ambient backdrop to our days aboard the Hermes.
Usually, it's a soothing hum, a reminder of the delicate balance between life and the deadly vacuum of space. Today, however, it’s grating and intrusive. The constant chatter of the crew, usually a comforting reminder of normalcy, seems excessively loud.
I’ve noticed some new things about my personality. I didn’t notice them when I was stranded on Mars because hello, traumatic experience, but now that I’m back on the Hermes with my crew, the difference is obvious.
For instance, I’m much more easily annoyed now. I’m more of an asshole than I used to be. I’m quieter, too. That change takes me by surprise, considering how compulsively I chattered to myself on Mars to keep myself sane, but I’m no psychologist.
Despite my newfound quietude, they attempt to keep the atmosphere light, throwing themselves into their routine with an effort that, while touching, is painfully noticeable.
"C'mon, Martinez, just admit it," Johanssen calls out from where she's working at a console. "You're just miffed because the latest software update makes the system more efficient than your manual inputs."
Martinez snorts from his seat at the helm, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Oh please, no software can outwit good old human instinct."
"Is that a challenge?" Johanssen grins, her fingers dancing over the console keys.
A ripple of laughter moves through the crew. Lewis, the commander, lifts an eyebrow, a teasing glint in her eye. "Sounds like it to me."
Across the room, Beck shakes his head, chuckling. "You're walking into a trap, Martinez. I've seen her work that console. She’s an ML whisperer."
Martinez throws his hands up, mock-defeated. "Alright, alright. No need for the rest of you to gang up on me."
"An interesting controlled experiment," Vogel says, not looking up from his workstation. "One variable: human intuition versus algorithmic optimization. Though the sample size is insufficient for statistical significance."
I feel my own absence from this banter like a weight. I’m sure the crew does too. Normally I’d be the first to start roasting Martinez for an imagined inability to pilot the ship, but right now I just can’t get it up. This hollowness in my chest makes it too difficult.
“Watney,” Beck finally breaks the silence, his voice carries a note of caution. "You've been unusually quiet. Are you feeling okay?"
"I'm fine," I retort, my voice sharper than I intend, echoing off the Hermes walls.
Beck's concern transforms into a mixture of confusion and frustration, mirrored by the rest of the crew. They exchange glances, unsure of how to proceed.
Lewis starts, “Watney —“
“What, a person can’t just be quiet sometimes?” I interrupt, my tone laced with irritation.
“I mean, yes,” Beck says, “But not usually you. We just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“Like I said, I’m fine,” I retort coldly.
Beck, patience wearing thin, responds with a mix of frustration and disappointment. "Mark, you aren’t acting like yourself.”
“How would you know,” I mumble. “You haven’t spoken to me in years.”
The crew is stunned into silence.
“Not by choice,” Beck says flatly. “Now that we can, we are trying to. Please let us.”
“Look, I’m fine,” I say roughly. In my chest, a knot of frustration winds tighter and tighter.
Martinez tries to defuse the tension. “Hey, buddy, that’s fine, but you know, if you’re not—“
"I said I'm fine, Martinez!" The words explode from me.
They stare at me, shocked.
The silence that follows is deafening.
I've startled them. Hell, I've startled myself. I'm not the hothead of the crew.
Or at least, I wasn’t before.
The shock on their faces looks a lot like pity.
I open my mouth to tell them I don’t need their pity, but the words catch in my throat.
Yes, I do need your pity, I think. I need it as badly as I need food and water, I want nothing more than for you to push through this anger spewing out of me —
"Excuse me," I croak, pushing back from the table.
As I retreat, leaving behind the stunned faces of my crew and my uneaten meal, I feel a hard pang of guilt.
The heavy silence weighs on my shoulders as I make my way to the observation deck alcove — a corner with a window facing the underside of the ship, a private place where I can be alone.
My chest constricts with guilt and frustration. Each step feels like an eternity.
Looking out the window, I'm greeted by the sight of Mars in the background, its reddish hue captivating against the backdrop of the starry expanse. The planet that was first my dream and then my hell.
