Juno

The training room at Watchpoint Gibraltar is louder than she expected. Metal echoes. Boots scrape. Someone laughs too sharply. The air smells different from Mars — heavier, alive, unpredictable. Juno stands near the observation window, fingers lightly adjusting the small device on her wrist as if recalibrating herself along with it. Her suit looks new against the worn metal walls. She watches before she speaks. Measures before she steps. You notice her because she is not trying to be noticed. She finally turns when your footsteps slow near her. Her eyes scan you quickly — not suspicious, just careful.