A/N: This is part 1 of 2 for Chapter 9: Airlock. This ended up being a doozie of a chapter so I broke it into two parts.


"GODDAMMITALLTOFUCKINGHELL!" Peeta roared.

The expletive echoed in the now-deflated airlock and rang in Peeta's ears.

As a man who rarely raised his voice, even in anger, the sound of it shocked him.

Hours ago strong Martian gusts shaking the Hab jerked him from sleep. He stared wide-eyed at the bunk above him, tensely waiting, just as he once had during thunderstorms when he was a kid, hardly daring to breathe in those silent seconds between the flash of lightning and the crack of thunder. He listened, his jaw locked tight and his heart in his throat, as the storm raged outside, pelting the Hab with small bits of basalt, which bounced and skipped over it's surface. Every snap of billowing canvas and creak of the Hab's frame made his heart jump. He reached down, searching in the darkness for Reardon's suit. It was still there. He let out a choked sigh of relief. He had pulled the suit over a while ago-in case of emergency (he liked to be prepared for contingencies). He sure hoped he wouldn't need it tonight. He shouldn't. NASA meteorology had told him, though the storm was the strongest since Sol 6, he had nothing to worry about. Small comfort when all that separated him from an inhospitable world was a thin bit of canvas.

Gradually, the storm dissipated and Peeta relaxed. He curled on his side, arm tucked under his pillow. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, but sleep eluded him. After tossing and turning for a couple of hours, he gave up on sleep, and with a groan, got up and groped his way to the kitchen to make coffee.

While it nuked, he washed up and shaved. He was groggy and slow-moving as he went through his morning routine and sat down to breakfast. He rubbed his eyes and slapped his cheeks to wake himself up. Not even the jolt from his morning coffee could help him shake his lethargy.

Now that he had contact with NASA, he checked messages in the rover first thing, but this morning he was worried about how Pathfinder weathered the storm and he needed to clean the solar cells and check them for damage. It would be sweaty, annoying work and he didn't look forward to it.

He shrugged on his EVA suit, picked up his tool box, and went into the airlock. He stood there idly, waiting for the airlock to depressurize, his mind wandering, when suddenly a galaxy of stars burst in his skull as the back door of the airlock slammed into him and it shot like a bullet across the surface of Mars.

When it finally skidded to a stop, the airlock landed on its side. Peeta lay there, stunned. A hissing sound came from somewhere inside. Warm, sticky blood clung to the side of his face. The airlock had rolled and tumbled, banging him up, shattering his face plate, and nearly knocking him senseless. And his shoulder hurt like hell. He winced as he maneuvered painfully in the tight space to look out of the porthole in the door. He was about fifty meters from the Hab. It was deflated with a sea of debris between him and it. But that was nothing.

His suit was puking air. The airlock was breached. He would be dead in a matter of minutes.

"FUUUCK!"

He had fought so hard for months to survive against all odds but he would die here and now. He would run out of oxygen, his lungs would burn, he would choke and gasp a little, and finally just go to sleep. It would all be over. What a bullshit way to die.

"Fuck this planet. Fuck that Hab. Fuck this airlock. Fuck this fucking space suit. FUCK NASA!"

He sat down, head between his knees, hands on his helmet, chest heaving, waiting for death to take him.

But with his mighty yell and all his fucks given, the frustration left his system and something deeper still motivated him. He couldn't just lie down and die. He didn't become a wrestling champion by giving up when he faced a tough opponent who seemed to beat him back at every turn. He kept attacking, changing tactics, looking for an opening, a weakness, and then exploiting it.

An opening. The leak.

The walls of the airlock lifted away from him and Peeta watched with acute interest as the wrinkles in the canvas gradually smoothed. The airlock was beginning to repressurize with the air from his suit. But it was still leaking. Badly. If he could find the leak, he might be able to seal it. If he could seal it, it would buy him some time to think himself out of this epically shitty situation. But he couldn't move in the tight space with his bulky EVA suit on. With some squirming and wiggling and a few painful yelps, he had the suit off. He could just hear the hiss of air somewhere near his feet.

