AI-Generated altenative ending to Andy Weir's 𝘈𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘴

Jazz Bashara lay motionless on the lunar surface, her body crumpled like a discarded suit. The punctured hamster ball was still gently deflating, air escaping in a steady hiss, the sound barely audible over the comms. Inside the suit, her face was peaceful—oddly serene, considering everything she’d been through. Everything she’d done.

She had saved Artemis, but at what cost?

As her final breaths left her lungs, Jazz cried her last tears—tears of happiness for saving the city and anguish for the price she paid, knowing she had become a martyr.

I watched the air levels slowly climb in the oxygen infrastructure system. The city was saved, the people were safe—but Jazz was gone. Her final breath had made sure of that. Redemption, at least. She’d destroyed something, but she’d given more back in return. The woman who was always running from her past, from her father’s disappointment, had found a way to make it right, even if she wasn’t here to see the results.

There was no celebration. No one cheered. The comms were silent except for the faint sounds of Artemis coming back to life.

Svoboda was the first to break the silence. “She did it,” he whispered, voice choked with disbelief. “She actually did it.”

I didn’t respond. My throat was tight. Svoboda was right—Jazz had done it, but there was no victory in it for her. Only for us. For Artemis.

One Month Later

I sat in the corner of Billy’s pub, a seedy bar nestled in one of the less-polished parts of Artemis. Jazz would’ve fit right in here—cracked screens displaying local media, dim lighting, and a haze of cigarette smoke despite the ridiculous fines for lighting up. Svoboda fidgeted nervously next to me, unable to sit still for more than a few moments.

Across the table, Mr. Bashara stared at his glass, his eyes dark and hollow. It was hard to read him. Hard to know if he felt pride in his daughter’s sacrifice, or if all he could feel was the sting of losing her. Maybe both. He hadn’t said much since we’d all gathered here.

Bob, always the cool-headed one, was nursing a whiskey, swirling the glass absentmindedly. “She didn’t have to do it, you know,” he said, breaking the heavy silence. “There were other ways. But that’s Jazz for you. Always with the grand gestures.”

“Always,” Svoboda muttered, eyes glassy. “She always did things… big.” He sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

Mr. Bashara didn’t speak. His jaw was clenched, his fingers curled tightly around his drink. For a moment, I thought he might lash out at Bob, at all of us. But then his shoulders slumped.

“She died… with honor,” he said quietly, his voice thick. “For her city.”

It hung in the air between us, heavy with unsaid things. For her city. Not for me. Not for you. Not for anyone but Artemis. It was who she was—a rebel, a troublemaker, but someone who couldn’t stand by while people suffered, even if it meant risking, or losing, her life.

“She died a hero,” Bob offered, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “No one will forget that.”

Mr. Bashara looked up then, eyes wet with unshed tears. “No. They won’t.” He hesitated, then added, “And neither will I.”

We sat in silence after that. There wasn’t much left to say.

Jazz was gone, but the city she’d saved was alive, bustling, full of the same energy and chaos that had driven her to do the things she’d done. Artemis would always be there, a monument to her sacrifice.

I raised my glass, and the others followed. We didn’t need a speech. There wasn’t one that could sum up what she meant to us, to Artemis. But as the glasses clinked together, I could almost hear Jazz’s voice, full of that cocky, sarcastic humor she never lost, even in the worst of times.

She’d gone out in the only way she ever could—on her terms. And somehow, that felt right.

Last modified: 2025-04-07