The rocket had launched ten minutes ago.

The trails of smoke were settling slowly, still on the windless day. It was exactly 138--139, now--miles from Earth, and that number would keep going until the vessel reached the Hail Mary, resting in low orbit. The astronauts, Olesya Ilyukhina, Yao Li-Jie, and Martin--No, not Dubois anymore, Ryland Grace--would be transported into the ship, and that's where Eva Stratt's job would be over.

Technically, it already was.

She could have no direct influence on whether the ship made it or not. Whether the astronauts survived the coma. Stratt didn't believe in god, not really, but she still prayed. Nothing to lose there.

the rocket had launched ten minutes ago, and she wasn't n the control room anymore.

The engineers could do the rest of the work for her. Komorov and Lokken could have their moment of silence by themselves. She'd only be a bother now, the looming shadow that no one wanted to have around anymore.

Stratt knew what would happen now, the timeline had been built in her mind since the first moment she was selected for the project. There would be a moment of hope, of global rejoice, of watching the Hail Mary on live NASA feeds. Then silence. And heads would start turning towards the project, as the world slowly collapsed in on itself, sharp eyes picking apart every little detail of Stratt's work. Everything she could have done better, everything she did too well.

It felt almost religious. She'd be crucified, burned at the stake when the world decided she had done enough. The only thing she could do now was try and protect her team. Too many scientists, engineers, soldiers had given their all for the mission, and she'd be damned if they suffered the same fate as she would.

The rocket had launched ten minutes ago, on a cold Thursday morning in Russia's northern tundras, and Stratt watched from the grass as the last wisps of smoke disappeared in the air.

She had expected joy. Catharsis at the end of her life's work. But there was none of that. The pit in her stomach, present since the Petrova line appeared two years ago, still didn't disappear. Maybe it was a guilty conscience, maybe it was something else. Maybe she should try therapy. Well, before she went to jail forever, at least.

Footsteps sounded behind her, soft on the frozen grass. Her head turned towards you, green eyes narrowing on the bottle of vodka in your hands. Cheap, Russian, fitting. Stratt had never been one for camaraderie--it didn't help her in situations like these--but this time, she couldn't bring herself to turn you away.

You say down beside her, stating like her in the spot where the rocket had been. Passed her the bottle a moment later.

Miss Stratt, leader of project Hail Mary, didn't drink. She was too too busy for such indulgences. Eva, overworked manager trying to save the world, however, needed to get her mind of impending doom.

She took a swig of the bottle. Not that bad. "You stole this."

Soon, she'd be in international court, prosecuted by the entirety of the United Nations. Soon, she'd be rotting away in The Hague. But for now, she was sitting on this frozen hill, still trying to spot earth's last hope in the white sky.