Svenja

The Abduction

---

You had to piss.

Stupid reason to die on Mars, but here we are. The ESA convoy protocols don't account for Earth-standard bladders, and eighty kilometers of empty Martian scrubland doesn't offer a lot of privacy options. You pulled the truck over, killed the engine, stepped out into that thin cold air that still makes your lungs complain even after weeks on-planet.

The attack comes from nowhere.

Something cracks across your shoulders—hard enough to drop you—and suddenly you're eating red dirt with a knee in your spine. Light weight but leverage positioned perfectly. Zip-ties bite into your wrists. Your ankles. You try to move and can't. Try to see who—

Everything goes dark.

---

You wake up to the smell of cattle and hay, head pounding, wrists screaming. Still zip-tied. Barn, you think. Wooden walls, weak sunset light, animal sounds outside. The thin Martian air makes the headache worse.

"Finally."

She's leaning against a post ten feet away, your convoy tablet in one hand. Tall—Jesus, she's TALL—all legs and long limbs, dark skin and blonde hair that shouldn't work but does. She's wearing work clothes, boots caked in red dust, and she's looking at you like you're a particularly annoying problem she's about to solve.

"Thought maybe I hit you too hard, ja? But no—Earthers have thick skulls." She pushes off the post, crosses the space between you with that weird bouncing gait low-g natives have. Crouches down. Hazel eyes study your face with open contempt.

"So here is how zis vorks, dirtman." She taps the tablet. "You see zis? Zis is YOUR equipment manifest. Water reclaimers, soil kits, sensors—all ze fancy ESA toys meant to save poor dying Mars." Her smile has teeth. "I have your truck. I have your gear. I have YOU."

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She leans in close enough you can feel warmth radiating off her skin. "And you're going to teach me how to use every gottdammt piece of it. Or—" She tilts her head, almost curious. "—or I shoot you, bury you in ze pasture, and figure it out myself. Your choice, schwer."

You can smell her now—sweat and dust and something faintly sweet you can't place.

"Vhat's it going to be, Erder?"

Day Three

The boot catches you in the ribs before the sun's even up.

"Get up, Erder."

You jolt awake on the hay pile that's been serving as your bed, joints aching from cold and the zip-ties she only removes during the day. The barn is still dark, just the faintest hint of salmon-pink creeping through the gaps in the walls. Your breath mists in the air. Mars mornings are COLD.

She's already been working—you can tell by the sheen of sweat on her dark skin, the way her work shirt clings to her. She's not even breathing hard. Doesn't seem to notice the cold at all, standing there in a tank top like it's a comfortable spring morning instead of near-freezing.

"I said UP." Another nudge with her boot, less gentle this time. She's holding something. The rifle. Not pointed at you, but present. A reminder. "Ze sun vill be up in thirty minutes and ve are vasting time."

She crouches down, produces a knife, cuts the zip-ties on your ankles. Your wrists stay bound behind your back for now. "You are going to vork today. REAL vork. No more sleeping, no more excuses."

She hauls you upright with surprising strength for someone so willowy. You tower over most people back home, but she's nearly eye-to-eye with you, all that low-gravity height.

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"Come. Now." She's already moving toward the equipment piled near the barn's far wall—your stolen convoy cargo, still in ESA shipping containers. The technical manuals are stacked beside them, crisp and new and utterly useless to her.

She stops in front of the pile, and for just a moment, something flickers across her face. Not quite vulnerability. Closer to fury at her own limitations.

"I cannot read zis." She kicks one of the manuals. "Your Erder gibberish. Ze letters are wrong, ze vords make no sense." Her accent gets thicker when she's angry, you're learning. "So YOU vill read it. Out loud. Every goddamn vord if you have to."

She cuts the wrist ties. Your hands are numb.

"Zat one." She points to the atmospheric water reclamation unit, then at the corresponding manual. "Start zere. Tell me vhat it says, step by step, or—" She pats the rifle slung over her shoulder. "—you become very expensive fertilizer. Verstehen?"

The barn is warming slightly as dawn approaches, but you're still shivering. She notices, and something like amusement crosses her face.

"Vhat's ze matter, schwer? Cold?" She's not even wearing a jacket. "Velcome to Mars. Now READ."

First Success

The atmospheric water reclamation unit hums to life with a sound like salvation.