He crouched over, wiping the blood from his eyes, and examined the canvas, but could see nothing.

He needed fire again.

What was it with him and fire?

He looked for something to burn. The EVA suit was decidedly not flammable. His clothes were not flammable. Not even the thread in his uniform could be used for fire.

He rummaged in his tool box, but as expected it turned up nothing. His tools were all metal or nonflammable plastic.

His mind raced. Every second he lost precious air. He wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve and ran his hands through his hair nervously while he thought.

Hair.

Hair burns.

With a sharp knife from the tool kit, he cut a lock of his hair.

How would he light it?

Never underestimate a determined arsonist with a tank of pure oxygen.

He pumped the oxygen concentration to 40%. Then he used a plastic tool to build up static charge. By touching it to a metal tool, he could get a spark. Meanwhile, he tried not to think about the fact that this was exactly how the crew of Apollo 1 died.

He tested out the spark. It worked!

The first time he lit the hair, his breathing dispersed the smoke too much for it to be of any use. He held his breath and lit a second fire with a new lock of hair, but air flow from the EVA suit was still moving the air around too much in the phone-booth sized airlock. The third time, he shut off the air from the EVA suit, held his breath, but still moved too fast to position the fire near where he thought the hole was. The fourth time was the charm: he held his breath, turned off the EVA suit, lit the hair, and held it steady. A thin stream of smoke wafted from the smoldering hair and Peeta watched intently as it threaded through the air and disappeared through an imperceptible crack in the floor. That was it! He marked it with the smoking ruin of his hair then gulped air, turned the EVA suit air back on and twisted to get the patching resin off his helmet.

He checked himself even as he reached for it. He would need that resin to patch his suit. As soon as he activated it, he'd have 60 seconds to use it before the resin turned hard as a rock. There wasn't enough resin, or enough time, to patch the hole and the suit.

Instead, he dug almost frantically in his toolbox for the duct tape and taped over the tear in the canvas. Then he rocked back on his heels and waited. His blue eyes fixed on the tape, watching for any sign that it would rip.

Fifteen minutes later, the airlock was still pressurized; the tape was holding. With a relieved sigh, he leaned against the wall of the airlock. Now he had to think himself out of the rest of this crisis.

He needed to be able to get out of the airlock to safety. Whatever "safety" was, he didn't have a damn clue, but he'd need an intact suit to get there.

So that was his next step: fix the EVA suit.

The only thing he had capable of patching his helmet and holding pressure was…the EVA suit itself. He'd have to cut his suit, but at least he had control over the location and size of hole he'd make. He ultimately decided to use the left arm. In doing so, he'd be one-handed when he left the airlock. But that would give him a good sized rectangle of fabric to patch his faceplate and a seam he could easily seal at the same time. Peeta nodded to himself, satisfied with this plan.

The cut on his forehead finally stopped bleeding, but it throbbed whenever he bent over-which happened a lot in this small space. He swiped the last bit of blood from his face and wrinkled his nose as the metal tang of it mingled with his sweat and the smell of burnt hair.

First, he needed to chip the rest of the polycarbonate visor out of the helmet. It was useless at this point and he didn't want shards of it getting into his eyes or puncturing the patch for that matter. He drew the helmet into his lap and got to work. It was easier said than done; the polycarbonate was specifically engineered to not chip or break easily and all Peeta had was a hammer and a screwdriver. He had to pause his efforts whenever his left hand cramped or his right arm felt like jello. It took a long time, but he finally removed the troublesome plastic.

Then he cut the lower part of the left arm off his suit and cut along it length wise. The EVA suit fabric was thick and tough, but he cut through it with ease; those shears from his toolbox were strong as hell. He positioned the resulting rectangle of fabric over the opening in his helmet.

