Riley changed into the nurse's uniform. Scrubs—standard issue. One-size-fits-most. Good enough. But the look still felt wrong.

Took her a second to realise why.

Mascara.

She'd seen it on every nurse walking these halls. Turns out, on this station, makeup was part of the uniform. Something not made on Mars. Expensive. Imported. A sign of class and status. Riley wasn't used to it, but she put on just enough to pass.

She stepped out of the hab-pod and scanned her surroundings. Familiar. She knew where she was now.

And with the nurse disguise, she had a new way to hide in plain sight.

The plan was simple: find a suit. There was a secondary airlock near the old greenhouses and the old wellness centre. With Colt's decompression attack keeping people distracted, she could slip out, radio him, get picked up. Done.

Then her heart sank.

Two other nurses were outside the pod, looking around.

"What's going on?" said one—badge read Zara.

"Christmas?" slurred another—Callie, eyes bloodshot, clearly high.

A senior charge nurse strode up. Tessa. Authoritative type.

"You lot, with me. They'll be expecting casualties. We're setting up an emergency ER."

"We were on break," Zara said.

"Move," Tessa snapped.

The group marched off. Riley followed. Heart racing. Half-terrified she'd been made. Half-thrilled the disguise was working.

"Margret, where are your regulation heels?" Tessa called from the back.

"I was on break," Riley replied, faking the soft Earth accent.

"Doesn't matter," Tessa said, waving her on.

They passed a guard scanning the corridor, rifle slung across his chest. Another man was waist-deep in a vent, pulling himself through.

So long, suckers, Riley thought.

She moved through the base, recognizing landmarks—old corridors, old memories. She'd grown up here. The changes stung. Felt like ghosts.

She kicked herself for not thinking earlier—Margret probably had an EVA suit in her hab locker. She could've grabbed it, walked out clean.

Too late now.

They reached the surgical wing just as another explosion hit. Power dropped again. Lights flickered. A window cracked. Another emergency blast door slammed down. More alarms.

The corridors filled with shouting. Patients. Staff. Security. Chaos.

"We're prepping for gunshot trauma and decompression sickness," Tessa explained. "Don't tell the paying patients. Just say it's a routine drill."

"What's happening?" Callie mumbled. "Where are the nice men? Where did they go?"

Tessa glared. "Get her an antidote when we're in. I knew hiring junkie nurses was a mistake."

"Where is everyone?" Zara asked.

"I don't know," Tessa snapped. "Someone's attacking the base. Some of the General's men are coming in shot up. I'm told to expect casualties."

"I'm a breastfeeding consultant," Callie said.

"You're a trauma nurse now," Zara replied.

"Nice colours," Callie said, pointing at the flashing decompression light.

Riley stayed quiet. Watching. Calculating. Looking for her out.

Then a doctor flagged Tessa down.

"We need nurses to help move patients to the pressure shelters," he said.

"We're setting up ER in ward five," Tessa replied. "They're bleeding."

"The General's men don't pay the bills. They can wait. You're taking ward five. Set up the ER after you're done. Tell the patients it's decompression training—for their safety. Understood?"

"Understood," Tessa said. Then to her team: "Zara, Margret, you heard the man. If the General asks, that's the story."

"Don't worry about the General," the doctor said. "Just move the bodies."

They marched to a newer, better-equipped ward. Riley scanned for exits, but Tessa's eyes never left them.

They stopped when Zara pointed out something that would sober Callie up. A task. Room 12.

Tessa nodded. "Callie, Margret—you move the woman in Room 12. She's on a walking bed. Use the ramp, avoid the lifts."

The bed was motorized. Controlled by a two-hand drone stick. Riley took the controls. Callie tagged along.

"Why are we moving?" the middle-aged woman asked as they reached the stairs.

"Just decompression training," Riley said, keeping her voice flat.

"I've just had surgery. I shouldn't be moved."

The bed descended smoothly. Auto-levelling tech. Smart design.

"Do you know who I am?" the woman demanded.

"No, madam," Riley said.

"Don't madam me. This is outrageous. I'll be speaking to Dr. Elsharif about you. It's bad enough flying halfway around the solar system to end up on this rock... and look at your hands. They're filthy."

Riley looked down. Caught.

"What's wrong with your nails?" the woman barked. "What's your name? Margret, is it?"

Callie squinted at her. "You're not Margret... where is she?"

"There is two of us. I'm another Margret," Riley said flatly.

Gunfire cracked in the distance. Sharp. Close.

Riley handed Callie the remote.

"I just remembered something. Can you drive? I need to grab something."

She ran. Fast. Up the stairs. Past another walking bed headed down.

Behind her, Callie tried to work the controls. Jerked the stick the wrong way.

The patient tipped.

Screamed.

Tumbled.

And Riley didn't look back.

****

A/N Thanks for the reads and the votes.  Join us on Friday for more action: Fair warning one of Colt's crew will die.