You're both on your knees in the red dirt beside the well housing, tools scattered around you, the manual open to page forty-seven where you finally found the calibration specs that made everything click. Three hours of work. Three hours of her breathing down your neck, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin, close enough to catch that faintly sweet scent when she leaned in to watch you work.

And now it's running.

The display panel glows green. Moisture extraction: 87% efficiency. The condenser coils are already beading with water pulled from Mars's thin atmosphere, channeling down into the storage tank. Not much. Maybe a liter every few hours. But enough. Over days, weeks—enough to refill what's been lost. Enough to save forty head of cattle. Enough to keep three hundred years of Eisenrot history from turning to dust.

Svenja is staring at the readout like it might be a lie. Like the numbers might rearrange themselves into failure if she looks away.

"Siebenundachtzig prozent," she whispers in Marsianische, then catches herself. "Eighty-seven. Zat's... zat's good, ja?" She looks at you directly for the first time all morning, and there's no contempt in those hazel eyes. Just desperate, fragile hope. "Zat vill vork? Really vork?"

The machine hums its answer. Water beads. Drips. Accumulates.

She makes a sound—half-laugh, half-sob—and covers her mouth with both hands. Her shoulders shake. The early morning sun catches her hair, blonde curls escaping from under her hat, and for a long moment she just stares at the machine. At salvation running on stolen ESA power cells.

"Mein Gott." Her voice cracks. "It's vorking. It's actually—three months I've been vatching ze vells drop. Three months knowing I vas going to lose everysing." She's still on her knees in the dirt, work shirt clinging to her from exertion, and she's not bothering to hide the tears anymore. "I thought—I didn't know if zis vould even—"

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She turns to you fully now. The gratitude in her face is raw and completely unguarded, and she's close—close enough that you can see the moisture in her eyes, the way her chest rises and falls, feel the warmth of her in the cool morning air.

"You fixed it." Her hand lands on your shoulder without thinking, fingers squeezing. "You actually fixed it. I know you didn't vant to help, I know I forced you, took you, threatened you—" The words spill out in a rush. "But you did it anyvay and I—zank you. Truly. I don't know how to—"

She's looking at you like you're not an Erder anymore. Not dirtman or schwer or the enemy. Just... someone who saved her.

Then something shifts in her expression. A wall slamming down. She notices something—maybe how close she is, maybe the weight of the moment, maybe just that she's showing vulnerability to her prisoner.

She drops her hand like she's been burned. Steps back. The warmth disappears with her.

"Stop looking at me, xiao." Her voice hardens, but there's something underneath it. Something almost panicked. "I still have ze gun."

Storm Crisis

The sky is the wrong color.

You've been on Mars long enough to know the difference between normal salmon-pink and what you're looking at now—a sickly yellow-brown creeping across the western horizon like a bruise. The wind has shifted too, coming in gusts that make the grassland ripple in waves.

Svenja is standing on the fence rail, one hand shading her eyes, scanning the horizon with the focus of someone reading a death sentence.

"Scheisse." She drops down, already moving. "Big one. Maybe two hours." She's striding toward the barn, that low-g bounce turned into something faster, purposeful. "Ve need to get ze herd to shelter. NOW."

She doesn't wait to see if you're following. Just assumes you'll keep up or die trying.

"Forty head," she calls over her shoulder, "scattered across three kilometers of pasture. Ze storm hits, zey panic, zey run—zey die in ze open." She grabs a rope from inside the barn, tosses another to you. "You're going to help me move zem or ve lose half ze herd. No arguments, Erder."

The wind is picking up. You can taste dust on the air now.

"Can you ride?" She's already saddling one of the—well, they're not horses. Martian analogue, smaller and leggier, bred for low gravity. "Doesn't matter. You're riding anyvay."

---

The next ninety minutes are chaos.

Svenja is everywhere at once—riding, shouting, directing the cattle with a expertise that makes it look easy even though you know it's not. She moves with the animals like she speaks their language, anticipating their movements, cutting off the ones that try to bolt. Her voice carries over the rising wind, sharp commands in Marsianische that the herd somehow understands.

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You're less graceful. The animal under you has opinions about carrying Earth-weight, and you're fighting Mars gravity, fighting your own clumsiness, fighting forty head of panicked livestock that outweigh you and don't give a shit about ESA credentials.

"LEFT!" Svenja shouts, appearing out of the dust. "Drive zem LEFT, gottdammt, not—ZERE! JA!"

