The crew of the Ares III met no less than once a month, for a variety of reasons. The first was that they had spent thirteen months living together in close quarters, and had become rather dependent on one another's company over that period of time. The second was that they were the most socially compatible group of people one would find anywhere, and thus they enjoyed one another's company greatly. The third was that none of the five astronauts could quite bring themselves to separate from the memory of Mark Watney, the ill-fated sixth member of the Ares III crew. Strange as it is, the only healthy reason the Ares III crew had to meet was the second reason, as being so dependent on such a group of people discouraged forming new bonds, and because hanging to the memory of a man dead for almost four years is remarkably unhealthy.

Yet in this particular month, the Ares III crew had met no fewer than ten times, and it was only the third week of the month. The first had been a regular meeting, a barbecue at the house of Rick and Marissa Martinez, where they lived with their two children. The second had been impromptu, the Lewis, Johanssen-Beck, Vogel and Martinez children hoping to see each other sooner than they normally did. From there, it continued: the children wanted to meet up, Vogel wanted to talk science, Martinez made a pun so horrible they all had to meet up and shout at him for it. It was all very normal, right up until they were ordered to meet up by one Venkat Kapoor, the director of the Mars missions. At first, the crew assumed the worst: someone was injured on Mars, someone was dead on Mars, the MAV had exploded. (After all, present data suggested that 1/3 Ares Missions would end with someone dead on the Red Planet. Who knows? Maybe that number will become 2/4.)

Kapoor had them all sit around a table in the Johnson Space Center, the conference room empty save for the crew and Kapoor. At the far end of the room is an immense TV screen, projected onto it the background of Kapoor's computer, with little icons at the bottom for a variety of programs: the internet, his email, and a few other work-related programs. His background is a high-quality picture of a nebula, the cosmic dust shimmering against the darkness of space. Kapoor himself stands to the right of the screen, holding a little remote for operating the TV, and casual in a way that shouldn't have been possible given the suit he dressed in.

Commander Melissa Lewis sits at the head of the table, leaning back in the chair as she regards Kapoor, a mixture of curiosity and nerves colouring her expression, all emotion bathed away as she works to hide it. The remainder of her crew are not as careful with their expressions. Rick Martinez, the best pilot to have ever flown for NASA, is skittish in an obvious, fearful way. His fingers tap at the table's surface, changing motion on occasion to trace patterns, and he shifts every few seconds as though he can't find the comfortable position he searches for. The least collected is Beth Johanssen. While she does sit still, and her fingers don't tap, she sits stiff, like a person unaccustomed to the formal environment that Johanssen has spent her life living in. Her eyes are wide, unblinking, as she scans the room for signs of trouble. She was the last person to see Mark Watney alive. Even Alexander Vogel, the normally controlled and steady German astronaut, is on edge. He sits deep in the chair, arms crossed across his chest and with the goatee, he looks like a supervillain. As Watney would say, he's a German chemist who used to have a base on Mars. Despite his evident composure, Vogel is forced to suppress the occasional violent shiver that wracks down his spine.

The last to arrive is Dr. Christopher Beck, a man standing at five and a half feet with dark brown hair cut around his face in formal style. He rushes in at the last minute, and is met with smiles and nods from the rest of his crew. He accepts them with a similar nod, and slips into the chair next to Johanssen, reaching out to take her hand beneath the table. Lewis glances over with a tiny smile before returning her attention to Kapoor- they're not half as subtle as they think they are. Kapoor clears his throat, and the silent chatter shared in glances stops, all eyes coming to rest on Kapoor as he begins to speak.

"At approximately 3 hours, local time, we received an unscheduled transmission from the Ares IV crew." Kapoor fiddles with the remote and curses under his breath, jamming at buttons until the TV screen goes blank. "Goddammit," he mutters, "stupid fucking thing never works." He jams a few more buttons, until the TV lights up once more, this time with a transmission displayed on it. Kapoor doesn't read it out, rather allowing the crew to absorb the news at their own speed. Houston, it reads, be advised: upon arrival at Schiaparelli Crater, the crew noticed abnormalities with the MAV. Upon investigation, Dr. Morgan and Crewman Spencers found Mark Watney, Ares III, within the MAV. Johanssen reads the final words first, inhaling every letter with the same vigorous attention that makes her such an excellent coder. It signed off with, We await further instruction on the matter. While Johanssen sat back with a sharp inhale, regarding the screen, Lewis turned her steely gaze to glare at Kapoor.

