Chapter Text
He killed her.
Smoke spirals from the barrel of his gun as he watches the life fade from her, her body crumpling to the floor.
The darkness cloaks the fleeing crowd, their figures mere shadows darting away as spotlights blaze down on him. Their screams echo, muted beneath the roaring tide of his thoughts. He stands motionless, an iceberg in a stormy sea.
But he feels it—eyes on him. Not just anyone’s eyes. Their eyes.
He lowers the gun, and for a moment, he is met with the sun. No, that doesn’t fit, not anymore— not here. At this moment, they are a black hole, pulling him in, erasing everything.
...
...
...
Spruce and fir trees shimmer by as a watercolor blur of yellows and oranges, soft edges bleeding into the cool, foggy air. The low roar of a motorcycle engine interrupts the stillness of the forest, the bike splashing up water from puddles left by last night's rain. The rider navigates the winding road with ease, the beach occasionally revealing itself through the breaks in the dense wall of trees.
The rider slows their bike, diverging from the road and turning down a dirt path. The number of trees dwindled as they approached the shore, the sound of waves barely audible over the hum of the motorcycle. When they reach where the forest meets the beach, they stop, turn off their bike, and stand up. They guide their bike off the path between a cluster of trees and kick down the stand.
Reaching for their helmet, Sloan unbuckles it and lifts it off with a sigh, resting it on the seat. They run a hand through their hair, shaking up their dark curls. Methodically, they unload their gear, snapping the thrusters onto their boots and shouldering on their weathered backpack. They set their smart excavator on the sand and dirt ground, then reach into one of the bike's saddlebags to retrieve a camo tarp. The tarp crinkles as they fan it out and drape it over their bike, hiding it.
Sloan picks up their drill and turns toward the beach. The thick morning fog shrouds the shoreline, blurring the horizon and making it impossible to pinpoint the sun. The only visible landmarks are a few tree-capped hills, their silhouettes dissolving into the white mist.
Sand crunches under their boots and the rush of ocean waves floods their ears. There's a cliff wall adjacent to the shore, the dark, ragged edges of rock creating a stark contrast against the pale sand. As Sloan follows along its base, the weight in their pocket becomes heavier.
They reach a tall and narrow cave entrance. Fog slithers in and disappears into the darkness of the cave.
A cold, salty breeze sways their hair, raising goosebumps along their neck. Sloan's eyes fix on the cave's shadowed depths, an inexplicable pull stirring within them, as though the cave itself were beckoning. The longer they stare, the harder it becomes to resist the invisible draw.
With a sharp breath, they wrench their gaze away, casting a glance over their shoulder. Once they’re sure they're alone, they steel themselves and step inside.
...
Sloan grunts, hefting their drill over their head and onto a ledge. They dig their boot into an indentation in the rock wall, reaching the ledge with their hands and hoisting themselves up. They pick their drill back up, squinting as they look up.
They've been traversing the cave for about half an hour. Up until this point, it's just been a dark tunnel. Now, however, the tunnel opens up to a cavern— maybe more accurately, the middle of a ravine. There's a large opening in the ceiling, forcing white light into the cave. There's not much to see upwards, the fog acting as a thick blanket.
Sloan must be close to the surface.
Pebbles scatter under their boots as Sloan approaches the yawning crevice carved into the cavern floor. The narrow beam from the flashlight clipped to their goggles pierces the dark, but the abyss swallows the light whole, not reaching the bottom.
They turn away, scanning the rugged walls of the cavern. Their eyes skip over a column of rock, but something catches their attention.
Footsteps reverberate through the cavern as they draw closer. As they round the column, a drawing on the cave wall comes into view.
The art is ancient. If paint was used, its hues have long desaturated into dark brown strokes against the orange stone. Time has faded the paint, making the image almost indecipherable at a glance.
Sloan switches to holding their drill with one hand. They fetch their phone from their pocket and take a picture of the art on the wall.
From what Sloan can tell, the drawing depicts a woman crowned with a crescent moon bathed in radiance from a large, circular form looming above her. It could be of the sun or moon, but it looks more like a comet by how it's smeared to the right.
The woman stands before a house of ancient Chinese architecture. She's holding something in her right hand, but the paint is faded, making it impossible to know what it is. She's staring somewhere to her left, and the drawing ends there.
Sloan idly trails a finger over the faded strokes, gathering dust. Their eyes feel heavy and the weight of their gear makes their back ache.
They had thought about napping halfway through this cave dive, but sleeping has been practically impossible lately. It's either having nightmares until they give up trying to sleep or they pace around their apartment, fumbling research notes and staring at photos of art they took. Guess they can add this photo to the list of things they try to make sense of but can't.
"Is this all?" They whisper.
Lately, they’ve been asking themselves that a lot. Every new discovery feels less like progress and more like adding another piece to a puzzle with no edges. This drawing is no exception.
They mentally try to connect it to the other drawings they’ve found, but nothing clicks.
They glance back at the woman in the art. She’s staring straight at them, one hand raised, pointing to her left.
Sloan blinks.
The figure returns to her original pose, gazing to her left, hand lowered as before.
Exhaling sharply, they drag a hand down their face and slowly shift their gaze to the right. Another stone column towers nearby—this one streaked with faded paint. As they approach, stepping into a better angle, they notice similar markings scattered across other columns throughout the cavern.
From where they're standing now, it just looks like a bunch of scribbles, but if they stand further back and step more to the left...
The painted columns align into a larger image—a mural etched in three-dimensional space. It depicts four totems:
The first totem is faceless with six feet and four wings.
The second has a sheep body with a human face.
The third is barely more than a faint outline, its form nearly lost to time.
The last totem has a tiger’s head and a pair of mighty wings.
Sloan perks up with recognition. That tiger totem looks like—
The entire cavern trembles, a deafening rumble shaking the rock around them. Dust and loose debris rain down from the ceiling, and Sloan is thrown off balance, stumbling into a jagged wall. There's a high-pitched sound of metal scraping against rock as the light in the ravine momentarily gets blocked. The earth cracks as something large falls into the ravine, blasting dirt into the cavern and creating fractures in the ground.
Sloan coughs, tears prickling the corner of their eyes as they peek over their arm covering their face. There's the eerie sound of metal groaning followed by a peculiar reflection of light coming from the center of the ravine.
The column drawings they were observing have crumbled into a sporadic spread of rock around the floor. Sloan will have to redraw it later from memory.
They cautiously approach the ravine as the dust settles. The first thing they see are the words Project Red Promise red and bold along the white, metallic surface. Scarlet streaks trace the curves of the object’s battered hull. Then they see the fins and realize they're looking at a space pod.
Just when I thought things couldn't get more interesting.
The space pod practically twinkles under the white light filtering through the top of the ravine. Huge scratches line the sides of the pod and layers of metal have been dislodged.
Its large, dark-tinted window stares back, opaque and impenetrable. Sloan steps closer, framing their eyes with their hands as they try to see through the glass.
A sudden burst of voices echoes from the far side of the cavern.
Sloan startles, jerking back and ducking behind a rock wall. They press against the cold stone, peering cautiously through a narrow crack.
Two figures in black emerge from one of the tunnels leading into the cavern—one clutching a gun, the other lugging a duffel bag. The sharp beams of their flashlights pierce through the dust still hanging in the air as they step into the open space.
“They said it’d land on the beach, not in some damn cave,” the one with the gun grumbles, rolling his shoulder with irritation.
The bag carrier huffs, dropping the heavy duffel with a dusty thud. “Quit whining.” His voice cuts through the cavern, sharp as the metallic clink of the zipper being yanked open.
From inside the bag, he pulls out a matte, high-tech laser cutter—its polished edges gleaming under the light of the flashlight.
The one with the gun eyes the precariously balanced pod, shifting uneasily. "You think that thing’s gonna fall in? It's just kinda balancing on the sides of the ravine."