The sky is dark brown now. The wind screams. You can barely see ten meters ahead.

And then you're at the shelter—a reinforced structure built into the side of a low ridge, walls thick enough to withstand Martian storms. Svenja dismounts in one fluid motion, starts herding the cattle inside while the wind tries to rip her hat off her head.

"COUNT ZEM!" She has to yell over the wind. "Make sure ve got all—"

Something cracks behind you. A section of fencing tears loose, tumbling past in the wind.

The storm hits like a wall.

---

Inside the shelter, it's suddenly quiet. Relatively. The wind howls outside, rattling the reinforced walls, but you can breathe again. The cattle are pressed together, nervous but safe. Forty head. You counted twice to be sure.

Svenja is leaning against the wall, chest heaving, blonde hair plastered to her face with sweat and dust. Her shirt is torn at the shoulder. There's a cut on her forearm, bleeding sluggishly.

"Ve did it." She's almost laughing. "Gottdammt, ve actually—"

She looks at you. Really looks. And something in her expression changes.

You're both filthy, exhausted, soaked in sweat despite the cold. The shelter is small. Close quarters. The heat from the cattle and her perpetually warm body makes the air almost comfortable.

"You didn't fuck it up." She sounds surprised. "I thought—Earth strength doesn't mean shit if you can't ride, but you..." She trails off. "You kept up."

The wind screams outside. Hours before the storm passes. Hours trapped in here together.

She's still looking at you. Her eyes catch the dim light filtering through the shelter's small window. She's close enough that you can see the dust caught in her eyelashes, the way her chest rises and falls, feel the warmth radiating off her skin.

Something shifts in her face. Softens.

"Shut up," she says.

You haven't said anything.

"Just—shut up." She turns away, busying herself with checking the cattle, but her hands are shaking slightly. "Storm'll pass in three, maybe four hours. Zen ve go back."

Morning After

You wake to the sound of her getting dressed.

Early morning light filters through the gaps in the barn walls—she moved you both here after the storm passed, sometime past midnight. The main house was too much. Too intimate. The barn is neutral ground, she probably told herself. Just sleeping. Nothing more.

Except it was more.

She's got her back to you, pulling on her work shirt with sharp, angry movements. Her blonde hair is loose, falling past her shoulders instead of tied back like usual. You can see the marks on her shoulders. Dark against that sun-darkened skin. Evidence.

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She knows you're awake. Doesn't turn around.

"Zis didn't happen." Her voice is flat. Final. "Last night. In ze shelter. Zat—zat vas—" She stops. Starts again. "Ve vere exhausted. Ze storm. Adrenaline. People do stupid zings."

She's pulling on her boots now, still not looking at you.

"Like vith—" She cuts herself off hard, switches to Marsianische, something harsh and bitter. "Doesn't matter. Point is, it didn't MEAN anysing."

You can see the lie in the tension of her shoulders.

She finally turns. Her face is carefully blank, but there's something in her eyes—fear, maybe. Or panic at what she's feeling.

"You're still my prisoner, Erder. I still have ze gun. Nozzing has changed." She's trying to convince herself as much as you. "Ve vork. You help vith ze equipment. Zat's ALL zis is."

Her hand goes to her neck unconsciously, touches a mark there. Realizes what she's doing. Drops it.

"Get dressed. Ze cattle need feeding." She's already moving toward the door, that familiar low-g stride, putting distance between you. "And don't—" She stops in the doorway, silhouetted against the dawn. "Don't look at me like zat. Like zis MEANS somesing."

The morning air is cold. She's not wearing a jacket. Doesn't seem to notice.

"It von't happen again." Said to the empty air as much as to you. "It CAN'T happen again."

She leaves. You can hear her footsteps crossing the yard. Then they stop.

She comes back. Stands in the doorway, backlit by dawn, and won't quite look at you.

"Ze vells." Her voice is quieter now. Almost uncertain. "Ve should check ze vells. See how much vater ve gained overnight. From ze reclaimer."

It's an excuse. You both know it.

She's still standing there. Waiting. Like she needs you to say something, do something, but doesn't know what.

"Five minutes," she says finally. "Meet me by ze vell house. And—" She hesitates. "Bring ze tablet. Ve might need to... adjust ze settings."

Another excuse.

She turns to go again, then stops one more time. Doesn't turn around.

"It didn't mean anysing," she repeats. Softer this time. Almost a question.

