2026-04-28
The dorm is covered in green. A moss sponge (103 words) ate it overnight, tendrils curling through rooms, choking the building. Site admin moved us to the auxiliary dorm; the launch won’t be delayed.
That’s how I met Lori. I took the upper bunk in her room. She was focused on her notebook, muttering. At night, she said “why did I write that damned thing?”, but I didn’t know what she meant.
They brought in the rest of the refined air-rock last week. The ground beneath the storage grew seven metres, taking the building with it. Lori asked for leave to investigate the overgrowth again, but was denied. “It’s irresponsible to do the launch when we don’t know what’s causing this!” she told the Chief Scientist. She’s becoming a pariah. She thinks it might be the air-rock.
The rocket is built. It looms above the site. The moss is growing so fast now we’ve stopped clearing it. Six more days. Lori has given up her duties to pace the facilities, marking air-rock and growth in her journal. It’s the end of her career. If she’s right, it’s the end of all our careers.
We’re on the aux dorm roof, facing the rocket. The crew mills about the launch pad. We stole away to watch; Lori is convinced it won’t matter anyways. She turns to face me. This might be our last chance. She leans in. I hesitate. We kiss. The moss grows.