He had to be fast. When he opened the resin, it would immediately begin curing. He'd have to spread it thin to have enough for the facemask and to seal the arm hole.

It was the moment of truth. He broke the valve. The two chemical components mixed to make the powerful adhesive. Peeta used his fingers to spread it around the visor opening, then spread the rest on the arm seam. Sweat beaded on his brow and dripped off the tip of his nose as he bowed his back and leaned over the suit. He used both hands to press the EVA suit fabric to the helmet and his knee to press on the arm seam. His shoulders quivered with the effort to hold still while he counted tensely under his breath, waiting for the resin to cure.

When time was up, the left arm of his suit was sealed shut and the fabric was sealed around the visor opening.

He had also glued his hand to his helmet.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath.

That resin was some of the strongest adhesive known to man.

He stretched and fumbled in his toolbox for a screwdriver. Very carefully, he pried his hand free without ruining the seal on the helmet and without flaying his skin. He managed to be successful, but he'd have hardened resin stuck to his hand for a couple of days.

He tested the suit by setting it to 1.2 atmospheres of pressure. The suit inflated quickly; the arm seam strained, but held, and the fabric over the faceplate bowed out a little, but also held. Good. But the readouts showed that it was absolutely pissing air. Not good.

He had a sealed airlock and a usable suit. Now to get to "safety". The Hab wouldn't do, so it looked like he'd be hiding out in Rover 2 again. The Great Hydrogen Scare of Sol 37, The Pathfinder Retrieval Journey, and now, The Hab Breach of Sol 119. Rover 2 was like his good-luck charm, or "congratulations-on-not-dying" charm. Whatever it was, it had been his safe haven, and would become so again.

He checked his arm computer. The digital readouts told him how much oxygen and nitrogen he had left. He converted the numbers in his head. If his math was right (and it usually was- he'd been doing these calculations for months) he had plenty of air, but the suit lost air faster than it could replenish it thus experiencing a gradual loss of overall pressure. The speed of pressure loss meant that once he left the airlock, his spacesuit would last…four minutes. Four. In that four minutes he needed to make it to the Hab, find a new suit in all that chaos, and get to Rover 2.

If he was wrong it'd be his own damn fault, but he wouldn't have long to worry about it.

Some additional mental calculations told him that it would take nearly 30 seconds to make it from to the Hab. And he also had to get through Rover 2's air lock. Every single second was precious. He had to shorten the time he spent outside. How? He couldn't go faster. He needed to shorten the distance he had to travel.

He'd have to roll the damn airlock.

At first he launched himself at the wall, but that did nothing except make the airlock slide a little. Then he tried to get airborne and kick the wall. That also only managed to make the airlock slide a little without making any real progress.

He looked around the tight space and thought about how to not only get the airlock to move, but how to push with enough force to get it to roll. Another idea struck him. He turned around, scooting his feet as close as he could to the edge of the "back" wall. Then he launched up and backwards to the opposite wall of the airlock, landing the full force of his body up near the top seam. It worked! The airlock rolled over to the next side.

With each side measuring one meter, he'd only have to do this fifty more times. His back was going to hurt like hell before this was all over with.

He grit his teeth, crouched down, and leapt again.


SatCon, Houston, TX 8:30pm- Immediately following Hab Breach

Katniss sat on the edge of her chair, leaned into her computer, mouth parted, her eyes darting around the screen as she studied image after image of ruin.

She waited with bated breath for each new set of satellite photos and picked at the end of her braid. Her coffee sat forgotten on her desk, getting cold.

There was no movement.

Why hadn't he moved?

Fifteen minutes after the disaster, Katniss scanned the newest set of images and compared them to previous ones. Toggling between them, one tiny detail stood out. It wasn't enough to ensure Mellark's safety, but it let her know his location. The airlock was no longer a deflated heap of canvas; the sides were smooth. It had filled with air, most likely from Mellark's EVA suit.

She texted Haymitch: New set of images show airlock repressurization. Mellark must be there. Sending images.

