I wrote this weeks ago, but I'd started to notice a pattern with posting my stories back to back. I didn't want to post this right after Reunion of the Senses, because I wanted to shake things up a little...? I don't know. I hate being repetitive and not realizing it.

Anyways, this was based on the scene in the gag reels where the table light turns off and they act like it was Watney's ghost/Watney's fault-if you intend on watching it for the reference, the timestamp is 5:47. It was actually going to be darker than this, but, y'know...it didn't. Enjoy! (:

XOXO, Helix.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Martian or Party City.

"Five hundred and thirty-three days before we see our families again. Five hundred thirty-three days of unplanned space-trav..." Lewis trailed off, as the dining table light suddenly shut off. She frowned. "Huh."

"Wish we had our, y'know, engineer to help us fix the lights...but he got himself stranded on Mars instead," Martinez yelled up at the ceiling, as if Mark could hear his jab all the way from the Hermes, and the rest of them cracked smiles. "Johanssen, can you fix those lights?"

She nodded, and Beck and Vogel laughed. Lewis continued with their meeting.

Of course, mutiny had always been the only option, and of course, the answer was only ever a resounding yes.

None of them knew that on Mars, simultaneous with the light flickering out in the common area, Mark had just had a very close brush with death.

Again.

Mark was starting to lose hope.

His arms and neck ached, and he was exhausted. The stupid damned airlock had breached and killed his crops. The subsequent supply probe had burst into a million fucking pieces-because Teddy Sanders probably decided to cut corners, he was sure of it. And he was also sure that he could find plenty more reasons to be angry.

So, he executively decided that as the King of Mars, he had done enough for today. And he would take the rest of the afternoon to indulge in a food pack, bad music, and some serious moping.

Yes, yes, he would.

But first, the scraps from the (updated, because he was damned bored and everything can always be improved upon anyway) canvas saddlebags that he'd created for the rover surrounded his feet, and Mark would be damned if he was the first one to pollute Mars, no matter how often it'd tried to kill him.

Picking up a flat little shovel from the nearby supplies cart, he bent down and used his glove to carefully sweep up as much as he could.

He felt a little bit better afterward, and straightened.

I still fucking hate you, Mars. Just so you know.

He tossed the shovel back in the cart and grabbed the handle to drag it-and himself-back to the Hab.

Mark was in the middle of wishing that he hadn't run out of coffee (that was two weeks ago, and he had actually cried) when the back of his boot caught on the underside of the cart and sent him sprawling.

He yelped, startled, and he landed on his left elbow hard.

Damn!

That had hurt.

He took a moment to catch his breath before bracing his other hand on the ground to push himself back up.

And that was when he saw it.

Mark scrambled backward on the heels of his hands, stunned.

He had almost just died.

Sticking out of the rusty ground at a lethal angle, a jagged piece of metal shrapnel (it must've been a left-over bit from the storm) had missed impaling him by barely a millimeter.

If he hadn't landed on his elbow...

Mark's heart pounded. Holy shit, holy shit...!

He closed his eyes and took two short breaths before standing. He felt shaky all-over.

Alright, Mark, alright. This isn't the end of the world. You're alive.

The pessimistic, death-fearing part of him replied, you almost weren't!

For a moment, a second-grade-schoolyard-type of resentment for Mars made his chest swell. He felt like kicking something.

There weren't any nearby rocks he could stomp on, but he made a point of tugging the exposed bit of metal out of the ground and throwing it as violently and as far away from the rover he possibly could. As if he was throwing it at the planet itself.

Mark huffed, and hoped it had hurt Mars somehow.

He shook his head. Man, space was making him resentful.

Taking up the cart's handle again, he trudged very carefully back to the Hab. He made sure to watch his feet this time instead of the hopeful blue dot in the sky, and meanwhile, accepted that he didn't need coffee. Not really.

Near-death experiences woke him up just fine.

If you feel inspired to do so, please review!