Moon's Haunted

Grabbing salvage on the far side of Luna’s rough work, but you think my supposed stress reaction’s a little much. Just because I said the moon’s haunted doesn’t mean you have to make up bullshit, you say. I had a cousin who died when Artemis V exploded, alright? Can you chill?

Nights in the rover have grown tense since we reached the ruins, since you first pointed your sidearm at me, you turncoat⁠—sorry, I guess seeing the bodies shook me. Fine, the gun’s imaginary, but the haunting sure isn’t: the cold tang of burnt machinery, betrayal’s stench, how darkness can pull at your bones. How can you not tell someone got shot right where our boots press prints into the frozen sands of Mare Ingenii?

No, I know the explosion was an accident, but every time we’re within ten meters of the Artemis V husk, all my flights of fancy claw clear of the wreckage, choking on lunar waste, and speak to me of treachery. You think it’s stupid for me to think you’re pointing your gun at⁠—yes, I know you don’t have a gun, but⁠—I can feel all warmth sucked from my suit, a premonition. An omen. We knew your lot were traitors, but I thought you might be different. You’ll blow up this base over my dead body, I swear.