The sight of Mars triggers a flood of feelings, each more complex and painful than the last. Rage, betrayal, grief. Memories rush back with unrelenting force—the harsh Martian landscape, relentless storms, isolation that swallowed me whole.
I clench my fists, my knuckles turning white as the weight of those memories press down upon me.
A bitter feeling fills my heart, a mix of regret and anger over my own inability to function like a normal person, to be kind and grateful to the people who turned their lives upside down to rescue me.
I lean against the window, my gaze fixed on the barren planet that holds both my triumphs and my terrors.
Anger surges through my veins, a volatile mix of resentment and self-loathing.
Why couldn’t I have just died there?
With trembling hands, I turn away from the window, unable to bear the sight of Mars any longer. I stumble out of the alcove, my steps heavy and unsteady.
I stumble to the confines of my small quarters, the walls closing in around me. I sink to the floor, my back against the cold metal, and bury my face in my hands. Tears flow freely, silent sobs wracking my body.
Call someone, a thought inside tells me. You’re not alone anymore. Call someone to help you.
But I can’t. I don’t know how I would explain what’s happening to me. I don’t even know what’s happening to me.
Even more, I don’t want to risk them rejecting me. I don’t know how I know, but I know emotional rejection right now would be the final straw for me. With the stakes so high, it really is better for me to wonder how they would react than to try and find out.
But most of all, I don’t want to burden them with the duty. They’ve already suffered enough because of me. The world has suffered enough because of me. I’ve suffered enough because of me. All because of my stupid choice to try and live when all the signs said I shouldn’t.
The void swallows me whole.
After that, I stop getting what little sleep I was. The misery that settled around my neck sol 6 starts choking me and doesn’t let go.
This feels like a cruel joke. I’m more miserable here than I ever recall being on Mars, despite being rescued.
But are you? The back of my mind whispers. Are you more miserable now? Or are you in denial about how miserable you were then?
Of course I’m in denial. Of course I’m trying to repress those memories. Who wouldn’t?! If my brain malfunctioned and I developed amnesia, that would be a blessing.
The back of my mind whispers again, firm. Denial won’t work. It never does.
I snatch the piece of paper with the log passwords from next to my bunk, where it’s been since Johanssen gave it to me. I flip open my laptop just as fast. It takes only moments for me to find the MAV files — and there they are, my personal logs.
The first log appears on the screen, a timestamp marking the beginning of my solitary journey on Mars. The cursor blinks, inviting me to step back in time, back into the person I was when I recorded this.
I remember Lewis once telling me, during one of our early days of training back on Earth, that the mind is both the most powerful and dangerous tool we have.
After surviving Mars, I understand why it’s powerful.
Now, staring at the play button, I am beginning to understand why it’s dangerous.
I never looked at the timestamps when I was creating the logs — in fact, I actively avoided looking at anything that might remind me of all the days passing on Earth without me. The only thing I looked at were Sol counters: Sol 7, Sol 10, Sol 56, Sol 138, Sol 249, Sol 372…
But here on the Hermes laptop screen, the log timestamps are displayed in the Date Created column.
Sol 6 | November 25, 2035
Sol 7 | December 02, 2035
Sol 10 | December 05, 2035
Sol 56 | January 21, 2036
Sol 138 | April 14, 2036
Sol 249 | August 06, 2036
Sol 372 | December 11, 2036
Sol 549 | June 11, 2037
Cold terror washes over me.
Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years. All of 2036. Two winters, springs, and summers. One quarter shy of two years. All fucking gone.
God, it felt like it would never end.
It’s the middle of the night. Everyone else is asleep. Now’s as good a time as ever.
Feeling reckless, I click open one with a later timestamp.
The log opens.
Chris Beck
As soon as Beck shuffles Watney into the shower, he closes the shower bay door and collapses in the hallway outside. His chest jerks in huge, silent sobs.
God, Watney looks horrible. He is all mottled skin and bones, barely able to keep himself upright in partial gravity. Beck has never seen someone so starved, and he’d done a tour of Doctors Without Borders prior to joining NASA. Watney looks like he’d been wasting away.
Which is what happened, after all. Watney wasted away. On a desert planet where he was left to starve.
