Two Months to Mars

I had always been a man who moved forward.

No hesitation. No second-guessing.

So, after that morning in the hotel café—after shaking Mark's hand and sealing my fate—I did exactly that.

I moved forward.

Week One: The First Steps

Preparation came in waves, each more demanding than the last. My schedule was relentless—physical conditioning, survival training, mission briefings, and technical simulations designed to break lesser men.

I adapted.

By the end of the first week, I had already surpassed most of the official astronaut candidates in the physical assessments. The weightlifting drills were laughable. The endurance tests, even in simulated low-oxygen environments, felt familiar. My time as a firefighter had forged a body that could endure stress beyond most people's limits.

The instructors took notice.

And Elliot—Elliot followed.

He wasn't required to be in half the training sessions I attended. But he showed up anyway.

On the third day, after a particularly brutal zero-gravity maneuvering exercise, he landed clumsily beside me, panting hard, his face red from exertion.

"You—" He sucked in a breath. "You—don't—stop."

I steadied myself against the handrails, unbothered by the dizziness that came from spinning mid-air. "And?"

He wiped sweat from his forehead, eyes flicking to me like he was seeing something unreal. "How do you just keep going?"

I studied him for a moment. Then, calmly, I said, "Because forward is the only direction."

Elliot let out a short, breathless laugh. "That's—" He stopped himself. Shook his head. His expression shifted from disbelief to something heavier. "No… that's right, isn't it?"

I nodded.

"You're not afraid of breaking?" His voice was quieter now, almost uncertain.

I reached out, gripping the handrail beside him. The weightlessness made my movements smooth, deliberate. "You fear breaking because you still see yourself as something fragile."

He stared at me, wide-eyed.

"You want to be strong, Elliot?" I asked.

He swallowed. "Yes."

"Then stop hesitating."

His breath hitched.

"Every second you question yourself is a second wasted," I continued. "There is no use in looking back. No use in second-guessing. What is ahead of you?"

His fingers curled against the fabric of his suit. "The mission."

"And what comes after?"

His voice was quieter now. "The future."

I inclined my head. "And what is behind you?"

He hesitated.

Then, finally, he said, "Nothing."

I nodded once. "Then walk forward."

Elliot exhaled, something in his posture shifting—his shoulders squaring, his gaze sharpening.

And in that moment, I knew—

He understood.

Week Three: Owning the Moment

One evening, Elliot found me at the hotel bar, nursing a glass of something expensive.

He stood there for a moment, watching, as if hesitating to interrupt something sacred. Then, slowly, he sat beside me.

He didn't speak right away. Just observed.

Finally, he said, "You're… different."

I tilted my head slightly. "How so?"

"You're at peace." His voice was quiet, almost reverent. "The others—they worry, they panic, they second-guess themselves. But you…" He exhaled. "You just move forward."

I took a sip of my drink. "Would stopping change anything?"

Elliot shook his head. "No."

"Then why hesitate?"

He was silent for a moment. Then, with something like awe, he murmured, "I don't know how you do it."

I turned to him, meeting his gaze. "Because I have already accepted the cost."

He swallowed. "The cost?"

"Fear is a price," I said. "Regret is a price. Doubt is a price. And I do not waste my energy paying for things that do not serve me."

Elliot absorbed my words like scripture.

Finally, he whispered, "You really believe that?"

I looked at him. At the way he leaned in, as if seeking something—an answer, a confirmation, maybe even permission to think the same way.

I set my drink down.

"It is not belief, Elliot." I held his gaze. "It is truth."

For a long moment, he just sat there. Then, slowly, he exhaled and nodded.

And in that moment, I saw it—

Not just understanding.

Devotion.

Week Six: The Pressure Rises

As the days blurred into weeks, the reality of the mission started settling in.

People whispered when I passed.

Some looked at me with awe. Others with concern.

Mark remained a steady presence, watching, evaluating. He never interfered, never questioned my dedication, but I could tell he was waiting for something.

For doubt.

For hesitation.

Neither came.

Instead, I refined every skill I could.

Zero-gravity maneuvers became second nature. I memorized the schematics of the spacecraft until I could have rebuilt it blindfolded. I pushed my body past exhaustion, past limits, until every muscle burned but still obeyed.

I wasn't just preparing for a mission.

I was ensuring my survival.

Sienna and Camille checked in often. They didn't press, didn't try to dissuade me. But I could see the worry in their eyes.

"You're insane," Camille muttered one night over video call, watching as I stretched out my sore muscles.

I smirked. "You knew that already."

She rolled her eyes. "Just don't make me say I told you so."

Sienna, quieter, only said, "Come back."

I met her gaze through the screen.

"I will," I promised.

Week Seven: The Question

A week before launch, I was summoned to Mark's office.

The message was simple. A request. Not a demand.

I arrived exactly on time.

Mark sat behind his desk, fingers interlaced, his expression unreadable.

"Mr. Angel," he greeted.

"Mark," I returned evenly.

He gestured for me to sit. I did.

For a moment, he just studied me.

Then, finally, he asked—

"What do you know about Mr. Fox and Mr. Dust?"