His partner steps toward the pod, inspecting the darkened window, placing a suction tool on the metal frame. “Better hope not,” he mutters. “Last thing we need is to haul repelling gear down here.”
Without another word, he hefts the laser cutter and powers it on. A searing beam ignites, crackling against the pod’s metal frame. Sparks shower the cavern floor, the sharp scent of scorched alloy slicing through the musty air.
Sloan’s gaze drifts to their drill. Not only are these guys sketchy as hell, but they’re messing with something that clearly doesn’t belong to them— and something Sloan technically called dibs on first. By the sacred, unspoken law of dibbing, that means Sloan has first excavation rights.
Can you even excavate a space pod?
They wait for Gun Man to stop scanning in their direction before slipping behind another jagged wall. The move puts them closer, but now off to his side instead of in front of him.
Peeking around the stone, they immediately pull back as Gun Man’s flashlight swings too close for comfort. They exhale slowly, counting the seconds before risking another glance.
The beam drifts away.
Sloan seizes the moment, darting toward a fractured rock column shattered by the pod’s violent crash. They press against its rough surface.
“Okay,” Bag Man grunts. “Got it. Get your gun rea—”
Gun Man yelps, firing bullets in a panicked spray as he spots Sloan charging. Before he can steady his aim, Sloan closes the gap, slamming their drill into his gun hand. The weapon clatters to the floor. With a sharp pivot, they whip the drill around, clobbering him. He crumples instantly.
Bag Man lunges, swinging the laser cutter in a vicious arc. The searing beam scorches through Sloan’s jacket, grazing their arm with a burst of agonizing heat. They grit their teeth but press forward.
Their smart excavator whirs as they thrust it toward Bag Man, forcing him to stumble back, nearly losing his balance. He wildly slashes the laser at them again, but Sloan easily sidesteps, whamming their drill into the side of his head.
The laser cutter clatters to the ground, followed closely by the heavy thud of Bag Man’s unconscious body.
Breathing hard, Sloan inspects the charred slash on their jacket sleeve. The fabric’s burned clean through, exposing angry, raised skin beneath—already red and inflamed. It’ll probably scar. Great.
Their gaze flicks back to the two unconscious men sprawled on the cavern floor. At least, they hope they knocked the two unconscious.
Without wasting another second, Sloan sets down their drill and strides over to the discarded gun. They empty its ammo before chucking the empty weapon into the ravine. The faint metallic clink echoes into the abyss before fading into silence.
Their attention snaps back to the space pod. Its metal frame bears a shaky, uneven circle where the laser cutter had breached its hull. Sloan tentatively grabs the suction tool still anchored to the center of the cutout, lifting the heavy slab of metal and placing it beside their feet with a resonant thunk.
They lean forward—and freeze.
Inside the pod, a pilot sits unconscious, strapped securely into her seat. Her head tilts to one side, long purple bangs spilling across her face, concealing her closed eyes. She’s clad in a dark blue space suit under a cropped orange jacket. Across the front of the jacket, bold white letters spell MARS.
Sloan’s gaze drifts to the stitched patches on her sleeve—one bearing the space pod’s insignia with the words Project Red Promise, the other a smaller patch reading ♡JUN☾⋆ .
Sloan's eyes flicker back to the pilot's face. They hadn’t noticed before, but a thin trail of blood winds from her temple down to her jawline, stark against her pale skin. Something must have hit her head when she crashed.
Even battered and unconscious, there’s something striking about her—a quiet strength etched into her features, fierce even in stillness.
Sloan slips off their backpack and lets it drop with a dull thud. They shrug out of their Wayfinder Society jacket, folding it into a makeshift cushion before placing it on a raised, flat section of rock nearby.
Turning back to the pod, they unclasp the pilot’s seat restraints. The buckles release with a sharp click, leaving her limp and motionless. Sloan slides one arm under her legs, the other around her waist, carefully lifting her.
The weight of her body feels unsettlingly light as they carry her over to the flat rock. They gently set her down, resting her head on their folded jacket.
She's not dead , right?
They think she's breathing, but the longer they stare at her trying to figure it out, the more they feel like a creep.
They turn away, focusing on the two unconscious men sprawled across the cavern floor.
Who are these guys?
Sloan kneels beside one of them, searching for any identifying details. There's nothing about their immediate appearance that gives anything away. Their all-black gear is sleek and well-maintained—definitely not the slapdash look of common looters.
Sloan picks up the laser cutter. This tool, however, is high-tech. The power and precision of the laser challenges Vishkar. Its dark, geometric design contrasts sharply with Vishkar's signature white-and-chrome aesthetic.
They rotate the tool in their hand. No branding, no serial number—nothing. Whoever these people are, it’s obvious they want to stay anonymous, which probably means they’re well-known.
“I’ll just be... taking that,” Sloan mutters, stuffing the laser cutter into their backpack.
It's a cool laser, okay? Also, it's good evidence for later to figure out who these bozos are. Could they just take a photo instead?
Nah.
Sloan stands and saunters over to the space pod, ducking their head inside to survey the cramped compartment. The walls are lined with secured gear: a jet pack, a medical pack, and several sealed containers—probably food and water supplies.
A darkened console sits lifeless, likely fried during the crash. On the floor, a stray astronaut helmet lies at a harsh angle. That’s probably what knocked the pilot out.
Their gaze catches on two photos tacked to the interior wall.
The first is a group shot of ten people, including the unconscious pilot, all clad in similar space gear. They all look older than her.
The second photo is of two women standing next to eachother. One of them bears a striking resemblance to the pilot—probably her mother. But it’s the other woman that makes Sloan’s stomach flip.
Holy shit.
That’s Dr. Mei-Ling Zhou. Renowned climatologist, formerly stationed at Watchpoint: Antarctica—and a legend from Overwatch. Or... ex -Overwatch? Wait—does that make her an ex-ex -Overwatch member now that Overwatch is back?
The hairs on the back of Sloan's neck rise in warning. They whirl around—only to be met with a brutal roundhouse kick to the face. Pain explodes in their nose, sharp and blinding, as their vision swims. Instinctively, their hands fly to their face, cradling their nose. They're pretty sure their nose is broken and they're definitely sure their nose is bleeding.
Blinking through the haze, they force their eyes open. The pilot has a gun pointed at their head.
Oh, that thing's a gun? They thought it was an icing tool for cupcakes and stuff attached to her waist. Why would she have something like that attached to her waist, Sloan? They're tired. Clearly, it's been a rough couple of days lacking pastries.
The pilot’s brows knit in sharp focus as she locks eyes with Sloan. Her gaze is fierce—unyielding—but a flicker of fear simmers beneath the surface. Red-brown eyes gleam with strained intensity from behind strands of purple hair, where a few loose locks naturally curve into the shape of a crescent moon, resting just above her bangs.
Under the harsh white light, her pale skin and soft pink highlights shimmer with an almost ethereal edge, contrasting the grit in her expression. Her stance radiates defiance, but a subtle tremor betrays her—a slight, involuntary shake in the hand clutching the gun as her eyes dart between Sloan’s.
Dios mío, she's pretty.
"Who are you?" she demands, her voice sharp. She keeps her distance and her posture is rigid. From where she stands, she spots the two men sprawled on the ground, then her eyes shift to the jagged hole carved into her pod, suspicion flickering across her face.
"Uh," Sloan mumbles, their voice muffled by the hands still cupping their nose.
The pilot’s piercing gaze snaps back to them, her expression demanding an explanation. Sloan swallows and straightens slightly before speaking. "I’m Sloan Cameron, a member of the Wayfinder Society. We’re a group of archaeologists. We set up dig sites to discover and preserve artifacts. I was... exploring this cave system for ancient cave art and taking photos."
The pilot’s eyebrows arch skeptically as she tilts her head to the side. "Where’s the art, then?" she asks, her tone dripping with disbelief.