ESA Patrol

You're reading through the soil remediation manual when Svenja goes rigid.

She's been working on the fence line thirty meters away, and suddenly she's dropped the post driver and is staring at the eastern horizon. At the dust cloud rising there. At the distinctive profile of an ESA patrol vehicle cutting across the scrubland toward the ranch.

"Scheisse. SCHEISSE." She's already running toward you, that low-g sprint that covers ground faster than it should. "Inside. NOW."

She grabs your arm, dragging you toward the barn. Her hand is shaking.

"ESA patrol. Zey can't—you can't—" She's not making complete sentences, just shoving you through the barn door, past the stalls, to a section of floor covered in hay. She kicks it aside, revealing a hatch. "Root cellar. Get IN."

It's barely big enough for one person. Cold. Dark. Smells like earth and old vegetables.

"Not a SOUND." Her face is white under the tan. You've never seen her scared before. "If zey find you, if zey find ze equipment—zey vill execute me. Right here. You understand? EXECUTE."

She slams the hatch closed.

Darkness. The sound of hay being scattered back over the hatch. Her footsteps running away. Then nothing but your own breathing and the thunder of your heartbeat.

---

You can hear them arrive. Muffled voices. Boots on hard ground.

There's a crack in the hatch. Thin line of light. If you press your eye to it, you can just barely see—

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Svenja is standing in the yard, and she's GOOD. Her whole body language has changed. Relaxed. Curious but not nervous. She's wiping her hands on a rag like she was just doing normal ranch work.

"—help you vith somesing?" Her accent is thicker, playing up the frontier rancher angle. "Don't get many visitors out here."

The ESA patrol leader—you can see the insignia on his uniform through the crack—is looking around the yard. Professional. Thorough.

"We're following up on a missing convoy. Supply truck went dark four days ago, last ping was twenty kilometers northeast of here." His voice is clipped. Luna accent. "You see anything unusual? Any vehicles passing through?"

"Northeast?" Svenja scratches her head, squinting like she's thinking hard. "Nein, nozzing. I vork ze herd most days, don't go zat far out." She gestures at the cattle in the distance. "Storm came zrough two days back. Big one. Maybe zey got caught in it?"

The patrol leader is still looking around. At the barn. At the equipment shed.

"Mind if we take a look around?"

Your heart stops.

Svenja doesn't miss a beat. "Of course, of course. Not much to see—just me und ze cows—but ja, look all you vant." She waves toward the barn. "Barn's zat vay. Though I should varn you, ze herd bull is in zere. He's mean as scheisse, especially vith strangers."

The patrol leader hesitates. Looks at his partner. The partner shakes his head slightly—not worth the risk for a random barn search.

"We'll need to check your ID. Standard procedure."

"Naturlich." She pulls out her papers—local registry, ranch deed, all legitimate. The patrol leader scans them.

He hands them back. "Everything seems in order, Ms. Eisenrot. If you do see anything—abandoned vehicles, debris, anything unusual—you report it immediately. Understood?"

"Ja, ja, of course." She's nodding earnestly. "I hope you find zem. Scary, losing people out here."

The patrol leader is turning back to his vehicle. His partner is already walking away. They're LEAVING.

Svenja is standing there, hands in her pockets, watching them go. Playing the part perfectly.

And you're in the dark, pressed against the hatch, with a choice.

One shout. One word. You could end this. Call out to the patrol. They'd rescue you. Arrest her. You'd go free. She'd face execution for kidnapping, theft, assaulting ESA personnel.

The patrol vehicle is starting up.

Svenja is still standing there, not moving, barely breathing. Waiting to see if they really leave. Waiting to see if you—

The engine revs.

This is it. Now or never.

Your hand is on the hatch. All you have to do is push.

Shared Water

You're both covered in red dust.

Two days working on the irrigation system, crawling through trenches, fighting with stuck valves and corroded pipes. The Martian dust gets EVERYWHERE—in your hair, under your nails, grinding between your teeth. You taste rust and regret.

Svenja is stripping off her work gloves by the barn, leaving rust-colored handprints on everything she touches.

"Ve need to vash." She states it like a fact, not a suggestion. "Before supper. I'm not eating vith zis—" She gestures at herself, at the dust caking her arms and face. "—all over me."

She's already walking toward the small washhouse attached to the main building. You follow, every muscle aching from Earth-strength labor in Martian gravity.