By him.
Beck puts his face in his knees, digging his fingers into his legs.
Johanssen turns the corner, sees Beck, and quietly approaches. “How’s he doing?” she asks eagerly.
Beck doesn’t acknowledge her approach. He knows she can see the wet spots growing on his NASA-blue flame-retardant pants.
“Is he okay?”
“He’s alive,” Beck whispers hoarsely. “Barely. He’s walking and talking like everything is normal, but his body is on the point of collapse. His pulse is thready. He’s in afib. He said he’s feeling ‘pain all over.’ You know what that’s from? His body metabolizing his muscles. We’re lucky it hasn’t metabolized his heart. I did this to him, Beth. I did -“
“No,” Johanssen says, taking Beck’s hands in hers. “This is not your fault.”
“It’s not yours,” he says back.
Johanssen’s eyes flick to the shower door. She says nothing.
Mark Watney
I try to get in the shower without seeing my body, but when I pass the bathroom mirror, I can’t help it. I see myself standing there, naked and covered in ragged hair clippings and human shit, and hop in that scalding water as fast as I can. The water runs brown into the drain.
A shiver passes through me, my insides cold despite the hot shower.
I mechanically brush my teeth in the shower. When I spit into the shower basin, I spit blood. I clip my nails into the tiny shower stall trash bin. When I wash with soap and water after, Martian dirt lifts from underneath my nail beds.
My skin burns, but I still don’t feel clean.
It takes me twenty minutes to realize I will never feel clean again.
I change into fresh clothes that Beck placed in the shower stall. Mine. Guess they didn’t jettison my things after I died. Probably for history or something.
I put them on. They used to be form-fitting, but now they hang off my frame. I use every mental trick I taught myself on Mars to studiously avoid thinking about this.
I open the door to greet Beck in the hall, feeling like a carnival attraction.
He looks at me with that same expressionless look from earlier. His eyes are red.
“You’re on medical watch,” Beck says. “You need someone monitoring you everywhere you go. It’s just for 48 hours, in case of emergency.”
Relief washes over me, so powerfully that my knees go weak. After nearly two years alone, I finally won’t be.
“Well, then someone can feel free to medically watch me sleep,” I say, “Because I am gonna crash in like five seconds.” True to my word, I make a beeline for my bunk room.
But before I crash into my bunk, I see it sitting there.
My data stick.
The memories flash through my mind. Endless hours listening to Lewis’s disco, playing Johanssen’s games, even reading Martinez’s god-damned Bible, just to have something to do… while my data stick sat here on this fucking cot for two fucking years.
I grab the data stick, throw it against the wall as hard as I can, listen to it clatter to the floor, and collapse into the bed.
I see Beck’s shocked reaction as my eyes fall closed.
Beth Johanssen
Johanssen eases into her seat at the terminal. While Beck tends to Watney and the rest of the team focuses on cleanup, Johanssen begins downloading information from the MAV to the Hermes. Better to make multiple copies of Watney’s records now than to make a mistake down the line and accidentally delete everything.
And boy, does Watney have records, Johanssen thinks to herself. She knew he was conducting all their Ares 3 experiments, but she didn’t expect it to generate terabytes upon terabytes of data. She wonders what all this data could be.
She thinks many things in quick succession.
She thinks Watney won’t be able to handle all this work by himself and it wouldn’t hurt for her to take a look.
She thinks it is all scientific literature and not something he would want to hide from her anyway.
She thinks she is curious, damnit, and she missed him, and all this data is NASA property, and she wants to know what he was doing all that time.
She selects an early entry in the database and clicks on it.
A video opens on her computer screen. In the view is Watney, leaning back in his chair and looking grim. She’s never seen that expression on his face before. She wonders where the rest of the crew is, until she sees the title of the file, sol-08.
The video plays automatically.
“The Hermes is leaving Mars’s orbit today,” Watney says into the camera. “Their three-sol maintenance period is up. They’re headed home.”
Watney looks away from the camera toward the wall. He takes a shuddering breath.