"Well—" Sloan looks toward the crumbled columns of rock that were once adorned with faded totem drawings— "some of it got destroyed when you crashed. But that wall over there..." They nod toward an intact section, where a faint figure of a woman stands painted on stone, holding something unidentifiable in front of a small house. "'Not sure what it means, though," they admit, their brow furrowing as they eye the ancient markings.
The pilot follows Sloan’s gaze to the art on the wall, her expression momentarily contemplative before she turns back to them. "What about those people on the ground? Who are they?"
Sloan shrugs, their tone nonchalant. "I dunno." They shift their weight onto one hip and glance back at her. "They showed up a few minutes after you crashed. Seemed like they knew you were going to land in this general area." Sloan gestures vaguely toward the unconscious men. "They had a gun and some high-tech laser to cut open your pod. Figured pretty quickly this wasn’t theirs."
She notices the cut in their shirt where the laser grazed them and the bullet holes peppering the rocks. "Where's the gun?"
"In the ravine," Sloan replies simply.
"And the laser?"
"In my bag."
The pilot narrows her eyes and her lips press into a thin line as if wrestling with an unspoken question. "Did you take it?"
Sloan frowns, confusion creasing their brow. "Take what?"
The pilot doesn’t answer. Instead, she gestures with her gun, her meaning clear: step away from the pod.
Sloan complies, stepping aside. The pilot strides to the pod and crouches by the chair. She opens a hidden compartment, retrieving a small red USB. She turns it over in her fingers, inspecting it for any signs of damage. Satisfied, she partially unzips her jacket and slips the USB into an inside pocket.
Next, she removes the photos pinned to the wall, sparing them a fleeting glance before tucking them into the same pocket. Her gaze flicks back to Sloan as she zips up her jacket, her movements sharp and efficient.
"You know Dr. Mei-Ling Zhou?" Sloan asks cautiously, deciding against pressing about the USB—it seemed personal.
The pilot’s posture stiffens, her head tilting slightly as she studies them. "She is my aunt," she replies, curiosity sparking in her eyes. "Do you know her?"
"I crossed paths with her on one of my first Wayfinder missions in Machu Picchu, Peru," Sloan begins. "She was there for a college research project, observing and recording the climate. The project was supposed to be comparing an untouched area without omnics and technology to one influenced by them. She wasn’t part of our mission, but she updated me and my team whenever we crossed paths."
Sloan’s expression deepens in thought as they continue. "Then she detected something strange—an unexplained climate anomaly on her radar. A tornado. Which shouldn’t be possible in that region." They pause, glancing to the side, replaying the memory. "She warned us immediately, ushering us to a safe zone out of its path before it hit."
The pilot’s features soften, familiarity shining in her eyes. Sloan shakes their head. "It was beyond the scope of her equipment to figure out how it happened. She didn’t have the tech to gather detailed data on it. To this day, it remains a mystery—and nothing like it has happened there since."
A heavy silence settles between them as the pilot seems to weigh every word Sloan has said.
"Juno," she states finally, breaking the tension.
The name catches Sloan off guard, their thoughts of Machu Picchu evaporating in an instant. "What?"
"My name," she repeats. "Juno Teo Minh." Her hand moves with practiced ease as she holsters her gun in the belt around her waist. "I'm a Martian. A member of Lucheng Interstellar's Project Red Promise."
"Whoa, what?" Sloan's eyes widen, their excitement spilling over. "You were born on Mars? That's insane! Does that mean you lived there your whole life?"
Juno looks momentarily sheepish as she grabs the medical pack, attaching it to the back of her belt. "That is correct," she admits.
"¡Qué chido! " Sloan gasps. "Does that make you the first Martian, then?"
Juno glances up at them while adjusting her jet pack, a shy smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "And the only," she replies, her tone light but a little bashful. She fastens the straps of her jet pack securely across her chest, the metallic clicks punctuating the moment.
"You may want to..." Juno trails off, motioning toward Sloan's face, her fingers brushing under her nose.
"Oh." Sloan blinks, suddenly remembering the dried blood beneath their nose. They quickly swipe at it with the back of their hand, slightly embarrassed.
Their mouth opens, ready to fire off another question—because, gosh, they have so many questions—but the sound of pounding footsteps and muffled voices echoes from the far end of the cavern.
Mierda, there's more of them?
"We should get going," Sloan advises, shrugging on their jacket and putting on their backpack before hefting the drill.
Juno leans into her pod, grabbing her helmet while Sloan scans the cave for escape routes.
There’s the way Sloan originally came in—but that would lead straight into a drawn-out, twenty-minute chase. Not ideal.
Then there’s the tunnel the bad guys will be flooding through. Maybe they could hide and wait them out, then slip through. Risky. And not the fun kind.
Sloan’s eyes drift upward toward the ravine. Pale light filters down onto the pod’s scratched hull, illuminating some of the cavern. If they could climb on top of the pod and jump to the rock wall, scaling the ravine might work. It’s a ten-meter climb—doable in twelve seconds… probably. Okay, maybe twenty. The walls are jagged, full of solid handholds and footholds.
The only problem? They wouldn’t be able to haul the smart excavator up— unless…
Sloan’s gaze falls on Juno’s jetpack, their mind sparking with a sudden idea. As if sensing it, Juno turns toward them, her helmet on her head, her expression uncertain and expectant.
Sloan hustles to the side of the pod, bracing their foot on one of its wings. "How much weight can your jet pack carry?" they ask, already climbing up the slanted hull.
Juno watches with a puzzled expression as Sloan steadies themselves and walks carefully along the curved metal. "On Mars, the max load was around 11 kilograms," she replies thoughtfully. "But Earth’s gravity is 2.6 times stronger, so that means maybe I could—"
Before she can finish, shouts echo from the tunnel. Six figures with guns and flashlights barrel into the cavern, their beams slicing through the darkness.
“Spotted them!” one of them yells.
Sloan drops to one knee, extending their arm down toward Juno. "Come on!"
Juno hesitates for a split second, glancing between Sloan’s outstretched hand and the advancing figures. With a reluctant breath, she clasps Sloan’s forearm. They haul her up with ease, her boots skimming the edge of the pod.
She exhales sharply, wide-eyed, appearing caught off guard by something.
Sloan presses the side of their drill against her front, a mischievous grin lighting up their face. "Only one way to find out," they say, voice daring.
Without warning, they let go of the drill, forcing Juno to frantically grab it before it drops. "Wha—!" she stammers, struggling to balance its awkward weight.
Before she can protest, Sloan leaps from the pod to the nearest rock wall of the ravine. The pod groans, its metal frame scraping against jagged stone as it shifts from the sudden movement.
Gunfire erupts below them, bullets peppering the pod’s side in bursts of deafening clangs.
A sharp yelp from below grabs Sloan's attention.
Juno’s thrusters ignite with a forceful whoosh, propelling her upward in a shaky spiral, the drill clutched awkwardly in her arms. The jetpack hums with strained intensity, its pitch rising as she wobbles mid-air, clearly struggling against the drill’s weight while trying to stabilize her flight.
Sloan glances up just in time to see the distressed look on her face as she spins through the misty ravine. They can’t help but laugh as they stretch for the next handhold and pull themselves higher.
By the time the pursuers reach the middle of the ravine, Sloan scrambles over the last ledge, panting. Juno is already perched at the edge, one knee bent, her hand extended toward them.
Sloan grabs her wrist, letting her steady them as they clamber over the rim. They collapse onto the soft grass for a moment, catching their breath, before pushing themselves upright and retrieving their drill from the ground.
The ravine opens into a vast, quiet field bordered by a thick forest of yellow and orange trees. Fog still clings stubbornly to the tree line, shrouding the landscape in a hazy, surreal glow.
Damn, it’s bright out here. Sloan squints, momentarily stunned by the sharp contrast of light piercing through the mist. Their eyes feel sunken and heavy. The weight of the drill seems to double in their grip, and their shoulders protest with every breath.
"Are guns really necessary?" Juno asks with a nervous laugh as she steps up beside Sloan, glancing warily back toward the ravine.