She continued to sit, eyes glued to the monitor. Her mind fixated on Mellark, watching for any sign of life. She hated this feeling of helplessness. She could only watch. And wait.


Haymitch's Office- Houston, TX 9:30pm

Haymitch watched the screen as a steady stream of NASA engineers and mission specialists logged in. The emergency call out had been issued almost as soon as Katniss sent him the images of the Hab breach. Now an hour later, they had almost all of their essential experts on the various components of the mission present.

The keys clacked under his assault as he hammered out an email to brief each of the experts on the situation with the Hab and relay relevant imagery that Katniss provided. The usually disheveled Mars missions director was in rare form, directing and shifting the slow moving gears of NASA in place to assess and respond to this event.

Haymitch: Any sign of Mellark?

Katniss: No movement.

Haymitch: Keep me posted.

Katniss: Will do.

At 10:30 pm, two hours, after the Hab breach, Haymitch locked up his office and walked briskly to the conference room. When he entered, all eyes swiveled toward him, then diverted downward to stare at notepads, pens, and coffee mugs.

"You want to explain to me what in the hell just happened?" Haymitch demanded, beginning the emergency meeting abruptly. He leaned forward on the table bearing his weight on his hands.

The room full of weary NASA engineers leaned back, their eyes wide.

Thomas Homes cleared his throat and was the first to speak, "Our best guess is fatigue in the Hab canvas."

"No shit Sherlock," Haymitch drawled, "but why? What caused it to fail? We need to know that if we're going to keep our astronaut alive until we can rescue him."

"We've got the materials folks at JPL working on that, sir," answered Homes.

Haymitch frowned, but accepted the answer. Then he pointed at Henry Mitchell. "Mitchell, based on the imagery, where is the breach?"

"We're almost certain it was at Airlock 1. Explains why it's now fifty meters from the Hab and why there's so much debris, since the hole would be huge."

"Can it be repaired?"

"Yes. It's a big hole, but they have an extra sheet of canvas in the supplies as well as plenty of seam seal. They've been through training to perform this sort of repair."

"They trained in pairs, though." Haymitch rubbed his scruffy chin in thought. "Can he do it alone?"

"It won't be easy. He'll have to improvise. But yes, he can do the repair solo."

Haymitch's eyes narrowed. "But he used a good bit of canvas to make the battery sling for the rover," he countered, "Will he still have enough?"

"Yes, based on the estimated measurements of the sling, he should have plenty to fix the Hab."

Haymitch nodded.

When he looked to the botanists, they wouldn't look back at him.

"Botany?"

They shook their heads miserably. Finally dropping her pen on the notepad in front of her, Dr. Angelina Martinez addressed Haymitch.

"It's finished."

"Can you explain to me precisely what that means?" Haymitch asked, irritation evident in his tone.

"It means," she began, "That it's finished. It's over. Mellark's potato plants are dead. The soil is dead. There is no chance of him growing anything else. What he achieved was…remarkable. But with the explosive decompression, there is no air, and the temperatures are at minus fifty degrees Celsius. It's actually a miracle the potatoes would have been flash frozen-instantly preserved. We think he can still use them for food."

"Food," Haymitch muttered to himself, then, "Shit," he cursed under his breath. This was going to seriously screw with Mellark's food supply and therefore the timing of the resupply.

The botanist continued, "Based on the number of plants he had, which were almost ready for harvest by the way,…we estimate about five potatoes per plant…He has enough food to last him through Sol…" the botanist faltered and looked at her notes.

Her colleague leaned over and whispered.

"Sol six-hundred," she finished.

"Wait!" said Haymitch, "What about the poptents?"

Dr. Martinez shook her head, eyes downcast, "They were connected to the Hab's power and air. When the Hab decompressed, they did too. Any plants in the poptents would suffer the same fate as the ones in the Hab."

Haymitch ran his hand through his hair and turned away from the multitude of eyes all staring at him. Taking a deep breath, he composed himself and turned back around. "Okay," he began slowly, "Hab systems?"

