The Mars Experience

Chapter 1: Athena

I'm being chased, can't breathe, and it isn't my fault. Objectively, though, I may, potentially, be the one at blame here. Of course, this is one in the morning on a warm autumn night; what you do, have done, or plan to accomplish at the time doesn't count against you. Ever. Well, unless you go to jail, but that's completely different. People judge you because of jail.

I wouldn't be able to bear those judging looks from everyone in court, or as the guardsmen would drag you back to your cell. Good thing I don't ever have to worry about that.

It's only because I was rude to the "rebels", or at least that's what they call themselves. In my opinion, it's just a fancy word for being poor, then people wouldn't judge them as much as they already do. They live in a rusty shelter!

Before you think I'm a horrible person, just know it isn't about being lower-class, per se, it's about lacking opportunities. If somebody doesn't even have enough cash on them to become adapted and start new-life on Mars, you can believe me when I say they're completely useless.

That's why I get on their nerves. Not because I don't like them, I just think they're a waste of space. Ha! Space. Get it?

The only problem is I might have to dial it down, since I'm so close to fully adapting. Only three weeks until I'm done! I squeal audibly thinking about this, only to remember I've been running for the past ten minutes and breaking into a breathy cough. The only downside of the transformation is that it makes it really hard to breathe, really hard to move in general.

Tripping over my own feet, I realize today is my lucky day. I come across this stunning platinum blue Porsche with almost half the window open. I can just slide right in and stick a bobby pin in the key hole. I'll get home about an hour before I usually do and wouldn't be so out of breath.

I struggle climbing the passengers' side door, leaving grime all over the handle. I scoot over to the driver's and begin fiddling with the golden pin I pulled from my over my ear. They never seem to fully match my shade of hair.

"Hey! You in the blue Porsche," one of them calls out, "I hope you crash and burn!"

At first, I'm baffled by whatever they thought that "insult" was, still fussing about the pin, until they begin throwing stones. The realization that I might die tonight strikes me more brutally than the rocks pound against the Porsche. And, trust me, the car is nearly giving in.

I step on the engine as hard as I can, having to lean forward to put my full weight on it. I watch the speedometer rise, feeling my shirt grip to the car seat with sweat and my hair flying back from the wind and speed. The few lights flashing through insomniac's windows become a blur.

Once more I stomp on the engine with all my strength, before checking to see the gas is almost empty. With my house in sight, I barely have time to brake the car. I look in the rear-side view mirror, and see that, of course, I've already lost them.

I brake the car and, barely before it comes to a full halt unlock the car door and stumble out of the car, tripping on the cement along the way. I move towards my house. The car. I look around, in the hopes of finding some tape and something heavy. On the doors of the backseat, I find a book: "Beginner's Guide to Acrobacy". For a beginner's guide, it's just about the weight of my hand. On the same door, an elastic. This will have to do.

Carefully, I put the car in neutral and tie the book to the gas, making sure there's enough pressure on it to get it running smoothly. Looking over my shoulder to make sure they haven't caught up, I roll down the window and lock the door from the inside. Sticking my hand into the revving engine, I take the car out of neutral and quickly get rid of my arm, the glass irritating my skin in the process.