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Interspecies communication? Or a collective response to environmental stimuli? Like the change in light from the twin suns? The data is insufficient, but the hypothesis is... electrifying.

I spend hours like this, lost in the familiar rhythm of observation and documentation. It's a shield against the fear, a way to impose order on the chaos. But I can't ignore the changes happening within my own body.

My sense of smell, always sharp, is now almost overwhelming. I can detect the faint, sweet perfume of a flowering plant fifty meters away. I can smell the metallic tang of the minerals in the soil, the ozone from my own damaged equipment. My vision feels sharper, too, especially in the shifting shadows beneath the canopy. The world is a hyper-saturated, high-definition experience, and it's giving me a constant, low-grade headache.

“Log entry, supplemental,” I record, trying to keep my voice steady. “Subject is experiencing significant sensory enhancement. Olfactory and visual acuity are well beyond baseline human norms. The effect seems to be escalating. Possible atmospheric adaptogen, or a neurological reaction to unknown airborne compounds.”

Or I'm slowly going crazy.

I'm also constantly thirsty, but my appetite is suppressed. My body feels like it's running on a different kind of fuel, one that requires more hydration but less caloric intake. My metabolism is recalibrating itself in real time.

I'm becoming a part of this world, molecule by molecule. Am I adapting, or am I being... rewritten?

Following a subtle downward gradient, I push through a thicket of the violet fronds. The air grows cooler, damper. I hear it before I see it: the sound of running water. The stream is small, but the water flows with a strange, syrupy slowness. It's not just the viscosity that's wrong; the water itself emits a faint, internal luminescence, a soft blue-green glow.

I kneel, scooping a sample into a collection vial. Back at the pod, I run a preliminary analysis using a repurposed component from the life support system. The results are... problematic. The water has a mineral content unlike anything I've ever seen. Heavy metals, complex silicates, and several compounds my databanks can't even identify. My standard purifier won't touchthis. It might even react with the unknown elements, creating something more toxic.

Another problem to solve. I'll need to create a multi-stage filtration system. Distillation first, to remove the heavy metals. Then a series of improvised charcoal and fiber filters. The fibrous inner bark of Specimen 004 might work.

The suns begin their slow descent, and the familiar dread returns. I retreat to the relative safety of my perimeter, my mind racing. I have water, or a path to it. I have potential food sources, pending cautious testing. But I have no real defense.

That's when I start cannibalizing my own ship. My beautiful, state-of-the-art research pod, now a source of spare parts. I'm not an engineer, but I know the principles. I dismantle the short-range scanner, its primary lens shattered. I carefully extract the power coil and the motion-sensing components. With the multi-tool's soldering function, I reroute the circuits, creating a crude but functional perimeter alarm. It's a low-power system, a simple tripwire that will emit a high-frequency shriek if anything larger than a breadbox crosses the designated boundary. It won't stop a predator, but it will wake me up.

My hands ache, my shoulder is a constant fire, but the work is a balm. I am Dr. Kendra Miles. I am a scientist. I solve problems. This is just the most complex, high-stakes problem I've ever faced.

I create redundant data logs, transferring my digital journal entries to physical data chips and even scratching key findings onto salvaged metal plates.If I don't make it, the data has to. Someone needs to know what's here.The thought is both grim and comforting. My professional identity is a rock in a sea of terrifying uncertainty.

As the last light of the yellow sun fades, leaving the world bathed in the bloody glow of the red dwarf, my new alarm system is active. The small monitor I jury-rigged from asecondary control panel shows a simple, circular display of the area around my camp. It's quiet. For now.

I sit inside my shelter, the energy blaster in my lap, and watch the screen. The fear is back, a cold companion in the encroaching darkness. I try to push it down with logic, with plans for the next cycle.

Tomorrow, I test the blue berries. A one-milligram sample, ingested with purified water. Monitor vital signs for twelve hours. If no adverse reaction, increase dosage. Then, I need to build a better water distiller. The current setup is too inefficient.

A flicker on the screen.

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. It's at the edge of the monitor's range, a subtle distortion in the energy field. It's large.

A glitch? An environmental anomaly?

It flickers again, closer this time. Then another appears, to the west. And another. They're not random. They're moving in a coordinated pattern, sweeping through the forest. A patrol. Or a hunt.

This is not a single predator. This is a pack. Or something... else.

My scientific objectivity is gone, shredded by a primal terror that is pure, instinctual prey-knowledge. The logical, analytical part of my brain is screaming that I need to collect data, to observe and record. But the older, deeper part, the part that understands teeth and claws and darkness, is telling me to run.

But there's nowhere to run.

I watch the monitor, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. The blips move with a terrifying purpose, their path slowly, inexorably, converging on this small, insignificant clearing. On the wreckage of my pod.

On me.

They know I'm here. And they're coming.

Chapter 3: FIRST BLOOD

The shriek is high-pitched, electronic, and utterly alien to this world. It slices through the oppressive quiet of the night, a violation of the natural order I've so carefully observed.

My alarm.