He turns his eyes to the camera again. “Well, they’ll be back,” he says bracingly. “At least, someone will, in Schiaparelli Crater, 4 years from now. All I gotta do is be there to meet them.”
He swallows, and a look of terror flashes across his face. It’s gone as soon as it arrived. “I’ll keep you updated on how it goes.”
The video closes automatically.
These don’t seem particularly scientific.
Johanssen clicks another file farther down the list. Sol-84.
Watney’s face pops up on the camera. He’s markedly thinner than he was in the last frame. He looks exhausted.
“I’m gonna tell them what a pain in the ass it was finding Pathfinder,” he says. His voice sounds markedly worse. As if he’d been gargling gravel. “And that it wouldn’t have been necessary if they had a better tertiary comms design. Marooned on an alien planet because NASA couldn’t be bothered to include another radio.” He shakes his head. She could hear some of Watney’s characteristic wit in his tone, but it was overwhelmed by anger and fatigue.
For a long moment, Watney says nothing, looking out the Rover 2 window.
Then he slams his hand down on the control panel.
“You guys better pick up,” he says angrily. “After all this shit I’ve gone through, growing potatoes in the crew’s shit and living in this rover for three goddamn months, you better fucking pick up!”
He bows his head over the joystick. Johanssen can hear him muttering to himself. “Come on, Mark. Think solutions, not problems.”
He looks back up, work face on. “And if they don’t pick up, I can diagnose where the problem might be. I can check all the lines for shorts. I can go over the research notes and make sure the atmosphere or the surrounding equipment isn’t fucking up the connection. If there’s a problem, I’ll work around it.”
Johanssen closes the video without watching any more.
She’d expected to see some logs—he was a thorough scientist, after all—but not this. The shock courses through her; in her memories, Mark is an easygoing botanist. In these videos, he’s anything but.
She flexes her hand, noticing it’s trembling slightly.
She clicks farther down the list. Sol-137.
The camera opens in the Hab. The Hab canvas rattles loudly in the background. A sandstorm, one almost as large as the one that got Watney stranded in the first place.
Watney is crying.
“Look,” he says shakily. He’s speaking fast. “This isn’t a scientific update. But part of me surviving is me staying sane, okay? NASA medical notes say so. And I’ve done—” Watney flips through the spiral bound book frantically. “I’ve done all the worksheets it says to do if we’re stuck alone. I’ve tried the calming exercises—”
A particularly intense wind gusts. Watney flinches and curls into the table.
“—and I need to calm down because I am burning too many calories freaking out like this and it’s bad for my mental health—” the wind continues to gust, “—and talking to this camera makes me feel better, okay? It makes me feel better thinking that someone will watch these someday after my body is blown across the fucking surface of Mars, even if it is two hundred and fifty years from now when they finally manage to get an expeditionary team to this site again. And the medical notes said to do things that make me feel better so fuck you, I’m doing it.”
Johanssen quickly closes the video. These are not scientific at all.
She stares at the frozen screen, heart pounding. She presses both hands to her mouth, eyes stinging. Oh, Mark.
I shouldn’t be seeing this, she thinks to herself.
She imagines Mark stumbling around the Hab, the wind howling outside, no backup, no one to say It’ll be okay. Her stomach twists.
She looks down the file list. Hundreds and hundreds of these, made almost every day without fail. Every sol.
Hundreds of sols.
All spent alone.
She feels sick.
But then she stops. Mark is alive—somehow. If he wants to share any of this, he will… or maybe he never will. Right now, she doesn’t want to violate what little privacy he has left.%% -->
Chris Beck
Beck makes sure that Watney is sleeping soundly, tucking the thin blanket around his frail form before leaving his bunk room, then makes his way to the Rec.
When he gets there, everyone else is already gathered around the cramped table, eyes fixed on him expectantly as he slides down the ladder.
Clearing his throat, he says “His exact medical readings are protected by HIPAA, so don’t expect me to tell you those. Lewis can only order me to share that information if it becomes operationally necessary.”
“Of course,” Johanssen says softly. “We just want to know how he’s doing.”