Sloan shrugs, shifting their hold on their drill. "You must be preeetty dangerous," they half-joke, flashing a crooked grin.
Juno stiffens, her expression tightening as if genuinely offended by the suggestion. It was kinda cute. She clearly misses the teasing tone.
"Hey," Sloan adds, raising an eyebrow. "You did kick me in the face."
Juno looks away, embarrassed. "I… wasn’t sure if you were a threat or not," she mutters defensively.
"Exactly," Sloan concludes, turning toward the fog-covered tree line. Juno lingers behind for a moment, they can feel her eyes on their back, watching them before following.
Where are they? The dense fog makes it impossible to tell where the beach is. Usually, Sloan uses the sun for navigation, but the mist smothers the sky in an impenetrable white.
Sloan digs into their pocket and pulls out their phone. A Wayfinder notification pops up at the top of the screen— Looters Reported at Dig Site, Dorado, Mexico.
They pause, curiosity sparking, fingers hovering over the alert. After a moment, they swipe it away. Later.
Their bike’s tracker pings on the GPS—1,260 meters out.
"Where are we going?" Juno asks, peering over Sloan’s shoulder at the screen.
Sloan pockets the phone. “We’ve gotta get to my bike. We’re not exactly in the clear yet.” They tilt their head toward the forest ahead. “It’s about a 15-minute walk.”
Juno fidgets with the end of her jacket's sleeve and nods, falling into step beside them, her gaze flicking cautiously toward the shrouded treetops. The eerie quiet of the fog-bound forest presses around them, amplifying every crunch of their boots on the damp grass.
She prudently raises a gloved hand, fingertips brushing over the rough bark of the passing spruce and fir trees. Her expression softens with quiet wonder as she catches a golden leaf drifting down from above and turns it delicately between her fingers.
"I’m in Nova Scotia, Canada, correct?" she asks, holding the leaf in her open palm.
"Yep!" Sloan chirps.
A gentle breeze sweeps through the forest, lifting the leaf from her hand. She watches as it twirls gracefully through the air, joining a swirling dance of fallen leaves scattered across the forest floor.
"It’s very pretty here," she murmurs, her voice tinged with awe.
A peaceful stillness settles between them, broken only by the rustling leaves and the distant caw of a lone bird.
Sloan walks in thoughtful silence, questions twisting in their mind, but each one feels too personal to bring up yet.
They glance over, watching Juno trail her gloved fingers across another tree trunk, her pace slowing now and then to marvel at the curling mist or the vivid carpet of autumn leaves underfoot. Her eyes shine in fascination, taking in every detail.
It reminds them of how they feel whenever they unearth something extraordinary on a dig—something ancient, long-hidden, and full of stories waiting to be told. Right now, Juno wears that same expression of esteem and discovery, as if the world around her is a relic from some distant, impossible dream.
The air feels thinner, colder—like the forest itself began holding its breath. The gentle rhythm of the breeze stills, leaving the world unnervingly quiet. The golden light filtering through the trees fades, likely smothered by a passing cloud, but the dimness feels... wrong. Sharper. More intentional.
Something feels off.
Juno starts to speak but falters when she notices Sloan freeze mid-step. Their eyes sharpen, scanning the fog-draped forest.
A low, dark purr of expectancy hums at the edge of Sloan's mind, primal and electric. Slowly, the hairs on the back of their neck lift.
Sloan grabs Juno, yanking her behind a thick tree just as a gunshot cracks through the stillness.
Pain explodes in Sloan's shoulder, sharp and searing. They exhale through clenched teeth, fighting back a pained growl as heat blooms under their skin.
Juno reacts instantly, drawing her gun in one fluid motion. She leans around the tree, firing back toward the source of the shot, bark and leaves splintering under her precise aim.
She slips back behind cover, regarding Sloan critically. Her eyes widen as she spots the dark stain spreading across their jacket.
"You're hit," she says, uneasy.
Sloan grimaces but manages a strained, "It’s—fine."
Juno ignores them, pressing a firm hand against their chest to steady their fidgeting frame. Before they can protest, she raises her gun and points it at their shoulder.
Sloan’s eyes widen. "What are you—"
She pulls the trigger.
A sharp hiss escapes them—but instead of fresh pain, a soothing coolness floods their shoulder, numbing the fiery ache in seconds.
Breath hitching, Sloan blinks at her, stunned. "What… was that?"
“Cryoshot,” she explains shakily, already checking the perimeter again. “My mediblaster automatically switches ammunition type." she quickly adds. "Temporary fix. You’ll still need stitches.”
The two flinch when another series of shots fire from a different location, the bullets blasting off chunks of bark from their cover.
There are at least two shooters hidden in the fog—probably more if it’s the same group from the ravine.
"I can't do anything from here, I need to get closer," Sloan mutters.
Ducking behind the next tree might risk them being shot at again and if the bad guys are smart, they'll just back up with each advance.
"I'm going underground," Sloan says, sliding on their goggles. "They'll hear me coming, so while they're focused on me—" Sloan activates their smart excavator with a low, mechanical whir. They look up from their drill to Juno. "You pick them off."
Juno nods with an affirmative hum.
Sloan speeds up their drill, dislodging rock and dirt as they breach the earth. Within seconds, they're beneath the surface. It's damp and cool underground as they strategically navigate with their drill toward where they last heard gunfire—but the bad guy could’ve moved by now.
Sloan pauses, slowing their drill to listen.
They hear a piercing gunshot approximately three meters ahead and to the right, followed by the short, rhythmic bursts of Juno's mediblaster—about ten meters behind them.
Sloan powers their drill back up, surging forward through the earth. When they’re directly below the source of the shot, they crank the drill at a sharp 90-degree angle and activate the thrusters on their boots and backpack.
With a thunderous blast, they burst through the ground, sending a shower of dirt and autumn leaves skyward. They collide into the bad guy, knocking him off his feet.
Still airborne, Sloan launches a seismic charge from their smart excavator. The charge bursts on impact, releasing a concussive shockwave that knocks the man out cold as he crumples into the dirt.
Sloan lands in a low crouch, leaves scattering around them in a golden flurry. Before they can catch their breath, movement flickers at the edge of their vision—another bad guy slinks out from behind a tree, his gun trained directly on them.
Sloan tenses, getting ready to dodge.
Short, controlled bursts cut through the air. The bad guy falls unconscious to the ground.
Breathing heavily, Sloan turns just in time to see Juno lowering her mediblaster.
They offer her a half-smirk— nice shot.
She gives a slight nod, lips twitching from a nervous pout into the faintest hint of a smile.
Before either of them can relax, a sharp ting echoes from Sloan’s backpack, followed by the crackle of a damaged thruster sparking erratically. They swiftly duck behind a nearby tree as another bullet whizzes past, barely missing their side.
Shit.
They shrug off their backpack, grimacing at the bullet lodged deep into one of the thrusters. It’s beyond saving for now. Reluctantly, they set the pack down against the base of the tree. They'll come back for it later.
Peering carefully around the tree’s edge, Sloan spots a small clearing up ahead. Six figures crouch behind a cluster of jagged gray boulders—guns at the ready.
A sudden shuffle of leaves behind them snaps their attention around, but before they can react—
BOOM!
A plasmic explosion blasts into the ground just feet away, sending a shockwave through the air. Sloan stumbles forward out of cover, barely catching their balance as Juno slams into their back, both of them knocked into the open. The air crackles with charged static, and the smell of scorched earth stings their nose.
Juno snaps her arm up. deploying a large, shimmering blue ring in front of them—a crackling rift of distorted energy.
The air warps and bends, folding inward like ripples in water. Time and space seem to twist around the glowing ring, reality bending at its edges. Sloan's muscles twitch as the surge courses through their veins, igniting every nerve with an electrifying jolt. Every movement feels sharper and faster.
Gunfire erupts, but Sloan is already moving. They slam their smart excavator into the earth with a deafening whir, carving through rock and soil.
