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 shared solely for the enjoyment of fans and readers.
P a r t 3
The Texas sun was baking Boca Chica, turning the asphalt outside the Starbase facility into a shimmering mirage. My duffel bag was a good twenty pounds heavier than it should be. I struggled to sling the bag over my shoulder as I stepped out of the autonomous RoboVan that had ferried me from the Brownsville airport. The air outside dripped with humidity. It smelled of the sea and rocket fuel, a strange cocktail that, in combination with my nerves, made my stomach churn. Starship prototypes loomed all around like silver giants, their sleek hulls glistening in the sunlight.
I wasn’t in Brooklyn anymore. Hell, I wasn’t even in 2028 anymore. It felt like I had time-traveled to some crazy, far-flung future.
A SpaceX rep, a waifish English woman with a clipboard and a pixie cut, greeted me. “Evan Walsh?” she asked, barely glancing up. I nodded, and she handed me a badge with my name and photo, which was sourced directly from my X profile. “Welcome to Starbase. Orientation starts in 30, at half-9. Don’t be late. Elon doesn’t exactly appreciate tardiness.”
The Starbase facility was humming with activity. Engineers in jumpsuits darted between buildings in autonomous vehicles, drones buzzed overhead, and the distant roar of test rocket engines vibrated the air as if it was electric. I was led to a large but sparse lecture room where the other 99 civilians were already gathering, trying their best to make uncomfortable small talk.
The group was a mix of ages, accents, and backgrounds, but all had the same wide-eyed, slightly terrified look I saw in my own reflection. The biochemist from Nairobi, Amina, gave me a warm but skittish smile. The robotics engineer from Seoul, Ji-hoon, nodded nervously but politely. The trauma surgeon from Chicago, Dr. Patel was keeping to herself, already hard at work scribbling down notes. And then there was me, the guy who wrote snarky blog posts and his signature move, half-finished screenplays. What the hell am I even doing here?
A hologram flickered to life at the front of the room. There he was the self-described Technoking himself—Elon, in all his awkward glory. “Welcome, Mars Colony Alpha,” he said, his voice crackling as he fidgeted from side-to-side with that familiar mix of intensity and nerdy enthusiasm.
“Hello team! Welcome to Starbase! I hope you’re as excited as I am. You’re not just here to train. You’re here to help us begin the next chapter of humanity. In eighteen months, you’ll board five Starships and launch for Mars. A very capable team of Optimus robots are already working round-the-clock on Mars, laying the necessary groundwork. Your mission is to build the first off-world, self-sustaining colony. God forbid, if anything catastrophic were to happen here on Earth, it would be you keeping your species alive. So you’ll be, yeah, you’ll be doubling humanity’s chances of survival.” he said, chuckling. “Evan Walsh, you’ll be capturing it all in real time—the triumphs, the struggles, the history we’re making.”
Hearing my name coming out of Elon’s mouth sent a jolt through me. Every eye in the room was on me, double-checking my name tag, sizing me up. I sank lower in my seat, feeling like the kid that was always picked last for dodgeball.
The next six hours were a blur of briefings. Survival training, zero-and-low gravity protocols, radiation shielding, and something called “psychological resilience conditioning.” I scribbled notes in my notebook, my handwriting was more illegible than usual. The gravity of it all was really sinking in now. This wasn’t a movie set. There’d be no retakes, no catered lunches and lattes, no editing room to fix my mistakes. Every day would be survival, every frame I shot on Mars would be raw, unfiltered, and permanent.
That night, more tired than I’ve felt in a long time, I retreated to my dorm. I learned today that the dorms were an exact replica of my personal pod on the Starship, a spartan but comfortable cube containing just a cot and a desk. I launched a FaceTime call with Sam. His face popped up, lit by the glow of his screen in his Brooklyn apartment. “Oh man, you look whipped,” he said, grinning. “Is Elon already breaking you?”
