When the wind hit the cabin, Chen Hao thought his ears were about to explode.
He was about to ask Nana if the flash he had just seen was lightning when his foot suddenly slipped—the ground was shaking, and it wasn't an illusion; the entire metal plate was being torn apart from the anchor point by the wind, flying out like a blade, skimming the ground and grazing his left arm and propulsion suit.
"hiss--!"
After a sharp scraping sound, his left arm joint froze instantly, and the servo system emitted intermittent alarms, like someone scratching a blackboard with their fingernails next to his ear. He instinctively tried to shake his arm, but it was as if it were welded shut, completely immobile.
"The C-shaped hydraulic pipe on the left arm of the propulsion suit has broken." Nana's voice was as steady as the wind. "The outer shell is 37% damaged, the internal wiring is exposed, and sand and dust are seeping in."
"So now I'm paralyzed on one side?" He tried to rub his left arm with his right shoulder, hoping to get some reaction, but all he got was a tingling, electric shock-like sensation. "This tattered uniform should have been ruined long ago, but it's playing the role of a hero in his twilight years now."
Nana didn't reply. The robotic arm spun, and a rope popped out, arcing through the air before precisely wrapping around the rolled-up metal plate, pinning it tightly to the ground anchor. The whole process took less than three seconds, even more efficiently than a delivery guy tying up an electric scooter.
"If you had pounced on me just now, I could have blocked you for a bit." Chen Hao grinned and leaned against the cabin wall, his left hand hanging down like a frozen sausage.
“I’m not a cushion.” She walked closer, pointing the camera at the wound on his left arm. “Besides, you’re overweight, so the probability of you crushing me is higher than the probability of me protecting you.”
"Hey, we're practically blown into a mural by the wind, can't you show us some warmth?"
“Warmth doesn’t protect you from the wind.” She said, sliding open the back panel and pulling out a silver-gray film. “This is a spare insulation layer, for temporary sealing.”
The next second, she raised her hand and tore it open—the movement was as decisive as unpacking instant noodles—pressing the film onto the tear in his suit, and then pulled out two high-strength cable ties from her tool bag, locking them in place with two "clicks".
"Ouch! Be gentle, this has nerve feedback!" Chen Hao shrank his neck.
"Your pain threshold is not exceeded, which means the operation is effective." She said while tightening the cable ties. "Next, you need to support yourself with one hand and move back to the sheltered area."
"You make it sound so easy. I rely on metaphysics to maintain my balance now."
Without another word, Nana extended her robotic arm, wedged it under his right armpit, and half-lifted, half-dragged him to the side of the hatch. The wind was slightly weaker here, but sand still pelted the metal shell with a crackling sound, like a flock of agitated birds pecking at the metal.
"Alright, I'm injured and a burden now." Chen Hao gasped for breath, trying to move his fingers, but his left arm only twitched occasionally and remained unresponsive. "What do we do next? Wait for the storm to blow me away and give me an evolution stone?"
“No.” Nana opened the diagnostic port, and a thin wire connected to the propulsion suit’s data slot. “We can fix it on-site.”
"Are you serious? In this weather, the toolbox would probably be blown to Mars."
She glanced down at her feet: the wrench was still there, half a tube of high-temperature adhesive remained, and the multi-tool pliers were intact.
“42% tool availability,” she said. “That’s enough.”
“You say ‘enough’ like a cafeteria lady serving food—‘That’s enough, there are only two spoonfuls left.’”
"Resources are limited, so we must prioritize core functions." She brought up the knowledge base interface, "Emergency Repair SOP, Article 17: Procedure for Handling Hydraulic Pipe Breakage in the Field."
The screen flashes and displays a step-by-step diagram: Clean the interface → Inject high-temperature adhesive → Apply pressure to cure → Shield error signals.
"Sounds like fixing a bicycle." Chen Hao stared at the diagram. "But the problem is, I only have one hand right now, the other is just for show. How am I supposed to do this?"
“I’ll guide you, you do it,” she said. “The first step is to use pliers to clamp both sides of the fracture and clean up the debris.”
Chen Hao gritted his teeth, his right hand trembling as he picked up the pliers and reached for the joint on his left arm. But a gust of wind caused his hand to slip, almost pinching his own skin.
