The glow of the Heart lingered long after it had sunk back into silence, like embers clinging to the skin. The crew stumbled out of the cavern, their footsteps uneven, their thoughts heavier than the Martian gravity. No one spoke for a long while. Words felt too fragile, too thin to carry what they had witnessed.
Above, the Martian sky was a dull crimson, its horizon stretching wide and endless. Their ship stood far in the distance, half-buried by dust and fractured stone, a reminder of their fragility. Mara's eyes locked onto it first. She exhaled sharply, breaking the silence.
"We can't stay here," she said. "Not after that. Whatever the Heart showed us, whatever it… promised—none of it matters if we rot on this planet."
"Agreed," muttered Jonas. His hand pressed against a fresh bruise on his ribs, but his voice carried steel. "Repairs come first. We get the ship breathing again, then we talk about… visions."
Eris walked behind them, slower than the rest. He wasn't sure what to call what he had felt inside the cavern. It wasn't a vision—it was a weight, an imprint pressed deep into him, like the planet itself had whispered something directly into his marrow. He hadn't dared to tell the others. Not yet.
By the time they reached the ship, the last traces of Martian daylight had bled away. Shadows sprawled across the dunes, and the wind hissed like sand through a broken hourglass.
The vessel loomed over them, scarred and battered from the quake. Its once-proud hull bore cracks like old wounds, jagged seams that oozed dust. The stabilizers were crooked, one completely collapsed. Panels had caved in, and several key systems sparked faintly when touched.
"Three days," muttered Jonas, circling the wreckage. His hand brushed over the cracks, his expression hardening. "If we work without sleep, maybe two. But three is safer."
"We don't have three," Mara snapped. "That quake wasn't random. This place is alive, and it doesn't want us here."
Liora crouched at the base of the hull, her hands already probing the wiring with the delicate focus of a surgeon. "Then we'll make it want us gone faster. We start tonight. No excuses."
They set to work under the pale gaze of Mars' twin moons. The sound of metal groaning filled the air, accompanied by the low rhythm of human breath and the occasional hiss of sparks.
Hours passed. Their movements slowed. Fatigue dragged on them like lead. But none dared to stop. They knew that in the silence of Mars, things were listening.
At one point, Eris paused, lifting his head. He thought he heard it again—the same pulse he had felt in the cavern, faint, buried deep beneath the crust. It was like the planet's heartbeat, steady and ancient. He almost swore it throbbed in rhythm with his own.
But when Jonas barked his name, he turned back to work, burying the thought as deep as the sound itself.
By dawn, the first of the major fractures had been sealed. The ship looked less like a corpse, more like a patient fighting to breathe.
They collapsed beside it, dust coating their skin, exhaustion heavier than armor. The sun rose faintly over the horizon, and for a brief moment, it seemed almost merciful.
But deep inside, none of them believed Mars was finished with them yet.