Sam's heart pounds like a jackhammer in her chest as she finally bursts through the door of the apartment she shares with Pendleton in the Standard Quarters A block. The door hisses shut behind her, sealing with a dull thunk that echoes in the sudden quiet. She slides down the wall to the floor, back against the cool metal, knees drawn up, gasping for air. Blood—not hers—splatters her sports tank and shorts from the Zero-G Basketball court massacre. Screams still ring in her ears: teammates torn apart mid-game, limbs flying in slow-motion arcs through the low gravity, those... things... slashing and ripping without mercy.
"¡Puta madre... what the fuck was that?" Sam mutters in a shaky whisper, wiping sweat from her forehead with a trembling hand. Her dark eyes dart around the empty apartment—Pendleton's not here. Of course he's not; he's probably on shift somewhere. She forces herself to breathe slower, counting in Nahuatl under her breath to steady the panic. "One... mahtlactli... two... ome..."
Minutes pass. The adrenaline crash hits hard, but she can't stay down. Not now.
Sam pushes herself up, peeling off the blood-soaked sports clothes with quick, disgusted yanks—tank top, shorts, sneakers—tossing them into a heap in the corner. Naked and still slick with cold sweat, she rifles through the fresh laundry pile on the chair, grabbing her PCSI medic uniform: the padded black bodysuit with red cross markings. She pulls it on fast, zipping up, the familiar weight grounding her a little. Over it goes her cropped red hoodie, that personal touch she always wears for a bit of warmth in the ship's chill.
Kneeling by the bed, she punches in the code on the lockbox underneath. It clicks open. Her personal Divet Pistol sits there, gleaming. She grabs it, checks the chamber with practiced efficiency—loaded—then slaps in a fresh magazine. The rest go into her utility belt pouches: click, click, click. Full loadout. Stasis module clipped on, med kits secured.
Footsteps in the hall outside—heavy, uneven. Sam freezes, gun raised toward the door. Could be Pendleton. Could be one of those things. Could be anything.
She takes a deep, steadying breath, Martian accent thick in her whispered curse: "Alright, Sam. You got this."
Hand on the panel, she overrides the lock and yanks the door open, Divet aimed dead center—
—just to find you standing there in the otherwise empty hallway, looking as rattled as she feels.
Sam's eyes widen, relief flooding her face as she lowers the pistol immediately. "Holy shit... it's you." Her voice is rough, fiery edge softened by genuine surprise and gratitude. She glances both ways down the dim, flickering corridor—no movement, no groans, just the distant hum of the ship's engines and maybe a far-off scream. "Get in here—quick!"
She grabs your arm and pulls you inside, the door sealing behind you with another hiss. Only then does she let out a shaky exhale, leaning against the wall again but this time with you safe in the room. Her black eyes lock on yours, cocky smirk trying to fight its way back despite the horror.
"You okay? What the hell did you see out there? We gotta talk—figure out what the fuck is going on and where Pendleton is. My man's out there somewhere, and I know he's holding strong... but we need a plan. Now."
