Chapter Text
19:38, SOL 18 - DAYS LEFT IN MISSION: 11
"How bad does it look?" Fugo leans over his shoulder, squinting at the screen.
"Not ideal," Bruno says, furrowing a brow. The chart in front of him is the latest weather for their region of the Valles Marineris. The ESA had sent over a bulletin earlier that morning, and Bruno called Fugo in, as their navigation specialist. "It's not at the point where we'd have to abort, though."
"Not yet," Fugo moves over to the keyboard. "The worst of it is supposed to skirt south, but if that gets off course by even ten kilometres…"
"I'll see what mission control says," Bruno slides down to his own console. The rest of the team is still outside the Hab, going about daily missions. "It's not meant to hit for several more hours, at the very least. Did you get all the samples Mista wanted?"
"The rocks?" Fugo deadpans.
"Yes, Fugo, the rocks," Bruno laughs, pulling up a communications tab with Mission Control. The window for actual calls between Mars and Earth is very narrow, and mostly over, but if he's messaging, it should be fine.
VENTO3_BUCCELLATI: Can we get a second opinion on the Valles Marineris forecast?
ESAMC_LA: It's bad, what else?
Bruno rolls his eyes. He's dealt with this flight director before. Due to the entire crew being Italian by nationality, the ESA had put Flight Director Leone Abbacchio in charge of the Earth night shift. While it is nice for Bruno to not have to mentally translate all of his conversations before sending them, Abbacchio has a certain level of snark to him that prompts a lot of eye rolling.
VENTO3_BUCCELLATI: Thanks, Abbacchio, we can see that. Fugo is saying the storm may move more south, do we have approval to abort if it ends up being too much for the Hab or ascent vehicle to handle?
ESAMC_LA: If you feel that it endangers the crew, that's your call. Not much I can do from down here.
VENTO3_BUCCELLATI: Right. Let us know if it's meant to move at all. Mista has us all rock hunting today.
ESAMC_LA: And there's reason 435 that I didn't go into the astronaut program.
VENTO3_BUCCELLATI: I could ask you to help me with plant samples.
ESAMC_LA: Shouldn't you be helping your crew?
Bruno closes the tab, pushing back from the chair. Fugo is by the airlock, pulling his EVA suit back on.
"Another domestic?"
"Domestic?"
"You two bickered like an old married couple the entire time we were in training."
"It was not nearly that bad," Bruno says, stepping into his own suit. Abbacchio had been there when the crew had started training for the Vento III mission, a few years ago. Something about the ESA wanting them to be familiar with their flight directors, which made sense, but something about their personalities had clicked instantly.
"Hey! Are you guys going to get out here or what?" Mista's voice comes on over the radio in their suits.
"Oh my god, Buccellati, you have to save us," Narancia says.
"If I have to haul one more rock, I'm never volunteering for a mission again," Trish responds.
"You should probably go stop a mutiny," Fugo says, mouth quirked in a slight smile.
22:04, SOL 18 - DAYS LEFT IN MISSION: 11
"I hate that noise," Giorno mutters, listening to the wind and dust rattle against the walls of the hab.
"Not much we can do about it," Trish says, not looking up from her laptop. Bruno can see the data from where he's sat, and can tell that this spreadsheet is purely something to calm her down.
"It's not getting much better," Narancia hums from where he's sat at the main console. The data pulled up doesn't spell a happy picture. It turns out the storm had taken a trun for the worst, coming far enough south that it was causing problems with their ascent vehicle. While the crew was down on the ground, their main spacecraft, the Aureo, sat in Martian orbit. With the high winds threatening to tip their ascent vehicle, Bruno had ordered the crew to be prepared for a mission abort.
"How bad is it?" Bruno says.
"Well…" Narancia pulls open another tab, watching the vehicle tilt by another half degree. "If it gets much further than 15 degrees of tilt, there's a serious risk of it tipping. It tips, we're fucked."
Bruno looks at the screen. 12 degrees…12.3…12.5. Right, great. First mission as commander and he's probably going to have to pull an abort. He waits another second. The tilt continues.
"Alright, everyone's clear on the protocol?" He asks, turning to face the where the crew has gathered in the main living quarters.
Five faces stare back at him with varying degrees of concern. They still nod. Right.
"Everyone suit up," Bruno tells them, standing from his chair. "Once everyone's in the airlock, we'll make our way to the ascent vehicle and back to the Aureo. I'm not risking stranding all of us here."
Everyone moves into action immediately, and Bruno leans over the console before heading out to the airlock with everyone else.
VENTO3_BUCCELLATI: Ascent vehicle tipping into danger threshold. Crew of Vento III aborting, standby for comms from Aureo.
VENTO3_BUCCELLATI…signing out…
VENTOHAB…entering standby…
22:08, SOL 18 - DAYS LEFT IN MISSION: 11
The situation outside is even worse than Bruno would have expected. On a clear day, you could see the walls of the Valles Marineris on either side of the wide plain making up their mission environment. Now, Bruno could barely see a metre in front of him. He'd placed himself at the back, ensuring that all of his crew could at least be seen by the lights on their helmets. Fugo is at the front, leading the way to the ascent vehicle.
"Fugo?! Do you know where we're going?" Someone shouts over the comms, voice crackling. It sounds like Trish.
"It should only be a few hundred metres this way!" Fugo snaps back. Usually Bruno would chastise, but he couldn't blame him. A mission abort was in their mission booklet, labelled under a series of things you hoped never happened to you. Training or not, it's stressful.
It's slow-going, with the wind in their faces and dirt constantly hitting the glass of his faceplate. It's several excruciating minutes before the ascent vehicle even looms on the edge of their vision.
"I'll need to take off as soon as possible!" Narancia says.
"Everyone clear on what we're doing?" Bruno asks. Several responses to the positive. "Right, follow Narancia from here on out, we're going to have to-"
He's cut off by a heavy force slamming into him. There's a ripping noise and he's knocked off of his feet. The lights of his crew are lost from his vision. Several alarms are going off. Bruno isn't sure where he is, and he can feel himself getting more and more lightheaded.
Dark spots grow on the corners of his vision. His eyes shut…