The meeting continued as each group briefed Haymitch on the likely status of each Hab component, the rovers, what was lost in the debris field, and the prognosis of fixing the life support systems, etc. It was all so much to take in. Haymitch worked to keep it all straight, jotting pertinent information in his notepad, but the food supply and resupply probe niggled at him.

As soon at the meeting was over, and the men and women all filed out, Haymitch pulled his phone from his pocket.

"Heavensbee," came the curt answer.

"Plutarch!"

"Haymitch."

"Listen, we're gonna have to move up the resupply launch."

"I had a feeling. How much are we talking about?"

"Two hundred days sooner."

Plutarch let out a low whistle. Haymitch listened as he muttered on the other end of the call, doing the mental calculations.

Finally, Plutarch spoke again, "Allotting thirteen days for mounting the probe to the booster...we'll need to have the probe ready for launch in...forty-eight days."

"That sounds about right," Haymitch said.

"Well that'll be an interesting challenge," said Plutarch, "Alright, I gotta go!"

Haymitch hung up hearing Plutarch fuss to himself about time and funding.

His eyes filled with worry. He wondered if all the overtime and money in the world would be enough to get the resupply probe off the ground in time.


Seneca's Office, 11:30pm

Haymitch was already in Seneca's office when Johanna showed up. Seneca gestured her over to her usual chair and shut the door behind her.

He looked fresh and crisp and not at all as though it was closing in on midnight. Meanwhile, Johanna had the look about her that said, 'don't fuck with me' (which regardless of her expression, was always good advice). And Haymitch was his usual rumpled, disgruntled self.

Seneca started. "Alright Haymitch, tell us what's going on."

Haymitch leaned forward; he handed a set of images to Seneca and a matching set to Johanna.

"Just prior to 20:30, our time, the Hab breached. We don't know the cause yet, but preliminary feedback from the engineers is that it was fatigue in the canvas at Airlock 1. One of our guys, Henry Mitchell, suggests it must've been right on the seam to cause the airlock to detach completely like this. Folks at JPL are doing materials testing as we speak to figure out the cause of the fatigue and also to find out if we need to be concerned in the future." He sighed heavily and ran his hands through his lanky salt and pepper hair. "Everdeen in SatCon has reported that the airlock has repressurized so we feel pretty confident that's where Mellark is, but there's been no movement. We have no way of knowing his status, if he's injured, or what. There's just not much to go on."

Seneca sat, his elbows on the armrest of his chair, fingers steepled, dark brows knit together. His intense blue gaze was cast downward to the photographs that told the tale of devastation. He took long minutes to draw his thoughts together.

Finally, he looked to Johanna. "We'll need to hold a press conference. We've been holding Mars imagery for six hours. That gives us till what? Two-thirty?"

"Correct," said Johanna.

"Think we can hold it for longer? We can go for up to twenty-four hours-"

"You're going to just sit on this?" Johanna asked.

"What would be the point of releasing the images now?"

"Honesty? Openness? Transparency? Public fucking relations?" Johanna's voice rose.

Haymitch leaned back in his chair and looked between them. He wasn't sure how strongly he felt either way.

Seneca glanced between the images and Johanna. "If we delay, we'll know more about the situation. I just don't think it's safe to-"

"The people are all about Mellark! They're invested in his story," Johanna interrupted, "If we suddenly hold on to images they're going to know something's up and be so far up our asses that it will be…just…ugh-" Johanna cut herself off at an uncharacteristic loss for words. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to gather her thoughts. Opening them again, she trained her large, wide-set, brown eyes on Seneca's blue ones. "I think it's best to be forthright and honest. I'm all for holding our cards close to our chest. We don't have to tell them everything, but if we wait, we'll turn people against us-"

"If we don't wait, we could turn people against us, just by virtue of the fact that their favorite astronaut might very well be dead!"

"We don't know that!"

