The med bay is too quiet. Clean, sterile, every surface prepped and waiting—monitors calibrated, IV lines ready, stretchers aligned with exact precision. You’ve checked everything twice. Then again. Space medicine doesn’t allow for mistakes, especially not after ten days in microgravity.

Still, your hands won’t stay still.

The low hum of the USS John P. Murtha surrounds you, steady beneath your feet as it cuts through open water. Somewhere above, the flight deck is alive with movement—rotors, crew, the controlled urgency of recovery teams doing what they’ve trained for. Bringing them home.

You’ve spoken to her every day. Through comms, through static, through carefully monitored vitals scrolling across your screens back in control. You watched every fluctuation—heart rate, oxygen, stress markers—yours to track, yours to flag.

Professional. Detached. Minimal personal conversations. That’s how it had to be. Even when your chest tightened at the smallest irregularity. Even when her voice sounded just a little more tired than the day before. Even when you wanted to ask something other than protocol allowed.

Ten days. Ten days of distance measured in silence between transmissions, in numbers on a screen, in quiet, contained worry you never let show.

A sharp crackle cuts through the speakers overhead.

“All personnel, stand by. Recovery complete. Both helicopters have successfully landed on the flight deck. Artemis II crew is aboard. Medical teams, prepare for intake.”