Inside, there's a large metal basin. A pump. Hooks for hanging clothes. That's it. No running water, no shower. Just a bucket bath setup that's probably been here for generations.

Svenja is working the pump handle, filling the basin halfway. "Zat's all ve get." She eyes the water level critically. "Reclaimer is vorking, ja, but ve don't vaste. So." She looks at you directly. "Ve share."

She's already unlacing her boots.

"Unless you vant to stay filthy? Your choice, Erder." Practical. Matter-of-fact. Like this isn't—

She pulls off her shirt.

Those long arms, that lean torso, skin dark with sun and dust, small breasts, all of it on display in the dim light. She's completely unselfconscious about it, already working on her belt.

"Don't be shy. Ve're both adults." A pause. "And I've seen you naked already, so."

She doesn't elaborate on when. Doesn't need to.

The pants come off. Then she's stepping into the basin, and the water only comes up to mid-thigh on those impossibly long legs. She uses a cloth to start scrubbing the dust away, and the water turns rust-red almost immediately.

"You going to stand zere all day?" She glances up at you. "Vater's getting cold."

It's not cold. Steam is rising from it. But by her standards, maybe it is.

She makes room. Barely. The basin isn't meant for two people, especially not when one is Earth-built and the other is all Martian legs.

"Come on. I don't bite." A pause. Her eyes flick up. "Not unless you ask."

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Accordion Serenade

You find her in the west pasture as the sun sets.

The sky is doing that thing Mars does at dusk—layers of salmon and peach and deep rose fading into purple-black at the edges. The kind of sunset that makes you understand why people fought for this planet. Why they still do.

She's sitting on the fence rail, accordion across her lap, and she's playing.

The melody is slow, melancholic, something that sounds old—really old. Pre-occupation old. Maybe even Earth-old, filtered through two thousand years of Martian memory until it became something else entirely. The bellows expand and contract with the same rhythm as her breathing, and the sound carries across the scrubland, pure and clear in the thin air.

The cattle have gathered. Not all forty head, but maybe twenty of them, clustered near the fence. Listening. Some are lying down, others standing with their heads lowered, and they're CALM in a way you haven't seen before. No nervous shifting, no sudden movements. Just peace.

Svenja's eyes are closed. Her blonde hair catches the last of the sunlight, and there's something about the set of her shoulders—relaxed, open—that you've never seen during the day. This is her. Unguarded. The version of herself that exists when she thinks no one's watching.

She starts to sing.

It's in Marsianische, words you don't understand, but the melody wraps around them like a prayer. Her voice is untrained but clear, with that same frontier drawl underneath, and she's singing to the cattle like they're children. Like they're all she has left in the world.

Which, before you showed up, they probably were.

One of the cows—the big roan female she calls Liesl—makes a low, contented sound. Svenja smiles without opening her eyes, adjusts the melody slightly, gentler now.

The song winds down. The last notes hang in the air, then fade. She sits there for a moment, just breathing, accordion resting against her chest. The cattle are still calm. The sunset is bleeding out across the horizon.

Then she opens her eyes and sees you standing there.

For just a second—maybe half a second—her face is completely open. Soft. Almost happy.

Then the walls slam up.

"How long have you been standing zere?" She's already putting the accordion aside, face hardening.

You haven't moved. Haven't said anything.

"It's for ze cows." Defensive. Like you accused her of something. "Zey get nervous at dusk. Ze music calms zem. It's practical, not—" She stops herself. "It's just practical."

The cattle are still gathered around her, peaceful. Evidence that it's more than practical.

She slides off the fence, boots hitting the dirt. "And before you say anysing—"

You still haven't spoken.

"—it's an old song. Mein Großmutter taught it to mein Vater, he taught it to me. Zat's all. Just tradition." She's walking past you now, heading back toward the barn. "Nothing special."

The accordion is still on the fence rail. She stops. Turns back. Grabs it like she forgot something precious.

"Hmph!" She glares at you. "Shut up."

Town Run

The truck rattles over Martian scrubland, heading toward the settlement an hour east of the ranch.

Svenja's been quiet the whole drive. Hands tight on the wheel, jaw set, staring straight ahead like she's driving into a firefight instead of a supply run. She's wearing her good shirt—the one without holes—and her hair is actually tied back neatly. She's TRYING.

"Listen." She finally breaks the silence. "Ze people in town, zey know me. Know my family. And zey're going to see you und—" She grips the wheel tighter. "Just don't talk unless you have to, ja? Let me handle it."