They feel Juno’s hands frantically fist the front of their jacket, her thighs locking tightly against their sides as they plunge underground in less than a second. Their drill tears through the earth, muscles twitching with amplified speed and control. Everything is happening in double time.
When they near the bad guys’ last position at the rocks, Sloan angles the drill upward, boot thrusters priming with a charged hum. The loss of their backpack thrusters complicates things—but then they feel it: vibrations rippling through Juno’s arms where they grip the front of Sloan’s jacket.
Her jet pack ignites with a sudden burst of force.
That’s the cue.
They launch upward, soil and leaves exploding outward in a wide, chaotic spray as they burst from the ground, knocking the bad guys back.
Juno peeks over Sloan’s shoulder, her visor blipping, locking on to the six targets. Her jet pack shifts, ready to deploy her torpedoes.
Sloan’s laugh is almost inaudible over the humming of their drill. “Surprise!”
The torpedoes are released with a twinkling sound and all six of them hunt down their targets with precision, striking them in the head and knocking them out cold.
Sloan lands with a heavy thud, dirt crunching beneath their boots as they huff. They adjust their grip on their smart excavator as the drill’s mechanical spin winds to a halt.
The dust and leaves settle around the two of them in a circle. Sloan lifts up their goggles.
“That was awesome!” Sloan whoops.
Juno startles, wrenching the front of Sloan’s shirt.
“We were going so fast! Oh man, they didn’t even see us coming!” Sloan holds their smart excavator in one hand as they dramatically gesture their free hand. “And the look on those guys’ faces… I mean, usually I can sneak up on people pretty good, but this time we were going so fast they couldn't even react!”
Sloan looks over their shoulder to see a wide-eyed Juno. “That was a great combo! How’d you know that’d work?”
Juno glances away. “I didn’t. Honestly—” she anxiously puffs out a laugh— “I was just reacting.”
Sloan grins. “Good reacting then.”
They cock their head to the side and bring a hand to their chin. “The thrusters on your jet pack made it way easier to drill outta the ground. I was kinda worried there for a sec.”
Their eyes gleam with curiosity. “And that ring thing you used—what was that? You’ve also got torpedoes in your jet pack?”
Her grip on their jacket loosens as she speaks. "The ring I deployed is called a hyper ring. As you probably inferred, it increases the movement speed of allies that pass through it."
"And those homing projectiles are called pulsar torpedoes. They heal allies over time and damage enemies on impact."
Sloan’s eyebrows shoot up, impressed. "So... you’re basically a one-woman support artillery?"
Juno offers a faint, shy smile. "Something like that."
Before either can say more, Sloan lets out an exhausted sigh, muttering under their breath, “Maldita sea, esta chica tiene unos muslos fuertes. ”
Juno perks up. “What does that mean?”
“Uh…” Sloan shifts their weight to one hip and eyes her from the side. “Are you okay? You’re a little tense.”
Juno’s eyebrows pinch together and her lips dip into a frown. “What do you mean?”
Sloan raises a brow and pats one of Juno’s thighs.
Heat rushes from Juno’s neck to her ears as realization dawns. She releases her death grip, hurriedly hopping off Sloan's back, her face practically glowing red. Her gaze flickers everywhere but them as she fidgets with the end of her jacket sleeve.
Sloan leans down slightly, raising a hand in a reassuring manner. “Don’t sweat it. I don’t mind you on top of me.”
They cringe inwardly, waving a hand as if erasing the words from existence. “I MEAN—I don’t mind the proximity.”
Nope. Still bad.
“I JUST MEAN that if you’re scared you can rely on me.”
Better. Slightly.
Sloan clears their throat, desperate for a topic change. “We definitely gotta combo like that again—especially since those guys will still be on us.”
Juno nods slowly, still clearly processing, though she doesn’t seem to understand why Sloan is flustered. Without another word, she turns away, already scanning the foggy treeline for other possible threats.
Sloan exhales silently, dragging a hand down their face.
...
Sloan secures their backpack to the back of their motorcycle. With a soft click, they unfasten the thrusters on their boots and stow them neatly in the rear compartment. They remove their goggles from their head, storing it in one of the saddle bags.
Their gaze drifts toward the beach, where Juno kneels by the water’s edge, her fingers trailing through the sand and grazing the cool surface of the shallow tide. Her helmet rests beside her, not needed for the moment.
The foggy sunlight glimmers against her purple hair, loose strands settling around her shoulders as her long bangs sway gently in the ocean breeze. The blood from her head injury is gone, washed away by the ocean's cool water.
Sloan pauses, hesitating. Sand crunches under their boots as they approach her. They don't want to steal this moment from her, but they can't stay here. It's not safe.
Before they can speak, Juno’s quiet voice drifts over the sound of the ocean.
"I’ve only ever seen images of Earth," she says thoughtfully, her gaze fixed on the horizon. "It always amazed me that there were... naturally bodies of water— everywhere."
Her fingers skim the sand, gathering a loose handful and letting the grains slip slowly between them. "On Mars, uncontained water was a safety hazard. It could damage habitat walls or cause equipment failure."
The edge of a wave gently brushes her knees, leaving behind a small, white seashell. She cups it carefully, holding it as though it might break.
“Why does the water here move?” she asks.
It takes Sloan a moment to understand what she means. "They're called waves," they explain. "It's caused by wind blowing across the surface of the ocean."
Juno’s brows furrow slightly, considering the explanation. Her fingers trace the smooth curve of the shell as she watches the water rise and retreat. After a quiet moment, she stands, her gaze lingering on the ocean before turning to face Sloan.
"Is there anyway I can help get you to where you need to go?" they ask.
She studies them, considering something. "Why are you helping me?" Her tone isn’t defensive or suspicious—she's genuinely asking.
They quirk a brow, offering a half-shrug. "Why not?"
She frowns slightly. "You don't even know me."
"True," they admit easily. "But I'm pretty sure that's how every friendship starts out." Their tone carries a playful teasing edge, though there’s warmth behind it.
When she doesn't look convinced, they continue. "Seriously, I just like helping people when I can... and I might be a sucker for mystery and adventure."
Her expression flickers, something unreadable passing through her eyes—fear... uncertainty... hesitation... trust.
For the first time, her shoulders relax ever so slightly, tension easing from her stance. “Okay,” she murmurs. “We should talk more, just not here.”
“Agreed,” Sloan says with a heavy exhale, their voice rougher than intended. Their shoulder throbs where the bullet hit, a persistent ache flaring as they shove their hands into their pockets.
Earlier, Juno had wrapped the wound to stop the bleeding—the makeshift bandage now tugs uncomfortably against the inside of their shirt.
“Back to my place?”
...
The drive to Sloan’s apartment takes about an hour, the lone road walled by orange and yellow trees, slowly giving way to speeding cars and small clusters of buildings bathed in sunlight.
They come to a red light, the motorcycle idling smoothly beneath them. Two bikers roll up in the adjacent lane, their engines rumbling deep. One of them whistles, his eyes behind his visor raking over Juno with exaggerated flair.
Sloan internally cringes, already expecting the comment.
“Nice backpack, man!” the biker shouts, his voice rough and grating. “Where’d you pick up that pretty little thing from? 2001 Odyssey?”
Sloan doesn’t turn their head, keeping their eyes fixed on the traffic ahead, watching the two bikers from the corner of their eye. They feel Juno’s grip tighten ever so slightly around their waist, her unease palpable in the subtle shift of her fingers.
Fortunately, the light turns green before any of the two bikers can say anything more. Sloan twists the throttle, the motorcycle surging forward, leaving the two bikers behind.
...
At some point during the drive, they stop at a gas station. While refueling, Sloan grabs water and snacks for Juno—the last thing they want is for the first Martian under their watch to die of starvation. They pick out a couple of granola bars, trail mix, and a small pre-packaged sandwich.
Juno eats with cautious curiosity, her eyes lighting up when she decides she likes the taste. As she nibbles, she drifts through the aisles, wide-eyed, inspecting everything.
