The relentless pace aboard Train Prime had become its own kind of intoxication—an endless cycle of design, repair, recalibration, repeat. But after witnessing September’s latest demonstration, Chase knew the crew was running on fumes. If he didn’t force a break, they’d burn out long before Mars ever saw them.

  He cleared his throat in the command module.

  “Weekend’s off for the whole crew except September. No meetings, no designing, no building. Once we set up September’s print queue, we’re free.”

  For a moment, no one moved. Then shoulders sagged, breaths released, and the room softened.

  Chase scanned for something—anything—to kickstart the downtime.

  “September, any games on board?”

  “Games are now unlocked,” the AI replied. “Check the directory.”

  His stomach twisted. What else had he never asked for?

  “Add movies, shows, music, books—everything.”

  Libraries bloomed across the holo-display. Chase grinned.

  “Who’s up for a game? Actually—hold up. We need the vodka.”

  Luke, Robbie, Martin, and Sam gathered around the holographic table as Chase returned carrying a five?litre craft of the crew’s one precious alcohol stash. He set it down like treasure. Patrick got the first pour. Pascal raised his glass, and the rest—Kaya, Jacky, Shaun, Christine—joined the toast.

  Seats lit up. Hologram cards shimmered into existence. Hands vanished with a flick. Chase kept winning, so they switched games. And then switched again.

  Before long, the entire crew drifted toward the commotion.

  Chase ducked into the kitchen to help Julie. He pulled a frozen chicken from storage, set it to roast, and immediately knocked over a bowl of chopped herbs. Julie just shook her head as he laughed through his vodka buzz. Butter and garlic filled the air, warm and grounding.

  By the time dinner was ready, the main table had transformed into a feast: golden roast chicken, caramelized vegetables, garlic bread, sticky?toffee cake. Luke and Janette exchanged wide?eyed looks as plates clinked and glasses refilled. Fara and John waved a vodka pitcher like a trophy. Martin and Adrian clinked plastic cups over a leaning tower of plates. Johanna and Juliette laughed as Ashley refereed an arm?wrestling match.

  Chase dealt holo?cards for a tournament. Christine launched charades—“robot rebellion,” “drifting through a debris field,” “malfunctioning rover.” Fara attempted a zero?gravity dance routine and nearly sent John into a wall. Kate’s exploding?proton mime left Jacky in tears.

  Shaun challenged Chase to orbital?mechanics trivia. Wrong answers meant a sip—or a humiliating dance move. Robbie queued up Earth?classic hits, and Ashley immediately led a conga line around the command table.

  As the hours blurred, so did the line between games and anarchy.

  Joel and Johanna drummed on overturned bowls. Martin climbed a chair to belt out karaoke. Juliette seized the mic and unleashed ancient pop hits. Shaun attempted a spin, toppled sideways, and baptized the floor in vodka.

  Patrick and Pascal printed a tiny confetti cannon that fired cake crumbs onto Kaya. Christine and Julie mashed up the playlist with random sound effects. Robbie mimicked an airlock hiss. Adrian mixed a flashy vodka drink and spilled half on John’s sleeve. Lights flickered to the beat as laughter shook the module. M1 service robots spun in circles. Drunk rovers bumped into walls. Crew members vanished only to reappear moments later looking distinctly unwell.

  Chase woke sometime the next day with a skull full of static, the kind that made every heartbeat feel like a hammer strike. He groaned, rolled over, and immediately regretted opening his eyes.

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  The module looked like a battlefield after a very confused war.

  Empty bottles and cups lay scattered across the floor like fallen soldiers. Chairs were skewed at odd angles, one somehow balanced on a single leg as if frozen mid?collapse. A slab of sticky?toffee cake clung to the control panel, slowly sliding down the surface as though trying to escape the shame of the night before.

  Janette and Luke were awake—barely—moving with the solemn determination of archaeologists uncovering ruins. They stacked plates at a glacial pace, pausing every few seconds to steady themselves or squint at an object as if unsure whether it was trash or a vital piece of equipment.

