Image created by Grok.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fan fiction based on the concepts and settings inspired by SpaceX and its Mars mission endeavors. All characters, events, and scenarios depicted are entirely fictional and created for entertainment purposes only. The use of real-world entities, such as SpaceX, Elon Musk, or Starbase, is purely for creative inspiration and does not reflect any real events, individuals, or operations associated with these entities. No affiliation with or endorsement by SpaceX, Elon Musk, or any related organizations is implied or intended. The term "Citadel" and other original elements are products of the author's imagination and are not associated with any existing organizations or intellectual properties. This work is not for profit and is shared solely for the enjoyment of fans and readers.
P a r t 1
Rain fell softly against my window as I sat, nursing a bitter, lukewarm coffee. My laptop casting a warm glow on another half-finished screenplay. Its protagonist, quite stubbornly, protesting against being born. Just outside, Brooklyn sulked in its predictable grey.
A notification popped up from X, Direct message from @Elonmusk.
I was snapped out of my creative daze.
Say what?
A message from who?
Probably a scam account, I scoffed. Freaking bots. As I began to report yet another fake Musk profile I saw it—the blue checkmark. Time stopped.
“Evan, you’ve caught our eye. You’ve got a particular skill-set our team is looking for. Because of this, Grok has flagged your profile. We’re assembling a team for a high-stakes project. No obligation—but if you’re curious, reply.”
My head began spinning—so many questions.
Why me? A forty-something screenwriter still skating by on freelance gigs. I was living above a dumpling shop in a dank one-bedroom walkup filled with dog-eared scripts, Post-it notes, and the lingering scent of burnt coffee and reheated bao buns? I’d had my share of adventures. I’d hiked the Appalachian Trail, taught English for a bit in Japan, even attempted a few open mic nights after the crowds were sufficiently hammered. But this?
Half-joking, I typed:
“For real? What’s the gig?”
“Very real. With the help of Grok, we’ve been evaluating profiles for a year. Your non-conformist attitude, storytelling ability, and appetite for risk make you a strong candidate. You in? If so, an NDA will be delivered via email, and then full details will follow.”
I leaned back in my creaky chair reflecting on my journey. My walls chronicled much of it, walls plastered with movie posters, photos of my travels, and scribbles from late-night flashes of inspiration. My life was a mosaic of impulsive leaps with a smattering of lucky breaks, here and there, that afforded me my freedom. I felt like I’d squandered my best years. I finally found the nerve to check out of my dismal corporate job to write screenplays in my late thirties, backpacked Europe with no itinerary, performed mediocre stand-up. I’d fallen in love with this second act of mine but this opportunity felt like a leap I could barely believe myself.
I texted my best friend, Sam, he had always been a voice of reason, an anchor that kept me grounded. “Musk seems so intense, Evan, you’re insane to even think about this,” he said, laughing. “But since you quit that desk job you’ve become addicted to jumping into the deep end. This time it’s just deeper, and, dare I say, more absurd.” Sam wasn’t wrong. I craved me a good quest and the outlandish ones always had a way of finding me. If I had a superpower, this was probably it.
Elon’s next short message clarified a little more: The project required eighteen months of prep, including six months in a remote training facility, then a long-term commitment, probably a decade away from home.”
Everything else about the project was still a mystery but my gut told me the entire scope of this entire thing was centered around marketing. I’d heard Elon was being pressured hard by the board of his companies and shareholders to, finally, have professional advertising produced to promote his suite of businesses—xAI, SpaceX, Tesla, Neuralink, The Boring Company, StarLink.
This had to be it. It would put me on the forefront of technology, getting a glimpse of all the magic unfolding long before the average person had any clue. If I’m being honest, the idea of being a part of it lit me up.
Despite this, doubts crept in. I’d leave my comfortable but sketchy dive bar hangouts, my vinyl collection, the chaos of the city that fueled my writing. I’d found my tribe and built a real following and my readers loved my takes on life—could I give that up for some cryptic “venture”? As exciting as it all was, in reality, I'd be saying goodbye to my freedom, going back to working for the man. And from what I’d heard this particular man was a real taskmaster, expecting himself and his employees to continuously do the impossible.
I sat on my worn-out couch, closing my eyes, box-breathing, just like I did before a big pitch. I imagined late nights in a studio, the buzz of a film set, ridiculous budgets, the weight of a camera in my hands, being the conductor of a visual orchestra. Then I pictured something bigger: a chance to create something groundbreaking, to tell a story that might very well become my legacy. Life doesn’t open many doors like this.
My gut screamed:
GO!!!
I typed back:
“Count me in.”
A single ping:
“Welcome aboard, Evan. NDA was just delivered to your inbox. Sign, then details soon.”
I opened gmail and clicked through, signing in all the necessary places before second-thoughts had a chance to set in. Grinning like a teenager experiencing his first beer buzz, I danced wildly around my tiny apartment. Whatever this was—it for damned sure wasn’t just another gig. This was the kind of story I’d spent my whole life chasing.
One week later, at exactly 4:20pm, a matte black package arrived. I slid a sleek inner box from the outer sleeve and it was tastefully embossed with the SpaceX logo. Inside the box was an iPad.
As I turned it on I noticed a video file was pre-loaded on the home screen. I took a deep breath and tapped play. Elon appeared on screen, as awkward and disheveled as ever.
“Evan, this isn’t just a film project. You’re one of 100 civilians selected for Mars Colony Alpha. Five Starships are to launch a few minutes apart from Boca Chica in 18 months. The mission: to establish humanity’s first outpost on the Red Planet and make us a multiplanetary species. Your role will be to document the entire journey, the colony, and the future we build together.
Welcome to the Mars mission, Evan. Come prepared for hard work. Excited to meet you face-to-face.”
I stared at the screen, motionless.
Mars?
This wasn’t another corporate gig. Not an elaborate scam. But a chance to make history.
This wasn’t the story I thought I was telling. This was the story I was becoming.
Sourced from Giphy.com
To be Continued...