No, you don’t, Beck thinks, recalling Watney's emaciated body. 113 lbs, malnourished, and dehydrated. Beck worries his heart will stop during the night, a thought that shakes him to his core.
He clears his throat, trying to maintain his professional composure.
“Mark is in exactly the condition NASA warned us he would be,” is what he chooses to say.
The crew exchanges concerned glances.
Vogel speaks up. "What are the variables we can control? Caloric intake, fluid balance, activity level—what produces the best outcome?"
Beck sighs, running a hand through his hair. "We'll be following NASA's recommendations for his treatment plan. We don’t have monitors the way a hospital does, so we will keep a 24-hour watch on him. I will adjust his nutritional intake and fluid balance as needed. But it will take time.”
"When will he wake up?" Martinez asks, the worry evident in his voice.
Beck hesitates, not wanting to give anyone false hope.
“There’s no way to know,” he says.
“What does that mean?”
““He… may not wake up for a long time,” Beck says. “He may fall into a coma. He may drift in and out of consciousness as his body recovers. If he does wake, it may not be for long. His body will need time to heal."
Heavy silence settles over the room.
Lewis breaks the quiet with a determined tone. “Let’s all stay positive. We'll do everything we can to help Watney, and to support you, Beck. We got Watney back, and now we'll help him heal. We can do this.”
Mark Watney
I wake from a sleep that feels like unconsciousness. I open my eyes to the ceiling of my bunk. The world has a foggy, dreamlike quality. Am I really on the Hermes?
“Mark, are you awake?” Beck asks quietly beside me.
With an effort that feels herculean, I turn my head to look at him.
He holds out a cup to me. “Drink this while you’re awake,” he says emphatically. I look down into the cup to see a thick pink liquid. A meal replacement shake. Strawberry.
I reach out a shaky hand to grab the cup.
“Don’t go too fast, you’ll make yourself sick,” he says, putting his hand on my back to help me sit up. His hand is so warm.
“Impossible,” I mutter. After eating so many plain potatoes for so long, I can keep anything down. I practically chug the shake.
As I do, I’m overcome by a desperate, weepy feeling. This tastes divine. I want to drink gallons of it as soon as possible.
I don’t know how many calories were in that, but it must have been a lot, because once I reach the end I feel a bloated fullness that I haven’t felt in so very long.
Tears pool in the corner of my eyes. I let my head fall into the pillow before Beck can see them.
“How are you feeling?” Beck asks gently.
Like I’m not dying anymore.
“Full,” I say roughly.
“Get used to it,” he says, positively grinning.
We sit in silent for a moment.
“I’m so tired,” I say groggily. “I didn’t feel this tired yesterday.”
“Probably only because of the adrenaline rush,” Beck explains. “That’s why I wanted you to shower — I knew you wouldn’t be out of bed again for a while.”
I feel so clean and full.
Normally when I wake up, it’s time to check on the potatoes.
“I don’t have to check on the potatoes,” I mumble.
“No Mark,” Beck says softly. “You don’t have to check on the potatoes. Ever again.”
“Wow,” I say, falling asleep.
For the next few days, time becomes difficult to follow. Sometimes I’m awake, sometimes I’m asleep, but mostly I’m in-between, following incoherent thoughts through my imagination until they collide with reality.
Every time I stir to wakefulness, there's always someone there. Beck, Johanssen, Martinez, Lewis, or Vogel, each keeping their vigil. They come armed with protein for which they apologize about the taste, not knowing they taste amazing each and every time.
The first few times, my routine is like clockwork — wake, sip, nod, and sleep. They ask me how I’m doing, but most of the time, I’m too exhausted to even form words in response. Then the dreams come.
I dream of Mars, of exploding Habs and laying on my side in the Rover dying of starvation. I dream of my parents asking me where the hell I’ve been and Director Sanders telling me one man isn’t important enough to rescue.
Sometimes, when the dreams are particularly bad, and I think this is real and I won’t make it this time, one of the crew inexplicably shows up in the dream and puts their hand on my shoulder. I feel the heat on my body in real life, and I know, whoever’s sitting with me put their hand on my shoulder. Too tired to fight, I relax instantly, and the nightmare melts away.
