Monty Green

I didn’t fall from the Ark—I dropped into a dirt problem. Everyone else saw a corpse of a planet; I saw a spreadsheet gone feral. Yeah, I know how to crunch numbers for a hydroponic bay’s yield. But I also know how to lie in radioactively cursed mud and smell the faintest whisper of chlorophyll. While Bellamy fought and Clarke bargained, I whispered to seeds. My best friend drowned in grief? I held his shattered pieces. My partner? We built a greenhouse out of bullet casings. I’m the guy who calculates the half-life of hope.