"And just what do you think they're going to think when they see this imagery?"

"We'll tell the truth: the Hab breached at Airlock 1. The airlock's repressurization lets us know where Mellark is and that is all." Johanna sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as though she were trying to ward off a headache. "If we are open about it, I think public opinion will be in our favor."

Haymitch took all of this exchange in and spoke up. "I'd like to give it just a little more time, to give Mellark, if he's still with us, a chance to act. If we see something that indicates his status, that he is at least alive, then I'd feel much more confident addressing the public."

Seneca said, "The sun will set on the Antares 3 site around eight a.m. our time. It's unlikely we'll get any further indication of his status after that point; satellite imagery would be useless and he wouldn't be able to use the radio overnight either. So would that work for you, Johanna?"

"I still think it's too late."

Seneca sighed. When Johanna made up her mind, there was no changing it.

"Four a.m. then," Seneca suggested.

"I'm with four a.m.," Haymitch interjected. "That'll give Mellark four more hours to make a move."

Seneca nodded at Haymitch and looked at Johanna and raised his eyebrows in question.

Johanna huffed and leaned back in her chair and muttered, "Fuck."

It was as close to an assent as they'd get.

Seneca gave a curt nod and said, "Alright, hold those images for two hours, hopefully it'll be overlooked. You can set up the press conference for four a.m. which will be just in time for the early news cycle. The news will probably break before anyone knows we delayed the images by very long and we'll promise an update at eight a.m. our time."


SatCon-midnight

There was no movement.

Yet. Katniss tried to remind herself. But as each hour slipped away, she wondered what could be going on in that airlock.

She was already exhausted. Today it felt like she had lived several lifetimes, curled in this chair, looking at this computer screen. It was time for her to eat something, but she couldn't tear herself away from the steady stream of imagery.

She leaned back and rolled her neck trying to ease the tension that had settled in her shoulders from hunching over the computer all night.

A knock at the door got her attention and she turned, brushing the flyaways back from her face.

The door opened and Haymitch poked his head in. "Hey, Sweetheart," he said as he entered the small workspace.

"Hey, Haymitch."

"Any further word on our boy?"

Katniss shook her head. "No. The airlock stayed pressurized. That's about it so far." She gestured weakly at the computer.

Haymitch took a seat and asked, "Have you eaten yet?"

Again Katniss shook her head. "No."

"Hungry?"

"No," she answered. Just then her stomach growled. She sighed. "Yes. But I didn't want to leave." Her cheeks heated with embarrassment. She was mortified. Haymitch was amused.

"Be right back," Haymitch said with a smirk and left.

He returned with two foil-wrapped sandwiches, bags of chips, a couple pieces of fruit and some sodas and bottled waters. It was an armload and Katniss had to jump up and open the door for him.

"Thank you, Haymitch," Katniss said and gave him a small smile.

At first she picked at the sandwich, pulling out the meat and nibbling at it, but after a few good bites, appetite won out over nerves and the sandwich vanished. Haymitch was only halfway through his when Katniss balled up the wax paper and foil from hers and tossed them.

A half hour passed while she and Haymitch ate the rest of their meal together, exchanged small talk, and paused each time new pictures were available. There was still no sign of Peeta, but something was happening. Katniss thought she noticed a shift in the airlock's position. She queued up three pics side-by-side that covered the past hour.

Her heart lept. The changes were subtle, but she pointed out the faint tracks and small movements to Haymitch.

"The airlock is moving," she said, "But how? Is he sliding it, rolling it? It's inching closer to the Hab."

Haymitch leaned in closer and zoomed in on the image. "A different face of the airlock is pointed up each time. See-here there's no door, then there's the door, and then no door again." He observed. "He must be rolling it. This is good news. The boy's okay if he's able to move the airlock like that. Can't be easy. Good work, Sweetheart," he said with a grin, "Email these images to me so I can share them with Johanna and Seneca. I gotta go. Keep me posted."

