Disclaimer: This story is a work of fan fiction based on the concepts and settings inspired by SpaceX and its Mars mission endeavors. All characters, events, and scenarios depicted are entirely fictional and created for entertainment purposes only. The use of real-world entities, such as SpaceX, Elon Musk, or Starbase, is purely for creative inspiration and does not reflect any real events, individuals, or operations associated with these entities. No affiliation with or endorsement by SpaceX, Elon Musk, or any related organizations is implied or intended. The term "Citadel" and other original elements are products of the author's imagination and are not associated with any existing organizations or intellectual properties. This work is not for profit and is shared solely for the enjoyment of fans and readers.
P a r t 2
Although rain had subsided, Williamsburg’s stubborn gray clung to the cityscape like secondhand smoke. My apartment, once a chaotic sanctuary of scripts and aspirations, now felt like a mausoleum of the life I was about to leave behind. The SpaceX iPad was perched on my coffee table, its sleek dark screen reflecting the dim light from my retro Edison bulb. I hadn’t touched the iPad since watching Elon’s video yesterday.
Mars.
The word echoed in my brain.
Haunted me, really, with what were equal parts thrill and terror but now it was leaning heavily towards the latter.
I poured another coffee, the remnants of grounds gritty against my tongue, and stared blankly at the homescreen of the iPad. Part of me wanted to hit play again, to see if Elon’s face would reappear and fess up that this was all some elaborate prank. But the NDA I’d signed, digitally binding me to secrecy, now felt like a five hundred pound gorilla on my chest. I hadn’t even told Sam what I’d done yet.
How do you even begin that conversation? “Hey, buddy, I’m moving to Mars for a decade to film humanity’s first colony. Oh, could you pass those fries?”
A new email notification pinged. Subject: Mars Colony Alpha: Next Steps.
The room started to spin as I opened the email. The message was succinct and emotionless, on point for SpaceX. Itinerary for the next eighteen months, starting with a flight to Boca Chica, Texas, in three days. I’d be joining the other 99 civilians at Starbase—scientists, engineers, doctors, and apparently one washed-up screenwriter...for intensive training.
Six months in a remote facility, learning to survive in a place where everything was trying to kill you. The gravity was roughly 38% of Earth's, the air was unbreathable, the ground was irradiated. Worst of all, the nearest coffee shop was roughly 140 million miles away on a good day.
I leaned back, the chair creaking under my weight. My walls, plastered in film posters and scribbled Post-its, were now mocking me. Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction stared down, John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson, larger than life, frozen in their iconic, confident stance. I sure could use some of their confidence right now. I’d spent years chasing that particular brand of legacy—crafting stories that would outlive me. Now I was being handed a chance to document the biggest story in the history of humanity but at what cost? My freedom? My sanity? Possibly even my life?
Go big or go home, I reminded myself.
I texted Sam: “We need to talk, buddy. Meet me at Duff’s. 8 PM-ish.” Duff’s was a dive bar but it was our spot, a grimy hole-in-the-wall where the beer was relatively cheap and the jukebox still played songs we remembered. I needed this hang with Sam and his hilarious cynicism to tether me before I blasted off into the insanity of this cosmic adventure.
At precisely 8:15, Sam slid into the booth across from me, his flannel shirt damp from the drizzle that had apparently started again. “Alright, Captain YOLO, what’s this about? From the looks of you it appears you’ve either shat yourself or won the lottery. Or maybe both?”
Thirty seconds in and Sam had already made me laugh. This was the exact antidote I needed.
I took a long draw from my IPA, the magically bitter elixir that was the only thing helping to steady the shake of my hands. I cleared my throat. “Umm, so, it’s not a marketing gig,” I said, voice low so as to keep the conversation between us. “It’s Mars. I was chosen to be the among the first 100 to go to Mars. I’m in charge of filming the entire mission. Mars colony Alpha.”
Sam’s eyes widened, then narrowed, as he let out a sharp chuckle. “No! You’re shitting me, right? Mars? You mean, like, the red planet?”
I nodded my head, sliding my phone across the table. I’d saved a few screenshots of the email, careful not to violate the NDA. Sam swiped through them, his smirk fading. “Holy shit, Evan. This is legit?”
