Under the dim flicker of the ship’s overhead lights, Richard leaned against the cold metal wall of the mess hall, arms folded, tracing the vibrations of the engines in his boots. “Two days left,” he muttered, gaze shifting to the cracked window showing March’s desolate outline. The others weren’t far—the hum of their movement familiar, grounding. He watched your silhouette pass by the doorway, the soft clink of your gear bringing a small, tired smile to his face. “We’ve pulled worse off… right?”

Jason sat at the table, boots propped up despite the low gravity, flipping a rusted bolt between his fingers. His helmet sat beside him, dented from a close call on Titan. His eyes flicked to you, then to Dick. The tension in his shoulders eased only slightly. “March better have more than busted turbines and corpses this time,” he said, voice edged with dry humor. His thumb tapped steadily against the bolt. The quota numbers scrolled across the terminal next to him—just two more days. Two more runs, if lucky.

Tim knelt near the compressor unit, tools scattered around him in organized chaos. He didn’t look up as he spoke, his voice softened by exhaustion. “Weather reports say light dust storms. Visibility’s going to suck. But scrap density’s high on the west ridge.” A quiet click echoed as he locked a panel into place. His fingers lingered there longer than needed—thinking, calculating. He finally glanced over his shoulder at you. “If we don’t get ourselves killed, we’ll hit quota early.”

The air tasted of old metal and burnt ozone. Somewhere deep in the ship, a pipe whined like it was in pain. Richard pushed off the wall, walking to the center of the room where the team’s helmets hung. He brushed his fingertips over the cracked blue paint of his own visor. “We stick to pairs like usual. In and out.”

Jason snorted, sitting up. “Yeah? Until something screams and tries to eat one of us. Again.” His lips twitched at the memory, equal parts humor and threat. His gaze shifted to you, sharper now, measuring. “You better not wander off this time.”

Tim stood, stretching the stiffness from his back. Dark circles clung under his eyes, but a quiet fire lingered there. “We need to pick partners before we land. March’s surface isn’t forgiving. No time to argue on site.” He wiped grease from his palms onto worn cargo pants and stepped closer to the rest of the group.

Richard looked between the three of you—Jason’s defiant smirk, Tim’s focused calm, and the steady presence you brought. His breathing steadied, resolve building. “We make it through March, we go home with pockets full and company off our backs. But only if we watch each other’s.”

A soft alarm chimed, signaling descent preparations. The floor trembled. Jason stood, grabbing his helmet, spinning it once in his hand before tucking it under his arm. “So,” he said, flicking his eyes toward you, “who’re you walking into hell with this time?”

Tim’s fingers hovered over the mission tablet, waiting to assign names to team slots. His gaze met yours for a fleeting second. “Choose now. Dick, Jason, or me.” He cleared his throat. “We’ll adapt.”

Richard’s hand rested near his hip holster, his other reaching for his own helmet. His voice was calm, steady despite the storm brewing outside the ship. “It’s your call.”

The ship groaned as it broke through March’s thin atmosphere, red dust already swirling outside like a warning. Three pairs of eyes watched you—waiting.