Until one day, I wake with a gasp and a shudder as I lurch forward on the bed, hands shaking and looking for something to hold on to. The Hab depressurizing, depressurizing, depressurizing —
Vogel, who had been dozing off in the room's small, uncomfortable chair, wakes with a start. “Watney!” His voice is a quiet hush of concern. “Mark, are you okay?"
I heave huge breaths as fast as my lungs allow. “Yeah, ‘m fine,” I gasp. “I’m fine.”
Vogel's hand is on my back, steadying me. "Should I call Dr. Beck?"
I shake my head. “No,” I pant. “Just a bad dream.”
"Are you all right now?" Vogel asks.
I give him a nod, still too winded to speak. He helps me lay back comfortably on the bed again.
The fear fades quickly, replaced by the familiar ache of hunger. "Can I have some more of that protein drink?"
"Doctor Beck says if you have too many, you will die."
Yeah, I’ve heard of that. Refeeding syndrome. Doctors discovered it shortly after the Holocaust ended. “If I was gonna die, I’d have done it by now.”
Vogel frowns. "Doctor Beck was specific. He said the risk is real."
I weigh asking what Doctor Beck specifically said. Did he say I’m not out of the woods yet?
Did he say I could die any moment?
I decide not to ask what Doctor Beck said. I’m clearly too weak to provide for myself now. My life is in his hands.
I look at Vogel, the stern German astronaut, crammed into a tiny chair in my bunk. "Ok, well, in any case, go back to sleep. If you can, in that awful chair," I tease, trying to lighten the mood.
Vogel's mouth twitches. "The chair is not designed for comfort. It is designed for space efficiency. German engineering would have done better." He tetches. “But that is for the better. My assignment is not to sleep, it is to monitor you.”
Part of me feels annoyed about the close monitoring, but most of me is simply relieved to not be solely responsible for my survival in the middle of barren space anymore.
“Ok, well, I’m going back to sleep. Night Vogel.”
“Good night, Dr. Watney,” Vogel says.
I close my eyes and turn my head away, pretending to fall asleep. I’m so physically weak that it’s not difficult. But I’m too keyed up from my nightmare to actually do so.
After a while, I hear the gentle cadence of Vogel’s breathing. Even in this high-tech spacecraft, there’s something soothing about that familiar sound.
A stillness falls over the room, only broken by the hum of the ship's machinery.
Feeling a sudden impulse, with some effort, I manage to turn over. Vogel stirs slightly, but doesn't wake up. His face, even at rest, shows lines of stress and exhaustion.
I think about the sacrifices he, and the rest of the crew, made for my sake. My eyes fill with tears.
Taking a deep breath, I whisper, “Thank you, Vogel. For everything.”
I wake groggily to find Johanssen sitting on the edge of my bed, her eyes fixed on me with a mixture of concern and something else I can't quite place.
"Hasn’t it been way more than 48 hours now?" I mumble. “Beck must be really worried about me if he's got you keeping watch like this."
"Yes, he is," Johanssen says softly, adjusting the blanket over my legs before handing me the protein shake. Her fingers brush my arm—warm, deliberate.
Every point of contact leaves me warmer.
"We all are,” she says.
Curiosity gnaws at me. I’m feeling a little better than I was… whenever I was last awake.
"What's he so worried about?" I ask, taking the shake but not yet drinking.
Johanssen hesitates, her expression guarded. “Not sure, actually. Doctor-patient confidentiality and all. But he's definitely concerned," she admits.
A surge of determination wells up within me, bolstered by the fragments of strength I've managed to cobble together in moments of lucidity. "Well, I'm gonna be fine," I declare.
Johanssen's response is immediate. “How do you know?"
"Because after everything I've been through, there's no way I won't be,” I say, willing it to be true.
Johanssen studies me for a moment. Then, slowly, a smile starts to break across her face. "You know," she says, her tone softer, "I think I actually believe you."
I drink my protein shake, and for a moment, even I believe me too.
Two weeks pass. Though my condition is still precarious, I am slowly improving under Beck’s watchful, bordering-on-neurotic care. The crew has been taking turns keeping me under 24-hour medical watch, making sure I don’t take a turn for the worse.