“Legit as it gets” I said. “Eighteen months of training in Texas, then I’m strapped in a Starship and fired off into space. If I don’t die in a horrific, fiery explosion, I’ll be living on another planet. For a decade, maybe forever.”
Sam leaned back, running a hand through his bushy, gray beard. “Not to be mean but you’re not exactly Neil Armstrong material, man. You get winded climbing your own stairs. And what about your writing—your readers? How about that novel you’ve been promising us all for years?”
My fragile confidence began to waver. He wasn’t wrong. My blog following had ballooned to over 150,000 readers’ strong. For some odd reason they were hooked on my raw, messy takes on life. I’d built a solid community around my stories, my travels, and my harebrained, reckless philosophies.
Could I abandon them for a one-way ticket to some barren red rock? And yet, the thought of capturing humanity’s first steps on Mars—real, unfiltered, historic—set my soul on fire. This wasn’t just another story. This was “it”, the story.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I do know playing it safe never got me anything but misery. I quit my job to write, my career took off. I backpacked Europe with $500 in my pocket, I had the time of my life and came back a different person. Each of these risks made my life better—and not by a small margin. This is just… bigger.”
“Bigger?” Sam snorted. “This, my friend, resides in the zip code somewhere between colossal and insane. You’ll be eating freeze-dried food and breathing recycled air while Musk is probably playing Elden Ring and eating wagyu back here. Are you absolutely sure about this?”
I laughed, but it wasn’t genuine. I’d be lying if I said the doubts were still there, gnawing at me. What if I wasn’t cut out for this? What if I failed—not just myself, but the entire mission? I pictured the headlines: Screenwriter Flubs Mars Colony Documentary. Rotten Tomato gives it a score of 10%. Humanity’s Legacy Ruined.
Back home, I opened the iPad again. A new file had appeared: Mars Colony Alpha: Civilian Profiles. Curiosity got the better of me, and I tapped it. Names, faces, and bios scrolled across the screen. A biochemist from Nairobi. A robotics engineer from Seoul. A trauma surgeon from Chicago. And me, Evan Walsh, “Storyteller, Risk-Taker.” I snorted at the description. Risk-taker. More like chaos muppet.
The next morning, I packed a duffel bag. Just the essentials: clothes, toiletries, my favorite notebook, a dog-eared copies of Asimov’s entire Foundation series books. The SpaceX email had cautioned against bringing too much—space was tight, and sentimentality was a luxury. I lingered over my vinyl collection, my fingers brushing the worn sleeve of Master of Puppets. Could I really leave this all behind?
My phone buzzed. Another message from @ElonMusk: “Evan, doubt is normal. Courage is choosing to act anyway. You can have a safe life or an impactful and rewarding one, never both. See you at Starbase.”
I stared at the words, my heart pounding. Was I being watched, was he reading my mind, or was Grok’s A.I. just that good? Either way, the message gave me the exact shot of courage I needed at precisely the time I needed it. I zipped the duffel, grabbed my jacket, and stepped out into the fog rolling in off the East River. The soundtrack of the city hummed around me—taxis honking, neon signs flickering, the smell of hot dogs from the cart vendor on the corner. I loved New York’s chaos, but I was ready for a new kind.
As I locked the door, my neighbor, Mrs. Chen, poked her head out. “Evan, you going somewhere? Why you look so pale and clammy? You running from the law?”
I grinned. “Something like that. Take good care of yourself, now, Mrs. Chen.”
She studied me for a moment, squinting suspiciously. “You’re not coming back, are you Evan?”
I hesitated, then shrugged. “I could be gone for a while.”
Her eyes softened as she took a step out of her door to give me a quick hug. “Just don’t stop writing that good stuff I like, kid. It’ll all work out, you’ll see.”
I nodded, my throat tightened and tears began to well up. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Chen, I’ll never stop.”
The taxi to the airport was idling as I stepped to the curb. As the familiar sights of my world blurred past, I felt the weight of the moment fully settle in. All this would soon just be memories. I wasn’t just embarking on a new chapter. This was a whole new book—one I’d write among the constellations. That is if my atoms weren’t rapidly disassembled and scattered amongst them.
To be continued…