There's a gift shop where she picks out casual clothes, practical but comfortable—pants, a hoodie, and some shirts—that Sloan pays for without question, storing the items neatly in the saddlebag for later.
The last time they’d been excited to go to a gas station, they’d been four years old, clutching their mamá’s hand while she bought them candy from the checkout counter.
Watching Juno stare in awe at something as mundane as a slushy machine leaves Sloan faintly amused. Her expression is of pure wonder, as if she’s standing at the base of the Great Pyramid of Giza the day it was built.
...
It’s early evening by the time they reach Sloan’s apartment complex, the sky washed in soft hues of orange and purple, the fading light casting long shadows across the quiet parking lot. The motorcycle rumbles to a stop, its engine fading into silence.
Juno slides off the seat, stretching stiffly before looking up at the modest brick building.
Sloan kicks down the stand, glancing toward her. "You alright?"
"Yeah." She removes her helmet, blowing a long strand of purple hair out of her face. "My legs just feel..."
"Like jelly?" Sloan offers as they dismount their bike and pull off their own helmet.
Juno tilts her head, considering. "I think so?"
Sloan chuckles softly, already unloading their gear. They unstrap their backpack and drill, grimacing as a sharp pain flares in their shoulder.
Juno watches from the corner of her eye, quietly noting the strain in Sloan’s posture. She steps forward and lifts the saddlebags from the back of the bike with one hand, balancing her helmet under her other arm.
Sloan adjusts their grip on the smart excavator, nodding toward the apartment entrance. “Come on.”
Juno falls in step, following them through the parking lot as the first stars blink to life in the darkening sky.
“You don’t see as many stars here as you do on Mars,” Juno observes.
"You can thank pollution for that," Sloan says.
A little ahead, the apartment entrance door creaks open, spilling dim yellow light onto the worn concrete steps. An older woman with thin, white hair steps out, fussing with it as she mutters something under her breath, clearly annoyed.
Sloan’s jaw tightens, their lips pressing into a thin, displeased line.
Please don't tell me that's Linda.
"Pollution from what? Factories?" Juno asks, cocking her head.
"That, but also from light pollution. It's worse in the cities," Sloan explains as their eyes track the woman.
The woman nearly trips on the three tiny steps leading down from the entryway, too preoccupied with fumbling through her bright red Coach purse.
Sloan sighs internally. Fóllame... that is definitely Linda.
Beside them, Juno twists her head, still gazing up at the sky, almost bumping into Sloan. "It's so strange seeing one moon instead of—"
She's cut off by an abrasive, shrill voice tearing through the cold air.
"Sloan Cameron!"
Uh oh.
Sloan stiffens, their shoulders tensing painfully as they spare a glance toward the inevitable confrontation.
Linda.
Her nose is scrunched in obvious disdain, and she adjusts her small, rectangular glasses like she’s preparing to read them their last rites.
“This is the third girl you’ve brought back this month!” she scolds, one hand on her hip while the other strangles her bright red Coach bag.
She’s been... counting?
“I am tired of your lack of consideration for your neighbors—” she shakes the bag for emphasis—“including me!”
Sloan swallows a groan, fixing their gaze on anything but Linda, silently urging the apartment door to be closer than it actually is.
They pass by the bottom of the steps, Juno blinking in confusion but staying quiet as Linda continues her rant.
"I am not kidding," Linda sniffs, lifting her chin. "I will file a noise complaint."
Sloan keeps their head down, resolutely avoiding eye contact from the parking lot all the way to the apartment entrance.
They open the apartment door for Juno, pausing when they catch Linda's sharp intake of breath. Before she can fire off another snide comment, Sloan glances back over their shoulder.
“Does your husband know you’ve been visiting that guy who works at the Domino’s on Brook Street?” they ask with mock curiosity, voice dripping with innocent interest.
Linda visibly freezes, her eyes widening just a fraction as her lips twitch, threatening to frown.
Sloan leans casually against the side of the door, head tilted like they’re genuinely thinking. "What's his face again..?" They draw the question out, pretending to search their memory. "Daryll?"
If Linda could be compared to a basic household item right now, she'd be a kettle Sloan left on the stove for too long.
"Buenas noches, Linda," they force out a warm farewell, closing the door behind them before she can say anything else.
They head toward the stairs, the old wooden steps creaking under their boots with each step. Behind them, Juno lingers near the entrance, her gaze still fixed on the door, as if expecting Linda to burst through at any moment.
After a beat, she catches up, falling into step behind Sloan as they ascend the next flight.
"What was that about?" She asks curiously.
Sloan glances over their shoulder, their expression neutral. “She’s cheating on her husband,” they reply matter-of-factly, rounding the corner of the steps as they continue up another flight.
Juno’s brows lift in surprise. "Should we tell her husband?"
Sloan angles their head, unfazed. "Oh, yeah—he's cheating on her too with the same guy."
Juno stares for a long moment, clearly processing the drama. "That almost sounds like how my father would retell his upper secondary school experience. Terrans are very strange."
Sloan snorts, adjusting their backpack as they reach the final landing.
There’s a brief pause, stretching just long enough to suggest Juno might ask something else, but she doesn’t. Her expression flickers with quiet contemplation as she continues to follow them.
The two continue down the hallway, the worn carpet muffling their steps as they pass faded apartment doors marked with peeling brass numbers. The air smells faintly of old wood and something savory from someone’s late dinner.
Sloan stops in front of door 308, gesturing with their helmet toward Juno. "Hold this?"
She nods, still balancing her own helmet under one arm as she takes theirs.
They reach into their pocket. The keys jingle softly as Sloan unlocks the door, the metallic sound echoing in the hallway. They push the door open, stepping aside to let Juno pass through first before shutting and locking it behind them.
Their body moves on autopilot, heading straight to the large desk in the small living area. With a heavy thud, they drop their drill onto the floor beside the desk and flick on the desk lamp, its soft glow casting warm light over cluttered tools and scattered notes.
With a sharp inhale, they carefully slide off their backpack, grinding their teeth as pain flares in their injured shoulder. They set their damaged bag on the table to repair later.
Sloan hisses through clenched teeth, wincing as they shrug out of their jacket, draping the worn material over the back of the desk chair.
They exhale a long, exhausted sigh. Maldita sea, estoy cansado.
They raise a hand to grip the back of their neck, massaging stiff muscles that practically scream at them to lie down.
When was the last time they actually slept? A day ago? Three? Probably closer to two, if they even count the scattered one-hour naps they've some how managed to get.
Juno appears in the corner of their vision. She's looking up at them with her big, red-brown eyes, filled with gentle concern.
"Let me fix that for you."
The words almost sound like a question, but there’s an underlying tone that leaves no room for refusal.
Sloan pulls out chairs for both of them. She promptly sits down, unclasping her medic pack from around her waist and placing it on the desk. She unzips it, retrieving supplies while Sloan tugs down the neckline of their turtleneck, shrugging their injured arm free as they settle into the chair beside her.
The small apartment is quiet, save for the soft hum of the desk lamp and the faint murmur of a TV from the other side of the wall.
They watch with half-lidded eyes as she arranges gauze, antiseptic, and forceps in neat rows.
She pulls out a pair of small scissors and turns toward Sloan. Her gaze lingers briefly on the makeshift bandage she applied earlier, now stained a deep rust-red where the blood had seeped through. She brings the scissors to the old wrap, snipping the bandage and carefully removing it.
The wound is deep, angry red and swollen, with the metallic glint of the embedded bullet just visible beneath torn, bruised skin.
Juno’s gaze flickers toward Sloan, her brow furrowing briefly before she sets the scissors down and picks up the forceps. Her grip is steady, but there’s a flicker of unease—less about the procedure and more about something else.
Probably should say something...
"So..." Excellent start. "Are there other medics on Mars?"
Juno sterilizes the forceps, the sharp smell of antiseptic cutting through the stale apartment air.
