The second day on Mars dawned thin and brittle. The sky had no warmth, only a pale wash of red that painted the wreck of the ship in colors of rust and blood. The crew rose stiffly, their bodies aching from the night spent on the hard earth. None had slept well.
The ship groaned as if mocking them, its bulk leaning awkwardly on fractured struts. Jonas ran a hand through his hair, then clapped his palms together. "No waiting. If we stall, this planet swallows us whole."
They moved with practiced silence. Mara dragged spare plating from the supply hold, her breath fogging faintly in the cold air. Liora crawled beneath the hull again, her tools clicking, sparks spitting as she rewired broken veins of circuitry. Eris climbed to the stabilizers, his hands raw from the work of prying bent metal back into place.
The hours blurred. Every clang of steel echoed too far, as though the desert carried their struggle to unseen ears. At times, they stopped and looked over their shoulders—not because of movement, but because of absence. The air around them would grow heavy, silent in a way that gnawed at their nerves.
Once, Mara dropped a plate and cursed. The sound cracked across the valley like a gunshot. When it faded, the silence that followed was worse.
"Keep working," Jonas muttered, though his knuckles whitened around the wrench.
By midday, they had restored partial power. The engines coughed once, twice, before settling into a low, fragile hum. A thin smile cracked Jonas's face, the first in days.
"Tomorrow," he said. "One more push and we're gone."
But even as he spoke, the ground beneath them trembled. Faint at first—like the planet taking a slow breath—then stronger, rattling tools and knocking dust from the ship's frame.
They froze. No one moved. The hum of the ship stuttered, then steadied, as though uncertain.
"Not again," whispered Liora.
The quake subsided, but the silence it left behind was suffocating. Far across the plain, a ridge of stone collapsed with a dull roar, the landslide echoing like distant thunder.
Eris glanced toward the horizon. For a heartbeat, he swore he saw something shift there—a flicker of shadow, too tall and too still to be wind or dust. But when he blinked, it was gone.
"Tomorrow," Jonas repeated, though his voice carried less certainty.
That night, they huddled in the shadow of the ship. No one spoke of what they'd seen—or thought they'd seen. But each of them knew Mars was watching, waiting.
Tomorrow, they would test whether the ship could still defy it.