"No, it's too shaky." He put down his tools. "I can barely even hold chopsticks now."
Nana glanced at him, then suddenly reached out and removed a section of her exoskeleton connector from her right hand.
"What are you doing? Self-harming to support others?" he glared at.
“This part is heat-resistant and structurally stable.” She handed over the piece of metal, “to replace the pliers in securing the interface.”
Chen Hao was stunned for a moment, then took the object and found that its edges were smooth and could fit perfectly into the crack.
"You really know how to make the most of waste... oh wait, I should say 'make the best use of everything'?"
“You can practice this line now.” She connected to the diagnostic system and began manually disabling the propulsion suit’s error alarms. “Say it when you’re ready.”
“Wait a minute.” He took a deep breath, inserted the exoskeleton component into the crack, and gripped it with his right hand. “I have a question—what if the glue goes in, the arm is fixed, but the person gets blown away by the wind?”
“Then add another safety rope.” She casually untied a loop of nylon rope from her belt, tied one end to his wrist, and secured the other end to the cabin handrail. “Now, you can begin.”
Chen Hao grinned and forced a smile: "Your arrangement makes it seem like I'm participating in the outdoor version of Extreme Challenge."
“This isn’t a show,” she said, staring at the screen. “This is survival.”
He shrugged, unscrewed the cap of the high-temperature adhesive, and carefully squeezed it into the joint. The adhesive had barely flowed out when it was blown askew by the wind; he quickly used the back of his hand to shield it, only to be scalded.
"Wow! There's a reason this thing is called 'high temperature'!"
"I suggest using a secondary shield," Nana said, handing over a discarded circuit board.
"You even have all the props ready?" He took the board and held it in front of him, then reapplied the glue. "Are your robots born to act in wilderness survival documentaries?"
“I only anticipated eight possible mistakes,” she said calmly. “You are the ninth.”
"Thank you so much, it's an honor."
Five minutes later, the colloid began to solidify. Nana disconnected the data connection and withdrew the diagnostic cable.
"Temporarily restore 60% of your flexion and extension ability," she said. "Test the movements."
Chen Hao tried, and his left arm was finally able to lift a little, although it was as slow as an old-fashioned crane, but at least it was no longer a dead stick.
"Good, I can wave goodbye to this world now." He cracked his knuckles, making a creaking sound. "Shouldn't the next step be writing a will?"
"The next step is to continue reinforcing it." She put away her tools. "The sensor filter on the south side hasn't been replaced yet."
"Wait, didn't you say the wind speed wasn't suitable for going out?"
“That was two hours ago.” She looked up at the sky. “Now we have no choice.”
Chen Hao followed her gaze and saw that the sky had turned a murky brownish-red, with clouds so low they seemed ready to crash down at any moment. In the distance, a bolt of lightning struck, not a flash of lightning, but more like a crack in the air being torn apart.
He swallowed hard and gripped the wrench tightly.
"So, we're going to have to brave the sandstorm to change the filter?"
“To be precise, you’re in charge of removing the old parts,” she said, already walking towards the south side. “I’ll install the new ones.”
"Another support role?"
“You can only raise your left arm to shoulder height.” She turned to look at him. “Unless you want to catch sand in your face.”
Chen Hao looked down at his still-smoking propulsion suit interface, then looked up at the increasingly dark sky.
“I feel…” he murmured, “I must have owed you something in my past life.”
Nana didn't answer, but stopped and waited for him to catch up.
The wind picked up, making it almost impossible for him to stand. Dragging his half-damaged left arm, he moved forward step by step, his propeller groaning as if it were about to fall apart with each step.
Just as he was about to catch up with Nana, his foot suddenly slipped—a loose paving stone was lifted by the wind, and he fell forward.
Nana turned around, and her mechanical arm swept out, barely managing to catch him in the chest and stop him.
"Watch your step," she said.
Chen Hao, panting, leaned on the bulkhead and looked up at her.
"Do you think... we can really pull through like this?"
She didn't speak, but instead raised her arm and pointed into the distance—
A jagged bolt of lightning tore through the sky once more, illuminating the entire wasteland.
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