They're stuck on this rock. It's been three weeks and two days.
They've rationed, but they've used most of the shuttle's supplies. If they can't find water, if the crew doesn't come back for them, and soon, they're gonna die. That's all.
Brittany has been repairing the shuttle, but she needs parts. And this planetoid has no resources but air.
Well, that's something, isn't it?
Air. Silica. What can you do with that?
Santana's been ranging out from the shuttle, seeking food sources, water. Shelter, separate from the shuttle, they already have in place, because the shuttle gets blazing hot. So far, Santana has found just a hell of a lot of nothing. And so much sunshine. It must be 39. In the shade. Of which there is none. Because there are no trees. Because there is no water.
Santana takes a sip of water.
She feels awful that she has to consume any of their most precious resource. She knows inside the engine compartment Brittany is even hotter than she is, but she also knows that their survival depends on both of them taking as good care of themselves as possible.
And this situation pretty much qualifies as impossible.
So she ranges out. Surely there's something, some reason there's air here. Some old terraforming seeds? Something. Also, she seeks a little distance to protect her wife. It distresses her that Brittany is distressed, and she knows that Brittany will sense her distress and get more distressed, so…
So it's better to take a walk. She takes a bearing so she won't lose where the shuttle is and walks in a straight line, checking her footprints behind her every so often just to make sure. Nothing but red dirt and sand as far as she can see. There is a rock in the distance; she's heading toward it, but she has no way of knowing how big it is or how far away.
She imagines there is a shadow behind the rock. A shadow, and a stream. With cool, cool water, running over rocks, no, moss. Moss: cool, green, soft.
One night, down in the hollow in the woods behind Brittany's parents' house, they lay down in the moss under the fog, Brittany's lips tugging at her earlobes. It was cool, almost too cool, and damp, and also hot.
But not hot like this. Santana brings herself back into focus. She turns, tracking her footprints. They veer. She can't see the shuttle. She can't fucking see the shuttle, and the rock still seems far off. Swim to the island? Or swim to shore? Walk to the rock? Or back to the boat?
The vision of shade lures her. Her brain can't resist the illusion. On to the rock.
She's nearly at the rock when the wind picks up. She turns to see her footprints obliterated by a dust devil. At least she can still take an approximate bearing, reverse her course, and get close enough to the boat to get back. Probably. She keeps walking.
By the time she reaches the rock, the shadow there is getting longer.
She rests in the shade, just for a moment. Just for a moment, she allows her eyelids to close. And in that moment, faintly at first, she hears the babbling of a stream, clear and cold, though reason tells her it's only the wind. She remembers the wind in the trees in the wooded hollow behind Brittany's parents' house. She remembers lying naked on the moss with Brittany, dappled by sunlight. She remembers the heat of the day and the cool of the water where they anointed each other and christened each other and promised each other.
She leans against the rock. A hollow in the rock cradles her, embraces her, the way Brittany has for twenty years. The way she has when they were on jobs together (or between jobs together). Just a little bit longer. Just a little. Rest.
She wakes under stars.
Dust covers her, even though she slept in the lee of the rock. She really must summon her warrior nature and get her bearings. She sips water, but there is very little left. Even after three weeks, the stars don't offer solid reference, so the smartest time to travel is out of reach.
Her lip is bleeding.
She has to get back to the Brittany. To the boat. The shuttle. The ship. She has to. One foot in front of the other.
She takes a bearing. While her eye is on the compass, North appears to drift. First no North Star equivalent, now no North. She sits down again. Her bearings are useless. She curls back into the hollow of her rock.
"Brittany," she thinks, "I need you. Come get me."
The stream of thought casts out from her, along her approximate bearing back toward the shuttle. It turns, spins, buffeted, but still sure, toward the other terminus of their connection.
As the thought hits home, Brttany's eyes open, she takes in a sharp breath and sees the project before her in a clearer way. She's been going about this inside the box.
She needs Santana.
Santana needs her.
In that moment, she knows that she needs to create, not repair. And what she needs to create needs to leap over these difficulties, not slog through them.
Necessity is the mother of invention.
She closes her eyes, envisions the givens and the new direction she's going, and sees where the pieces need to fit.
She opens her eyes and executes the plan in her mind, creating the ship she's really always wanted.
"Santana, I need you," she states. It responds fast as thought.
Santana's head pokes out from behind the rock. It wasn't an illusion. It wasn't a daydream. It wasn't a mirage.
Brittany and the machine stand before her, bonded to her, ready for her, ready to take her home, broken free from the bonds of time and space.