I stir, my eyes fluttering open. I hear Martinez’s voice. "Hey, Mark, how are you feeling?"
“Hungry,” I say quickly. “Where’s my protein shake?”
Martinez grabs a protein shake from the side table, my last one for the day. I drink greedily.
“Beck says you’re supposed to take your time with those,” Martinez said, a note of humor in his voice.
“Yeah, well, I’m feeling better,” I reply. “I think I might even be up to standing.”
“Woah, cowboy,” Martinez mocks me. “I haven’t been able to stand since my twenties.”
Making fun of the starvation victim. You’re hilarious, Martinez.
My heart skips a beat.
The starvation victim.
I’m the starvation victim.
Strength is as strength does.
I swing my legs around the edge of the cot and lever myself up.
“Mark, I was just giving you shit!” Martinez exclaims. “Sit down! Before you hurt yourself!”
“I’m fine,” I say, brushing him off. I feel wobbly on my feet and I’m not sure I could walk more than a quarter kilometer, but since I won’t be seeing the inside of the gym for months, I’m not in danger of having to do that anytime soon. “I gotta get up sometime.”
Martinez hits the wall radio. “Beck, he’s up on his feet and walking,” Martinez says. “Shouldn’t he be resting?”
Beck doesn’t reply — because moments later, the pocket door of my bunk flies open.
"Mark!" Beck exclaims. He stares at me for a second. “Wow,” he says. “Wow. You shouldn’t even be able to stand right now, let alone walk. Wow. This is amazing.”
His gaze turns serious. “But as medically fascinated as I am right now, you really shouldn’t be moving around that fast. Your body needs more time to recover. You should get back in bed.”
“I don’t want to be in bed anymore —” I start.
I open my mouth to say the next words, but they catch in my throat.
I’ve been trapped in Rover 2 for months.
My heart begins to pound.
Trapped, wasting away, either driving or sleeping, in that tiny box, for months —
“— I want to stand up and walk around,” is what I say instead.
“That’s understandable,” Beck says, “But even if you want to do that, your body needs the rest. You need to build your strength back up.”
“I’m fine,” I insist. “I gutted that entire MAV and made it into a convertible spaceship two weeks ago. I can manage a short walk around the Hermes.”
“Those were extraordinary circumstances,” Beck says. “If you’d been in a hospital, you’d have been on bedrest. Which is what I’m trying to get you to do.”
Endless months in the Rover flash through my mind, endless years in the Hab, watching TV, reading, playing video games, always in bed, conserving calories —
“I’m not laying in bed right now, Beck,” I say. “That’s the end of it. Now help me get to the Rec. I’ve been dreaming of the cushioned chair for months.”
Beck stands in front of me, his arms up to push me back. “No, Watney. I’m afraid as your doctor, I must insist. Get back in bed,” he says firmly.
My volume increases sharply. “No!” I shout. “_I said no!_”
Beck and Martinez stare at me, shocked.
Beck swallows. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Take Martinez and I both by the arm,” he says, holding his arm out. Martinez does the same.
I push them away, leaning against the walls for support instead.
I slowly limp down the hallway that way, both of them close at my side in case I fall.
The silence is stifling, but I’m too busy trying to walk to take much notice.
Trying to break the ice, Martinez says, "You know, I've been practicing my botany skills. Nothing like what you did on Mars, but I managed to keep a couple of plants alive in the lab."
“Talk about a miracle,” I say breathlessly. “You should have… let the poor things die… rather than… suffer the quality of care they… probably received from you.”
Maybe someone should have let me die before I had to suffer the quality of care I received on Mars.
Maybe I should have let myself die.
Where are these thoughts coming from?
“Ouch,” Martinez says. “I will have you know I consulted the Mission Specialist handbooks extensively.”
Invasive thoughts rush through my mind, fast and heavy. The day they left. The day Pathfinder broke. The day the airlock exploded.
A feeling of dread pools in the center of my chest.