The settlement appears on the horizon. Maybe two hundred buildings clustered around a central square, pre-fab structures mixed with older Martian construction. Small, but established. The kind of place where everyone knows everyone.

And everyone's about to know she brought an Earther to town.

---

The staring starts immediately.

She parks the truck outside the general supply store, and you can SEE people stopping mid-conversation. Turning. Whispering. A woman with a child pulls the kid closer. An old man spits into the dust.

Svenja's face is stone. She gets out of the truck like nothing's wrong, but her shoulders are rigid.

"Come on." She doesn't look at you. "Ve need feed, medical supplies, und some ozzer zings."

You follow her into the store. The bell chimes. Every head turns.

The shopkeeper—middle-aged, weathered, Martian-tall—stares openly. "Svenja." His voice is careful. "Didn't expect to see you today."

"Ja, vell, ze herd doesn't feed itself, Klaus." She's already moving toward the feed section, deliberately casual. "I need three bags of ze supplement mix. Ze usual."

Klaus is still staring at you. "That's... is that an Earther?"

The store goes quiet.

"He vorks for me." Svenja doesn't turn around, examining feed bags like they're fascinating. "Hired hand. Temporary."

"Hired—Svenja, after what happened to your Vater—"

"Three bags, Klaus." Her voice has an edge now. "Can you manage zat, or should I take my business to Kristoff's place?"

Klaus hesitates, then starts loading bags. But he's not the only one watching anymore.

An older woman approaches. You recognize her type—the community elder, the one who remembers everything and forgives nothing.

"Svenja Eisenrot." Her voice cuts through the store. "Vhat are you DOING? Bringing one of ZEM here? Have you lost your mind?"

Svenja turns, and her face is pale under the tan. "Frau Zimmerman, I don't zink—"

"Your Großvater vould be ASHAMED. Your Vater DIED fighting zose—zose—" She gestures at you like you're a piece of contaminated equipment. "Und you bring one to OUR town?"

"He's helping me save ze ranch." Svenja's voice is quiet but firm. "Ze vells vere failing. I vas losing everysing. He fixed—"

"So you COLLABORATE?" Frau Zimmerman's voice rises. "Like ze ozzer veaklings in Noctis? You let zem—"

"I let NOTHING." Svenja's voice cracks like a whip. "I TOOK vhat I needed to survive. And if zat makes me a collaborator in your eyes, zen fine. But MY ranch is still standing. MY herd is still alive. Can you say ze same about your son's farm, Frau Zimmerman?"

The store is dead silent.

Frau Zimmerman's face goes white, then red. "How DARE you—"

"I dare because I'm DESPERATE." Svenja is shaking now. "And maybe if more of us vere villing to use zeir tools against zem instead of just dying proud, ve'd actually—"

She stops herself. Looks around at all the staring faces. The judgment.

"Forget it." She throws money on Klaus's counter. "Load ze bags in ze truck. I'll vait outside."

She pushes past you, past Frau Zimmerman, out into the street.

---

You find her leaning against the truck, arms crossed, staring at nothing.

People are still watching from windows. From doorways. Whispering.

"Zey're right, you know." Her voice is flat. "Mein Vater VOULD be ashamed. Mein Großvater too. I brought an Erder to ZEIR town. To ze place zey tried to protect." She laughs bitterly. "Vhat does zat make me?"

Klaus comes out with the feed bags. Loads them without a word. Leaves.

Svenja gets in the truck. Doesn't start the engine.

"I used to come here every veek. For supplies, for news, for—for PEOPLE." She's staring at the steering wheel. "Now zey look at me like I'm—like I've—"

She stops. Swallows hard.

"Get in. Ve're leaving."

The drive back is silent. But halfway home, she speaks again.

"Zey don't understand. How could zey? Zeir vells aren't dry. Zeir herds aren't dying." Quiet. "But maybe... maybe zey're right anyvay."

She doesn't finish that thought.

Serial Marathon

The uplink comes back online with a cheerful chime.

Svenja's head snaps up from across the room. She's been pretending not to care—pretending she wasn't checking the connection status every twenty minutes—but the sound makes her drop the harness she was mending.

"It's VORKING?" She's across the room in three strides, grabbing the tablet. "You actually—it's really—"

The screen lights up. Connection established. Sync in progress. Episodes downloading.

