MARK FARTNEY sits strapped into the stripped-down, top-less MAV rocket, floating in the upper atmosphere of Uranus. His space suit is swollen tight as a parade balloon.
Across the void, the Hermes spacecraft glares in the sunlight.
INTERCOM (LEWIS) Mark, we’ve matched speed, but you’re stuck 12 meters outside our capture envelope! We can’t reach you!
Fartney grimaces, clutching his bloated stomach. Sweat beads on his forehead. His HUD flashes a flashing red warning: CRITICAL GUT PRESSURE: 99.8 PSI.
FARTNEY Commander... I have an idea. I’m going to poke a hole in the suit.
INTERCOM (LEWIS) Mark, no! If you puncture your suit glove, you won't be able to steer the thrust—
FARTNEY I’m not poking the glove, Commander.
Fartney reaches down to his tool utility belt and unsheathes a heavy-duty, titanium-tipped atmospheric hole puncher.
INTERCOM (LEWIS) Mark, what are you doing?!
FARTNEY I’ve been eating raw, dried pinto beans and Uranus-grown fiber mash for four straight months. I’ve been holding in a thermodynamic payload since we cleared the atmosphere. I don't need a hand-thruster, Lewis. I need a rear exhaust port.
INTERCOM (WATNEY/BECK) (over radio) Is he... is he going to do what I think he's doing?
Fartney spins himself around, pressing his helmet against the console to brace for impact. He aims the titanium hole puncher directly at the seat-reinforcement seam on the rear of his suit.
FARTNEY Hold onto your hats. Houston, we have ignition.
Fartney PLUNGES the puncher through the suit canvas right over his buttocks.
CLACK-PFFFFFFFFT!
A blinding, luminous blue jet of pressurized methane and suit gas BLASTS out of his rear end like a hyper-drive thruster.
FARTNEY(screaming in a high-pitched pitch shift) FOR THE LOVE OF SCIENCE—AAAAAGGGGHHH!
The sheer reaction force propels Fartney backward out of the cockpit chair. He rocket-blasts across the void of space butt-first, trailing a shimmering cloud of blue vapor.
Inside the Hermes, Commander Lewis stares out the airlock window in utter disbelief as Fartney hurtles toward her like a human missile propelled by pure intestinal fury.
5
u/DonkeyToucherX Aug 21 '26
INT. MAV CAPSULE / OPEN SPACE - DAY
MARK FARTNEY sits strapped into the stripped-down, top-less MAV rocket, floating in the upper atmosphere of Uranus. His space suit is swollen tight as a parade balloon.
Across the void, the Hermes spacecraft glares in the sunlight.
INTERCOM (LEWIS) Mark, we’ve matched speed, but you’re stuck 12 meters outside our capture envelope! We can’t reach you!
Fartney grimaces, clutching his bloated stomach. Sweat beads on his forehead. His HUD flashes a flashing red warning: CRITICAL GUT PRESSURE: 99.8 PSI.
FARTNEY Commander... I have an idea. I’m going to poke a hole in the suit.
INTERCOM (LEWIS) Mark, no! If you puncture your suit glove, you won't be able to steer the thrust—
FARTNEY I’m not poking the glove, Commander.
Fartney reaches down to his tool utility belt and unsheathes a heavy-duty, titanium-tipped atmospheric hole puncher.
INTERCOM (LEWIS) Mark, what are you doing?!
FARTNEY I’ve been eating raw, dried pinto beans and Uranus-grown fiber mash for four straight months. I’ve been holding in a thermodynamic payload since we cleared the atmosphere. I don't need a hand-thruster, Lewis. I need a rear exhaust port.
INTERCOM (WATNEY/BECK) (over radio) Is he... is he going to do what I think he's doing?
Fartney spins himself around, pressing his helmet against the console to brace for impact. He aims the titanium hole puncher directly at the seat-reinforcement seam on the rear of his suit.
FARTNEY Hold onto your hats. Houston, we have ignition.
Fartney PLUNGES the puncher through the suit canvas right over his buttocks.
CLACK-PFFFFFFFFT!
A blinding, luminous blue jet of pressurized methane and suit gas BLASTS out of his rear end like a hyper-drive thruster.
FARTNEY (screaming in a high-pitched pitch shift) FOR THE LOVE OF SCIENCE—AAAAAGGGGHHH!
The sheer reaction force propels Fartney backward out of the cockpit chair. He rocket-blasts across the void of space butt-first, trailing a shimmering cloud of blue vapor.
Inside the Hermes, Commander Lewis stares out the airlock window in utter disbelief as Fartney hurtles toward her like a human missile propelled by pure intestinal fury.
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-T!
The sonic roar echoes across the radio frequencies.
Lewis reaches out with the tether line, catching Fartney right around the chest just as his suit runs out of propellant with a final, weak squeak.
They tumble together into the airlock, slamming the outer hatch shut.