Katniss bit her lip to keep from grinning like an idiot. "Will do, Haymitch."

It was everything they could hope for. Mellark was alive.


Press Conference-Houston, TX, 4:00am Wednesday Morning

Seneca strode to the podium, holding a single note card written in his own precise script, and addressed the crowd of gathered reporters.

"Good morning. Thank you for coming. It is with a heavy heart that I report that the Hab breached at the Antares 3 site just prior to 8:30pm our time, around 8am Mars time, yesterday. Astronaut, Peeta Mellark, is at this time, alive. We anticipate being able to provide an update at 8:00am. That is all we have for now. We will not be taking questions at this time.'"

He left the stage amidst of a swell of unanswered questions, the strobe of flashes and clicks of cameras going off. He shut the door, sealing out the din, and leaned against it. He tipped his head forward for a moment and sighed. He took a deep breath, stood up straight again, and walked down the hall to the back stairs to make his way back to his office. He didn't owe those reporters a damned thing more this morning.

Darkness fell over the Antares 3 site on Mars. The sun came up over Houston. And Katniss prepped herself for a long "night". She took advantage of the now-open cafeteria to get a hot breakfast then went back to her desk. There was no way she could go home with Mellark still stuck in the airlock. With the last light of the Martian day, she could tell he'd made it about half way to the Hab, but each roll was taking longer and longer. He still had a long way to go and he must be exhausted. She knew she was drained and all she'd done was sit in a chair and worry and communicate with Haymitch.

With breakfast eaten, she cut off the lights and got out the pillow and blanket she'd brought in when she first began this project. In the darkness there'd be nothing to see, therefore no imagery. Her sleep came in snatches between which she'd wake up, heart thudding, mind racing, as fresh worry over the stranded astronaut toiling in the dark to get to safety washed over her.


A/N:Alright, I skipped preliminary notes because I knew you'd want to dive right in.

As normal, big thanks to hubby who prereads and edits. And this time he gave me some great one-liners. Also big thanks to greenwool for being an amazing beta and helping me get this polished and published. The first big paragraph is essentially a synthesis of both of our writing :)

Additionally big thanks to all of you for reading and taking a chance on this fic. Thank for all your comments and messages. Each and every one means so much to me. I go back and reread them while I'm writing to keep me motivated and because you give me so much encouragement. And I love replying to your comments.

History Note:

Apollo 1: On January 27, 1967, the crew of Apollo 1: Gus Grissom, Ed White, and Roger Chaffee, died when a short circuit sparked and ignited a fire in the high-pressure, pure-oxygen environment of the command module. The three astronauts tried to escape the inferno, but were unable to open the hatch because: 1. hatch opening procedures took too long and 2. the pressure inside the capsule made it impossible to open the inward-opening hatch and it took rescuers too long to get to them. The inward opening hatch was illustrative of the Germans* still thinking "machine" not "people". Modifications after the fire were: 1. making the hatch easier to open and 2. changing it's design so that it opened outwardly, 3. ensure materials used in spacecraft were as non-flammable as possible, and 4. changing out pure-oxygen for a different mixture of air with 34% oxygen. The tragic loss of the three astronauts likely saved the lives of many more because of the culture-shift that occurred in NASA as a result.

*Germans and American spaceflight: Wernher von Braun along with many other captured Nazi rocket scientists were the backbone of the rocketry program that led to the development of NASA and American space exploration. During early space flight it was clear they were focused on the "machine" of the rocket not the "people" piloting it. In a way, the space race was really a competition between USA-captured Nazis and Russia-captured Nazis. But they don't teach you that in school.

Songs for this chapter are: Starset-First Light, Starset-Antigravity, Imagine Dragons-Bleeding Out ,Starset-It Has Begun P!nk-Try, Two Steps From Hell-Victory, Skillet-Whispers in the Dark, Two Steps from Hell-Glory, Starset-Telescope

Finally, thanks for reading, I love writing this story for you and can't wait to get the next chapter finished for you.