I laughed, rubbing my eyes. “Man, this place is so incredibly intense! They’ve got us running drills tomorrow in mock spacesuits. I’m surrounded by geniuses, Sam. I feel like something between a court jester and the village idiot.”
“Trust me, you’re no idiot—most of the time,” he said smiling, his tone softened. “You have something unique they don’t, Evan. Seriously, man, you’re the guy who sees the throughline, the story in everything. That’s why they picked you. All you have to do is not F’ it up!”
“Right, no pressure,” we both laughed.
All you have to do is not F’ it up!, although Sam was just trying to make light of the situation, his words stalked me like a predator in the dark.
This was so much responsibility. I just had to learn to implicitly trust the team—they, apparently, saw something in me that I didn’t recognize in myself.
The next morning, the training amped up. All 99 of us were herded into a simulator—a massive dome that mimicked Mars’ terrain, complete with sand dunes, impact craters, and bone-chilling cold. The experience was so realistic that it began to trick my brain into believing I was literally on the red planet. My spacesuit felt like a straitjacket, it wasn’t the weight that was the issue as much as how tightly and completely it clung. My visor fogged with every nervous breath, Amina, the biochemist, helped me recalibrate the suit’s settings, her steady demeanor quickly became my lifeline. “You’ll get used to it,” she said. “It’s just like wearing your stories—confining at first, but then they fit like a glove.”
Her words rang through my head as we ran practice drills, navigating rocky terrain, repairing mock habitats, practicing emergency evacs. My camera, a specialized prototype SpaceX rig designed for Mars’ harsh conditions, was strapped across my chest. It was impossibly light, titanium I would guess. I filmed everything, my lens catching the sweat on Ji-hoon’s brow as he expertly debugged a rover, the steely focus in Dr. Patel’s eyes as she practiced suturing in low gravity. These were my characters now. Their lives and actions were the script I’d weave into something that was, hopefully, as inspiring as it was eternal.
By week two, I was still physically and emotionally exhausted but completely dialed in. The doubts resurfaced occasionally but it was becoming less often. Every time I fumbled a drill or forgot a protocol, I imagined Elon’s voice booming, “Evan, you’re screwing this up.”
But then I’d watch the footage I’d shot. It satisfied me in a way I can’t quite explain. Amina laughing as she analyzed soil samples, Ji-hoon high-fiving a teammate after fixing a busted oxygen unit, Dr. Patel teaching us how to splint a broken arm in 62% less gravity. These were the moments that would define our mission, not just the colony but the people building it.
One night, after a grueling day of training, I got a message from @ElonMusk: “Evan, absolutely loving your raw footage, it's killer! Keep on doing what you’re doing, capturing the human side. That’s what’ll inspire Earth to feel. You’re not just documenting—you’re shaping the narrative.”
I stared at the message, my chest feeling tight. Hmm, shaping the narrative. That’s what I’d always done, from dive bar stories to X posts that, unpredictably, went viral. This was something much more. This was humanity’s first step into the unknown, and I was its storyteller. Maybe I was worthy after all? Maybe I really could do this? I’m not sure, but the only emotion I could feel in that precise moment was a pure and deep gratitude.
I lay on my cot, in that magical mindspace between awake and asleep, staring at the ceiling. As the hum of Starbase vibrated through the walls, memories of the cast of characters I left behind in Brooklyn—of old Mrs. Chen, my anchor, Sam, the jukebox at Duff’s replayed through my head like some past-life review.
I was leaving the unmistakable vibe of the very city that had helped to shape my extremely lucky and unforgettable second act, Evan 2.0. Yes, I missed everything about Brooklyn, but not a single cell in my body wanted to go back. Not yet. It was time to level-up. This mission is my life now. There was no denying it, Mars was calling, and for the first time, I felt like I might just be ready and worthy enough to answer. I could feel deep within my soul that this was my third act—this was Evan 3.0.
To be continued…