  Christine slept in a corner, curled around an empty bottle like a teddy bear, her hair sticking out in improbable directions. Someone had draped a streamer over her like a ceremonial sash.

  Fara and John snored beneath a nest of tangled decorations, limbs sprawled in a way that suggested gravity had personally wronged them.

  The M1A robot was circling the room, its sensors blinking in confusion as it attempted to navigate the debris field. It bumped into a chair, reversed, bumped into a cup, reversed again, then simply powered down in defeat.

  Chase rubbed his temples. “What… did we do?”

  As if summoned by the question, Julie emerged from the kitchen alcove carrying a tray of coffee and leftover sandwiches. She looked only slightly less green than the others, but her expression held the weary pride of someone who had survived a natural disaster.

  “Breakfast,” she croaked. “Or… whatever meal this is.”

  Warm mugs circulated. The smell alone revived half the crew. One by one, they stirred awake—rumpled, bleary, hair flattened in strange directions, but undeniably content. Robbie shuffled in wearing mismatched socks. Ashley limped, muttering something about a conga?line injury. Pascal held up a printed confetti cannon like evidence in a crime.

  Pascal sat up too fast, immediately regretted it, and lay back down with a dramatic groan.

  “Never,” he whispered, “let me dance again.”

  Kaya wandered in, saw the mess, and burst into laughter that turned into a cough halfway through.

  “Okay… who put cake on the control panel?”

  Chase raised a hand halfway, then lowered it. “I plead the fifth.”

  The crew chuckled, the sound soft and ragged but warm. Even September chimed in over the speakers with a dry, “I have logged seventeen separate incidents of questionable decision?making.”

  “Only seventeen?” Adrian said. “We must’ve behaved better than I thought.”

  Chase took a slow sip of coffee, letting the warmth cut through the static rattling around his skull. As the crew shuffled around him—bleary, rumpled, wrapped in streamers and regret—something in his chest tightened.

  He’d been so focused on the mission, on the deadlines, on the endless list of things that needed fixing or building or recalibrating, that he hadn’t noticed the toll it was taking. Not really. Not until he saw them now, moving like overworked ghosts after one night of finally letting go.

  Luke winced every time he bent to pick up a cup. Janette rubbed her temples between each plate she stacked. Christine, still half-asleep, clutched an empty bottle like a comfort toy. Even the service robots seemed sluggish, their sensors flickering as if they too were hungover from the chaos.

  He’d pushed them hard. Too hard.

  And they’d followed him anyway—because they trusted him, because they believed in the mission, because they believed in him. But belief didn’t make people unbreakable.

  He watched Fara and John untangle themselves from the streamers, laughing weakly at their own disheveled state. Julie handed out sandwiches with a shaky smile. Robbie tried to coax a confused M1a onto its charging pad. These were the people keeping Train Prime alive. Keeping him alive.

  A knot formed in his throat—guilt, gratitude, and a dawning sense of responsibility all tangled together. He wasn’t just leading a mission. He was leading them. Their energy. Their morale. Their sanity.

  He exhaled slowly.

  If I keep driving them like this, they’ll break. And I won’t see it until it’s too late.

  He looked around the room one more time, taking in the wreckage and the weary smiles. The laughter was softer today, but it was real. It was the sound of people remembering they were human.

  He promised himself he’d do it again… but next time with less vodka—and with a hell of a lot more awareness.

  When the modules hummed back to life Monday morning, Chase ran diagnostics on every system. The crew moved with a loose, easy rhythm, the kind that only comes after shared chaos. Laughter bubbled up as they worked—Kaya’s breakdance wipeout, Christine’s remix disaster, Fara’s gravity mishap. Even the robots seemed to glide a little lighter.

  Repairs went faster than expected. No one snapped. No one sighed. No one looked like they were counting the minutes until the next break. They were… steady. Reconnected. Human again.

  September listed the weekend’s printed items and minor issues in its usual crisp tone. Chase slipped an extra coffee into someone’s hand, then another, watching the team settle back into their stations with renewed energy.

  And in that quiet moment—between the hum of machinery and the soft echoes of laughter—he finally understood. Pushing harder wasn’t the answer.

  Balance was.