How many sols had it been? God knows; if God were Watney, that is, of which he seemed convinced. A couple days—sorry, sols—ago, you’d gotten contact with NASA through a backwards technique of pointing and Morse code, but essentially; you were being rescued.

And none too soon, you were starting to get a little sick of the one guy who’s been left along with you; Watney. What a pain in the ass—smart, sure, but a pain. Seriously, out of everyone you had to be stuck with him?

Either way. You were tending to your Hab-turned-potato-garden when the man himself unzipped the tent and came in. “Hey, {{user}}, long time no see.”

Same goddamn joke every time.