"Yes," she hums, turning back to them. "There are two others, Amara Lior and Kaelen Taris. They taught me everything I know about medicine."
She hovers the forceps just before their shoulder. "This will hurt."
With sure, precise movements, she presses the forceps into the wound, searching for the bullet with practiced efficiency. The sensation is white-hot, sending a jagged spike of pain radiating through Sloan’s arm. They hiss sharply, jaw clenching against the burning sting.
With a smooth pull, she extracts the bullet, holding it briefly in the light before letting it clatter onto the desk.
Sloan’s breath shudders as the searing pain fades into a deep, persistent throb. Their fingers twitch, half-curled into a fist before relaxing again.
“What are they like?” they ask, voice rough but curious.
Juno works quickly, flushing the wound with antiseptic before applying pressure with clean gauze. Her hands remain steady, her touch firm but never harsh.
"Amara is like my strict grandma,” Juno continues, her voice softening with a hint of nostalgia. “If I performed a wrap wrong—which I usually did, according to her standards—she’d bonk me on the head with the nearest object and make me redo it… three times.”
Sloan huffs a quiet laugh, their breath still shaky from the lingering ache in their shoulder. “Sounds intense.”
“She is,” Juno agrees, a small, fond smile tugging at her lips. “But she taught me patience and precision.”
Juno grabs a suture kit from her med pack, threading a curved needle with practiced ease. “The wound’s deep,” she explains. “It needs stitches."
Sloan simply nods.
The needle pierces skin with a faint tug. Pain blooms sharply, but Juno’s fingers remain steady, tightening each stitch with measured care.
“And Kaelen?” Sloan prompts gently, sensing that talking seems to ease her tension.
Juno’s eyes lighten, her expression softening further as she secures another knot with a decisive twist. “Kaelen’s the opposite. He has more patience with me than Amara.”
When she finishes the stitching job, she sets the needle and surgical suture down. She retrieves a bandage, securing it around the bullet wound. Her fingers linger briefly on Sloan’s arm, checking the bandage’s tightness.
Her gaze traces down their arm, perhaps noting the tattoos or the raised burn scar from the laser cutter.
“He used to tell the worst jokes during medical procedures,” she continues, a faint laugh slipping through. “Said it distracted patients from the pain... though it usually just made me groan.” Her smile widens slightly, warmth softening the edges of her voice. “He was a veteran too. He taught me combat skills along with medicine.”
Sloan smiles. “They sound like talented people.”
"They are," she murmurs, almost to herself.
A comfortable silence stretches between them. Juno stares thoughtfully to the side, perhaps thinking of her family back on Mars.
Sloan leans back with a slow exhale, the weight of exhaustion pressing against them, making their eyes feel sunken and heavy. "Thank you," they say, catching her attention. "Amara and Kaelen did a pretty good job, I must say."
Juno blinks, momentarily surprised by the compliment. “I feel like I should be thanking you,” she replies, sitting up a little straighter. “You did take the bullet for me.”
Sloan hums thoughtfully, tilting their head. “Even Stevens, then.”
...
After Juno suggested they take some ibuprofen for the pain, Sloan helped her figure out how to use the shower— because it’s been about several months too long since she’s had one. She also asked for scissors, which they handed over without question.
Now, the steady hiss of running water fills the small apartment, blending with the occasional creak of old pipes.
Sloan sits hunched at their desk, laptop propped open, its soft blue glow illuminating their tired features.
The high-tech laser they’d swiped from the bad guys rests beside the laptop, its sleek design gleaming faintly under the desk lamp.
Several browser tabs clutter the screen: High-Tech Laser Cutters, Vishkar, Vishkar Competitors, Lucheng Interstellar, Lucheng Interstellar Competitors. Sloan scrolls through corporate portfolios and product archives, clicking through schematics and catalogs—but nothing matches the laser sitting on their desk.
Both Vishkar and Lucheng Interstellar have long lists of rival companies, making it difficult to narrow down possibilities.
They’ve already ruled out the idea of the attackers being some minor, unknown group—everything about them was too methodical. Their plain, tactical gear was organized, functional, and unmistakably high-end.
Sloan holds up the bullet that was wedged in their shoulder, examining it under the desk lamp with a pair of tweezers. Its matte finish and lack of serial markings tell it's custom-made.
They turn it over, the metal catching the light. Bullets instead of pulse rounds. Easier to trace back pulse-based ammunition given its proprietary tech signatures, energy imprints, and common corporate manufacturers.
Whoever these people are, they’ve deliberately chosen to remain anonymous.
There's the sharp squeak of the shower knob turning, followed by the silence of stopped water.
Their mind continues to churn: How do these people connect to Juno? How did they know where and when she was going to land? Why is she important to them?
And what’s up with that plasma grenade they used?
With a weary sigh, Sloan presses their palms against their eyes, feeling the familiar pull of exhaustion gnawing at the edges of their mind.
“Hello.”
Juno’s voice comes from startlingly close. They nearly jump out of their skin.
Sloan does a double-take.
She’s cut her hair. Her bangs now rest just above her eyes, neat and out of the way, no longer drifting across her face in loose strands. The rest of her purple hair stops just below her ears, framing her face in soft, precise lines, no longer draping down along her shoulders.
She’s wearing the casual clothes they’d bought at the gas station's gift shop—a vintage t-shirt and joggers that fit a little loosely but somehow suit her perfectly.
A faint hint of lavender lingers in the air. She must’ve used one of those unused shampoos Sloan’s neighbor gifted them a while back—the ones they’d stashed in the bathroom cabinet and promptly forgotten.
"Hey," Sloan murmurs, clearing their throat. "I haven't found much yet on those guys that were at your pod."
Her eyes flicker to the computer screen, leaning forward slightly. She crosses her arms over her chest, looking to the side as she considers something.
After a moment, she releases a short, tired sigh.
"I need help—" she nervously fiddles with the end of her sleeve—"not just for me, but for everyone back on Mars."
Sloan rests their head on their propped-up hand, staring up at her intently.
She hesitates, still debating how much to share.
“We...” she begins, her shoulders sagging slightly. “We thought we had more time on Mars—a couple years, maybe.” Her voice dips, tinged with bitterness.
“But it became increasingly clear with each storm... that it wouldn’t be habitable anymore.” She leans back against the desk. “The Red Promise Project... it was supposed to be a kick-starter mission—to gather data on the region and figure out how to make Mars habitable. We were never meant to stay.”
Her expression tightens. “Supplies ran low, and the climate... it damaged habitats and critical equipment. We lost contact with Lucheng Interstellar eight months ago—couldn’t inform them, couldn’t request help.”
Her eyes lower, the weight of responsibility etched deeply into her features. “My family... everyone on Mars decided they only had enough resources to send one person to Earth and get help.”
Her voice quiets, thick with emotion that threatens to crack—anger? grief? guilt?
Her jaw clenches, attempting to force her expression to be neutral. “The flight took six months. I was supposed to land closer to China, but...” She pauses, searching for the right words.
“Something happened.”
Her gaze hardens with confusion. “And those people at my pod clearly didn’t want me making contact with Lucheng Interstellar.” She shakes her head, frustrated. “The reason... eludes me.”
Sloan slowly nods, running a hand through their hair. "Let's get you and Lucheng Interstellar hooked up, then."
They pull up the company’s official website, scrolling until they find a contact number listed for the support center. They whip out their phone and dial the number.
The phone rings while they wait for someone to answer. They hand their phone over to Juno.
She takes it slowly, surprise flashing across her face—was she expecting this to be more difficult?
The ringing stops with a click, followed by a calm voice on the other end:
“Hello, this is the Lucheng Interstellar support center. I’m Yu Chen. How may I be of assistance?”
Juno straightens, her voice steady but urgent. “Hello, I’m Juno Teo Minh, a member of the Red Promise Project. We lost contact, and I was sent to Earth to inform you that we need help.”
There's a long pause before Yu Chen responds, their voice clipped. "One moment, I’m transferring you to another line."