"Venkat," she said with a voice like wind over the arctic tundra, "this is not funny." The full force of her gaze rested solely on the Hindu man. Her voice whipped upwards like a gale, catching the anger of her crew and spinning it anew upon Kapoor. "How can you show this to us and pretend that it's real. Mark's dead, Venkat, and we left him there! I never took you for a cruel man." Bitter with disappointment, Lewis scowls at the Director of Mars Missions, and the storm she created settles. "You may not have known Mark Watney, but we did. This might be funny to you, but we lost a friend and a crewmate."

Kapoor tapped something on the remote, and an image appeared on the screen. The image was just the beginning frame of a video, the play button framed over the face of a middle-aged man. Even viewing just his face, it was clear that the man was thinner than he should have been. Skin hugged his cheekbones, creating sinks beneath his cheekbones. Light brown hair hangs over his forehead in a messy sweep, just brushing over deep brown eyes. A short, thin beard hangs from his chin, and despite the man's rugged condition he's smiling. His eyes, shadowed, are bright yet tired. Kapoor taps something else, and the video begins to play. The first few seconds are jerky, the video taking a moment to figure life out and be reborn anew in the form of a working video.

On screen, Mark Watney jolts to life with a smile that could light the sun. "Hey guys," he begins, voice crackling in the recording, breaking as he speaks for the first time in what could very well be a long time. Around his shoulders, he draws a blanket tighter and shifts until it envelops him like a hug, hanging loose over his shoulders and draped around his chest. "So. It's been a while." There's a scarce hint of the humour the Ares III crew had once known from their comrade. "I guess a lot's happened, and I guess you guys kind of blame yourselves for that but, seriously guys, it's not your fault. I would have made the same decision if I were in your position. There's more important shit that's more relevant than four years old. For starters," his gaze is almost accusatory through the screen, staring right at the crew. "Really, Commander. Disco?! And why, my fellow men of the Ares III mission, did none of us bring any music to listen to?" Lewis begins to cry, tears blinked from her eyes and shoulders shaking in tiny, halted motions. Nearby, Beck grasps his wife's hand tighter, the beginning of a tear stroking his cheek. On screen, Watney pauses and grows more serious. "You guys did nothing wrong. Remember that? For me?" He grins. "Watney out." The video cuts off, leaving behind a room of crying astronauts and Venkat Kapoor.

That evening, the Ares III crew sits in silence, together. Before them, a TV screen displays a press conference being given by Annie Montrose, the spokeswoman of NASA. She's not yet forty, yet her blonde hair has already begun to gray from the stressful job. The NASA podium before her is simple yet elegant, and behind Montrose is a glass wall that provides a view into the Johnson Space Center. She doesn't move as she speaks, but it's clear to the Ares III crew that she's nervous, on edge. "Good afternoon," is her beginning. "Thank you all for gathering here on such short notice. We have important news to be discussed. We will not be taking any questions at this time, though a full press conference will be held at five PM local time." She pauses, tidying her notes for a few short seconds before continuing onwards. "At three AM, local time, we received an unscheduled transmission from the Ares IV crew." The temperature in the press room seems to drop, stony silence meeting her announcement, before a cacophony of noise explodes, questions shouted from all corners of the room. Montrose raises a hand, silencing the reporters before continuing. "All members of the Ares IV crew are in good health, and there are no problems with any of their equipment. We anticipate that the Ares IV mission will be successful." This settles the reporters, but their confusion grows: nothing is wrong, and if they had discovered something Montrose would have led with it, rather than allowing the confusion to build. "However, upon inspection of the Mars Ascent Vehicle, MAV, Dr. Morgan and Astronaut Spencers found Mark Watney, alive, in the MAV."

And if the room's earlier explosion was an explosion, this is a nuclear blast, clearing the room of it's silence like a vacuum to dust. Despite Montrose's announcement about questions, each reporter is howling their questions as loud as they can. Montrose exits the stage, leaving behind a confounded room and a world that will soon know the truth.

"Do you realize the shit storm that is about to his us?" -Annie Montrose