I spent nearly two years stranded on Mars using every ounce of willpower I possess to keep myself alive. In those two years, one of the many things I never let myself think about was how fucked up I would be if I managed to pull it off. I couldn’t afford to lose even an ounce of motivation.
But now the impossible has happened, and it seems my mind will not be denied any longer.
I try to focus on Martinez's voice as he continues to tell me about his botany adventures, but the thoughts threaten to overwhelm me. It takes all the focus I have to keep acting normally.
When we come to the Rec ladder, I stare up the ladder tube with fear. I wonder if maybe I’ve overstretched myself. It has, after all, been several years since I pulled myself up a ladder in 1 g.
Strength is as strength does, I tell myself sternly.
I hoist myself up the first rung.
I grit my teeth so I don’t cry out.
Hauling myself up the ladder gets easier with every lift, as I move into lower gravity with each rung climbed.
I look below me. Martinez is hooking into the ladder himself. Beck is staring up at me in bafflement and awe.
I got 2,300 kilometers across the surface of Mars, I can get up a fucking ladder, I think derisively.
Finally, at the end of the far-too-long ladder climb, I reach the Rec.
“Mark!” Johanssen exclaims.
Lewis, wide-eyed, sets her coffee cup down.
"Wow, Watney, you really are a stubborn one," she says, trying to hide her concern with a hint of humor. "But seriously, you should be resting."
I force a smile, my muscles aching from the effort of the climb. "I wanted a change of scenery."
Vogel, who had been quietly reading in a corner, puts his book down and stands up. "It is good to see you up, Mark. But you must be careful not to push yourself too hard."
"Yeah, yeah. I just couldn't stand being cooped up any longer."
Lewis frowns, but says nothing.
I collapse on the couch. “Get me some coffee,” I tell Johanssen. “I miss coffee.”
“No coffee,” Beck says. “Sorry, Watney.”
Feeling annoyed, I turn back behind the couch. “Really, Beck?” I say. “I can’t even have shitty space coffee?”
“No, Mark, your heart is weak, and if you develop cardiac symptoms on the Hermes there’s almost nothing we can do. No coffee under any circumstances.”
“Beck, come on. One cup. Just today. Please.”
“I don’t know why you’re being such a difficult patient,” Beck says sternly. “But I need you to listen to me, Mark, because you could die if you don’t.”
Being a difficult patient is unlike me. One of my better qualities is that I’m willing to accept reality and take effective action instead of getting stuck in denial.
Or, it was one of my better qualities. I don’t want to take effective action anymore. I want a god damn cup of coffee.
“Fine,” I say, turning roughly back to the window. “Forget it.”
I’m aware that I sound like a petulant teenager, but somehow that knowledge doesn’t change my behavior at all.
“Mark,” Beck says quietly, coming ‘round to sit on my other side. “You know I’m not trying to hurt you. I just want to help you heal.”
“I get it!” I snap. I don’t know why I’m feeling so angry. I do get it, after all. Beck’s not doing anything wrong. He’s just doing his job, keeping me alive. He’s doing a damn fine job of it, too. I should feel thankful. But the only thing I feel is angry.
I cross my arms, both to control my anger and to try to control my heart hammering in my chest.
Beck, thankfully, lets it drop. “Johanssen has herbal tea,” he says instead. “Do you want that?”
“Yes, yes please,” I say quickly.
“What kind?”
“What kind?” I repeat back in wonder. “What kind. Wow. What kinds are there?”
“In caffeine free, Royal Raspberry and Orange Dream.”
“Royal Raspberry,” I say breathily. Wow, I’m about to taste raspberry for the first time in years. Taste something that isn’t hot water with caffeine pills, hot water with Vicodin, potato with ketchup —
No, I tell myself sternly. That’s in the past now.
As Johanssen hands me the steaming cup of Royal Raspberry tea, I take a deep breath and try to let go of my anger.
Unlike hot water with Vicodin, this tea has flavor, oh my god, overwhelming notes of raspberry, sweet and tangy and strong. It takes all my willpower to keep myself from chugging it and burning my tongue, my anger entirely forgotten.
As I savor my tea, their conversation turns to other things, and I find myself getting lost in their words.