The call cuts to what can only be described as... elevator music.
Juno slowly pulls the phone away, a perturbed expression settling across on her face as she stares at the screen.
Sloan deadpans. "They did not just put you on hold."
She looks at them confused as they turn back to their laptop, pulling up their email. "The next best thing we can do is email them."
They start composing a new message, quickly inputting the official Lucheng Interstellar contact email into the send field. With a smooth spin, they turn the laptop toward Juno, the cursor blinking on the empty message box.
Juno sets the phone down on the desk, the god-awful elevator music still drifting faintly from the speaker. She types up the message, twirling the laptop back toward Sloan when she's done. They glance over it briefly before hitting the send button with a click.
Sloan leans back in their chair, arms crossing thoughtfully, their gaze lingering on the laptop screen.
“They’re a big company,” they say skeptically. “I’m not sure how much attention they actually pay to their email, let alone believe any of them are as serious as yours.”
Their eyes narrow slightly. “Given how they literally just put you on hold, they might not even respond. Which is actually really weird.”
Their brows furrow deeper as they look up at her, their suspicion evident in their voice. “Did you think that exchange was... off?”
She regards them carefully, considering. "I'm... not sure," she admits. "I suppose something about it felt rehearsed?"
Her arms cross, unconsciously mirroring Sloan’s posture. “Maybe they’re just cautious?”
Sloan sighs, rubbing their temple. “Or maybe someone doesn’t want you getting through at all.”
The phone continues to mockingly play the elevator music in the background. They exchange a tense glance, unease hanging thick in the room.
“Yeah... we’re probably gonna have to find the fastest way to get you to Lucheng in person,” they muse.
"By plane?" She suggests.
Sloan tosses the idea around in their head for a moment. "Those guys are most likely still on us, we don't wanna create a Red Eye moment."
Juno tilts her head, her expression shifting into adorable confusion. “What’s that?”
"Ah—" Sloan scratches the back of their neck— "it's a movie where the main character is held hostage on a plane and is forced to help him assassinate the United States Deputy Secretary of Homeland Security," they quickly explain. "The last thing we want is getting forced into a corner or putting other people's lives in danger," they reason.
She nods in understanding.
They have a motorcycle, and while reliable, it would make reaching China a long and grueling task. The thought of riding for hours on end already feels exhausting.
Cabs or public buses seem like better options—less risky and constricting than a plane, more comfortable than a motorcycle—but far slower and expensive.
"Can we contact Overwatch?" Juno offers.
Sloan blinks. “That...” They pause, actually isn’t a bad idea.
They could definitely use help like that, protection and easy transport to China. They'd probably be willing to help, considering Juno’s aunt is part of the group and Sloan briefly working with them in the past—not forgetting to mention people's lives are on the line.
“Is a great idea.” They nod slowly, already thinking ahead. “Only problem is...” They exhale, crossing their arms. “You can’t really contact them. They just kinda show up where they think they’re needed.”
They both pause, exchanging a look of shared understanding, the same idea sparking between them.
“So... what’s going on in the world right now that would need Overwatch?” Juno ponders aloud, voicing exactly what Sloan was already thinking.
Sloan received a notification hours ago from the Wayfinder Society, a ping about looters spotted at a dig site in Dorado, Mexico.
They snatch their phone from the desk, promptly ending the still-active elevator-music call. They swipe through their phone, opening the Wayfinder app and pulling up the notification log for more details.
The Wayfinder notification reports looters trespassing at the Dorado dig site, carelessly handling ancient artifacts. An attached image shows a shattered clay jar, its contents spilled and broken across the dusty ground.
Their brows knit, reading further:
"Artifacts ignored... Looters possibly searching for something specific."
"Mini-earthquakes reported... possible TNT blasts in nearby tunnels."
They tense when they reach the last image. It’s blurry, taken from far away, but the figure is unmistakable—tall, imposing, with a wild mane of dark hair.
The attached caption reads:
"Is Talon at another dig site?"
Juno leans in, her curiosity piqued by Sloan’s sudden shift in demeanor.
"Who's that?" she asks, looking at the blurry photo.
"Talon," Sloan mutters. "More specifically, Mauga," they add with contempt.
Her expression flickers with familiarity at the mention of Talon.
Sloan huffs, turning off their phone and setting it down on the desk. “Apparently, they’re trespassing at a dig site in Dorado, Mexico.”
They run a hand along the side of their neck, a habitual gesture as their mind works through the implications.
“I ran into them before at a dig site in Ilios, Greece. They were looking for something specific but couldn’t find it.” Their voice dips as they think aloud. “Maybe they’re continuing the search in Dorado.”
They wave a hand dismissively. "Anyway, where there's Talon, there's usually Overwatch."
Juno’s eyes brighten, hope flickering in her expression. "You think we should go there, then? Possibly encountering Overwatch?"
"Yeah," they sigh. "I think this is our best lead right now. Though—" they slouch subtly in the chair— "it's still a long way from here to there. It's gonna take several days."
Determination radiates from her as her posture straightens. "Whatever it takes."
Sloan smiles faintly, impressed by her tenacity.
...
The two agree to discuss more in the morning before taking any further action.
Sloan helps Juno settle in on the couch, handing her a spare pillow and blankets. She accepts them with a quiet “thank you,” her expression unreadable but softer than before.
With that done, Sloan moves through their nightly routine—flossing, brushing their teeth, skipping the shower. Morning problem. Their energy is long spent.
Before heading to bed, they leave their door slightly ajar in case Juno needs anything during the night.
With a tired sigh, they peel off their shirt, tossing it into the hamper along with their pants after emptying their pockets. The contents—phone, keys, wallet, and a small item—are placed neatly in the nightstand drawer.
They tug on a clean pair of black sweatpants, running both hands through their hair, letting out a slow, steadying breath.
Their gaze lingers on the closed closet doors, a stray memory surfacing from earlier.
I still need to redraw the totems I saw in the cave.
Sloan exhales, collapsing onto the bed, the cool sheets brushing comfortably against their skin.
That sounds like another morning problem.
Which it is, because for the first time all month, they fall asleep in a matter of seconds.
...
Heat presses down on Sloan in rippling waves, sweat tracing a slow path down the side of their face. Their Wayfinder jacket is long discarded, skin prickling under the relentless sun that looms overhead like a watchful, burning eye.
Ancient Egyptian ruins stretch before them—withered columns and fractured walls scattered across the sand, wind-swept grains swirling in restless spirals. The air shimmers, bending reality in the haze.
The sky is a piercing, endless blue. A dull ache pulses behind their eyes, forcing them to squint. Ahead, a massive stone structure sits among the shifting sands, worn figures and faded hieroglyphs carved into its weathered facade.
They approach, passing through an imposing entrance. Their shadow stretches long and distorted across the ancient floor. The interior is a single, cavernous room, hollowed out by time and forgotten centuries.
They take a cautious step forward, scanning the desolate space—but when they turn back, a tall metal figure looms at the far wall.
The Anubis god program, forged of dark, tarnished metal, its red eyes gleaming with eerie awareness. It seems to watch, to beckon.
Compelled, they drift toward it, stopping just before the towering form.
They blink.
The Anubis statue moved. Its dark snout is tilted down—now mere meters from their face, close enough to feel the icy chill radiating from its lifeless steel.
Their fingers twitch instinctively for their smart excavator—but it’s not there.
A sudden puff of frigid air hisses from Anubis’s metal nostrils, cold enough to raise goosebumps. Its metallic features crack and shift, seams twisting unnaturally as its jaws curl back into a jagged snarl, revealing rows of gleaming teeth.
Before they can move, a deep, predatory growl rumbles through the space— not from Anubis.
The statue shudders violently, reshaping itself in a sickening cascade of clattering metal, shifting limbs, and grinding gears until its new form stands ready: a monstrous, mechanical tiger.
Its orange glowing eyes lock onto them.
They stand frozen as the robotic tiger lunges, jaws snapping open—its teeth closing in.