Tamara, Ian and three other engineers partied in one of the habitats of Clover Meadow. EVA suit helmets and gloves piled in a corner, they passed around a bottle of vodka while sitting on the floor. The spirit was made from Mars-grown potatoes and produced by the camp’s distillery, the colony’s best kept secret that everyone (except NASA) knew about.

“You…you don’t think I have the guts,” Ian said, slurring his words. He clearly had too much to drink.

“It’s not about guts,” one engineer answered. “You’d just have to be crazy to do something like that.”

“ I know a girl,” said another, “who lost half a finger just because there was a tiny tear in her glove.”

Suddenly, Ian stood clumsily and zipped up the top part of his EVA suit. Then he began to put on his helmet. The room became quiet.

“You’re not serious,” Tamara said.

He didn’t answer, instead focusing on finding his mitts among the pile.

“We were just kidding, man,” said another engineer. “You have nothing to prove.”

He snapped his gloves into place then addressed the group plainly. “I said I was going to do something, so now I’m going to do it.”

“It’s gonna hurt,” said another, followed by a laugh.

Ian turned and stumbled towards the airlock as Tamara looked on, unsure of what to do.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

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After Ian was reinstated as the colony Administrator, and Tamara decided to overlook the corruption he sowed, they went their separate ways. But despite their polar opposite views they knew a connection was made. An attraction they refused to acknowledge because it was easier. Instead they moved on, pretending that they didn’t miss their competition. That they didn’t miss being together.

It was tough enough being so far away from their families back on Earth. Depression was always around the corner. This party was meant to lift their spirits. But alcohol, as it usually does, just made things worse.

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The engineers crowded around a large window and Tamara slowly followed. They watched Ian exit the outer hatch and take a few bounding steps on the Martian surface, then turn to face his audience, perfectly framed in the window.

Tamara palmed the intercom button. “Ian, please,” she said.

Ian ignored her plea. He raised his left arm, then loosened the glove with his right hand. A hiss of air sounded over the intercom, followed by a loud groan, and they watched with mouths agape as Ian fell to his knees. He lost his grip on the removed glove and it tumbled out of reach. Ian curled into a ball, holding his exposed hand close to the chest of his suit and began to rock. His groans progressed into screams.

“Help him!” Tamara yelled. The engineers quickly suited up. She pressed an open hand against the glass and kept her gaze locked onto Ian’s crumpled form. After an eternity the engineers retrieved him and his glove (which they couldn’t put back on because his hand was now a frozen knot.) They carried him to the airlock. After the chamber cycled and inner hatch opened, she saw Ian lying on the floor cradling his mangled hand. It was beet red and covered with blue and black patches of frostbite. His entire body shook uncontrollably.

“He’s in shock,” observed an engineer.

“Get a blanket on him,” she said, fighting to keep calm. “I’ll call the doc.”

She stood over Ian trembling body and the others stepped away, at a loss for what else they could say or do.

“Goddammit, Ian,” Tamara whispered as she wiped away tears.