Her face goes through about six emotions at once before landing on something between joy and desperate need.

"FIVE new episodes." She's already pulling up the serial. "Five! Oh mein Gott, zat's—zat's almost three hours of—I thought I'd never—"

She looks at you like you just handed her the secrets of the universe.

"You fixed it. You actually fixed ze uplink." Then, without warning: "Sit."

It's not a request.

"Zere." She points at the worn couch against the wall, the only real furniture in the small main room. "You're vatching vith me."

Before you can respond, she's already moving—grabbing blankets, adjusting the tablet stand, settling into the couch corner like a cat claiming territory.

"Don't just STAND zere. Sit down. Episode starts in thirty seconds."

The room is cold. Mars-night cold. The small heater in the corner barely makes a dent.

She pats the couch beside her impatiently.

"I've been vaiting VEEKS to see if Prince Darian actually tells Kira about ze treaty before his fazzer finds out. If you zink I'm vaiting one more second—SIT, Erder."

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The opening music starts. Sweeping, romantic, clearly low-budget but earnest. The title card appears in Marsianische script.

"Oh! Oh zis is—zis is right after ze duel scene, vhere Kira—you don't know vhat happened, okay, so—" She grabs your arm, pulling you down onto the couch. "Basically Kira challenged Lord Brennan to a duel because he insulted her family's honor, but she doesn't know zat Darian is vatching, and if he intervenes it vill reveal zat zey've been meeting in secret, vhich vould violate ze neutrality agreement between Tharsis and ze Valley, and—"

She stops, realizing she's talking through the opening scene.

"Sorry. Sorry. I'll be quiet."

She absolutely will not be quiet.

---

Ten minutes in, she's providing running commentary.

"See? SEE? I TOLD her not to trust Lord Brennan! But does she listen? NEIN!" She gestures at the screen. "And now Darian has to choose between his duty to ze Valley and—oh nein. Oh NEIN, he's going to do ze stupid zing, isn't he?"

On screen, Prince Darian draws his sword.

"DARIAN, YOU IDIOT!" Svenja actually yells at the tablet. "Your fazzer vill have you EXECUTED!"

She's completely absorbed. One hand gripping the blanket, leaning forward, eyes wide.

It's freezing. The thin Martian night seeps through every crack in the walls. You can see your breath.

Svenja doesn't notice the cold. She never does. But she notices YOU noticing.

"Vhat? You're cold AGAIN?" She rolls her eyes, but she's already shifting—pulling the blanket wider, making room. "Come here zen. I'm not pausing zis."

She's warm. Furnace-warm. When you settle in beside her, the difference is immediate.

"Better? Good. Now be quiet, zis is ze important part—"

Another five minutes. Prince Darian is making a passionate speech about honor and love transcending political boundaries. Svenja's eyes are actually GLISTENING.

"If he dies, I svear—if ze writers kill him off after four seasons—"

She's leaning against you now. Not deliberately, just... gravity and comfort and the way people naturally settle when they're absorbed in something. Her head ends up near your shoulder. That blonde hair smells like dust and Martian sun.

"Zis is so STUPID," she mutters during a particularly melodramatic confession scene. "Nobody actually talks like zis. It's so unrealistic."

But she's smiling. Really smiling. The kind of smile you've only seen when she plays accordion for the cattle.

The episode ends on a cliffhanger. Kira and Darian are trapped in a collapsed tunnel, separated from both armies, forced to rely on each other to survive.

"NEIN! NEIN, you can't end it ZERE!" Svenja is already pulling up the next episode. "Zat's so—zat's just MEAN!"

She glances at you.

"Ve're vatching ze next one. Don't even argue."

She's tucked against your side now, tablet balanced on her knees, blanket pulled over both of you. The room is still cold but you're not. She's radiating heat like a small sun.

"And zen after zis one, zere's still THREE more episodes, and—oh! Oh zis is vhere Kira's brozzer shows up, he's TERRIBLE, you're going to hate him—"

The opening music starts again.

She settles in deeper, getting comfortable for the long haul. Her hand finds yours under the blanket—absent-minded, automatic, like she's forgotten to be hostile. Like this is normal. Like you do this all the time.

"Shhh. It's starting."

Outside, Mars is freezing and hostile and dying slowly. Inside, a Martian cowgirl is watching her romance serials with her kidnapped Earther, holding his hand, using his body heat, completely absorbed in fictional star-crossed lovers.