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T he shriek of tearing metal is the only sound I can process over the roar in my ears. Red light strobes across the viewport, painting the swirling cloud cover of the planet below in apocalyptic flashes. My knuckles are white where I grip the command chair's arms.

Maintain control. Analyze. React.

My own training echoes in my head, a useless mantra against the violent shuddering of the pod.

“Computer, status report!” I shout, my voice tight and strained.

“Warning. Atmospheric entry angle critical. Hull integrity at thirty-seven percent and falling.” The pod's synthesized voice is maddeningly calm. “Multiple system failures detected.”

No shit, HAL. Any other bright ideas?

“Reroute auxiliary power to the retro-thrusters! Override safety protocols and give me manual control of the stabilizers!”

“Manual control engaged. Acknowledged: safety protocols overridden. Probability of successful landing: 4.7 percent.”

I hate you, you glorified calculator.

The pod lurches violently to port, slamming me against the restraints. My teeth clack together hard enough to make my vision swim. Pain, sharp and immediate, blossoms in my shoulder. Dislocated? Fractured? No time to diagnose.

“Come on, you piece of junk,” I mutter, my fingers flying across the control panel.

The holographic display flickers, the planet's surface rushing up to meet us.

It's a blur of impossible green and a startling, deep violet.

Fascinating. A world with purple foliage.

Must be a different photosynthetic compound.

The stray scientific thought is a flimsy shield against the terror clawing its way up my throat.

I wrestle with the controls, the stick slick with sweat under my palm. The pod groans, a death rattle of stressed alloys. I manage to level us out, just for a second, pulling the nose up from its suicidal dive. The G-force presses me into my seat, a crushing weight that steals my breath.

“Altitude: five thousand meters. Four thousand. Three thousand...”

The numbers drop with terrifying speed. Through the viewport, I see them now.

Not just green and violet, but trees. Trees with structures that defy all known botanical principles, their branches twisting into interlocking archways, their roots growing up instead of down.

It's a forest, but an architectural one, like a cathedral built by a mad god.

“Two thousand. One thousand.”

I pull back on the stick with all my strength, my injured shoulder screaming in protest. The pod groans one last time.

“Proximity alert. Proximity alert. Brace for impact.”

The world outside becomes a chaotic smear of color. I close my eyes. This is it. My last thought isn't of my parents, or my failed relationships, or the Nobel I was sure I'd win. It's a simple, absurd regret: I never finished cataloging the flora of Cygnus X-1.

Then, a sound like the universe tearing in half, and a final, brutal impact that snuffs out everything.

Silence.

A profound, ringing silence that is somehow louder than the alarms. I open my eyes, my breath a ragged gasp. The red emergency lights are dead. The only illumination is a soft, ethereal purple glow filtering through the cracked viewport.

I'm alive.

The realization is a slow, creeping thing, not a jolt of relief. Every muscle in my body aches, a deep, throbbing protest against the G-forces and the crash. My shoulder is a sun of pure agony. I risk a glance at it. The joint is swollen, the skin already darkening. Definitely dislocated.

Okay, Kendra. One problem at a time. Assess. Triage. Survive.

I unbuckle my restraints with my good hand, my fingers clumsy. The buckle clicks open and I nearly fall out of the chair, my legs refusing to hold my weight. I catch myself on the console, a wave of dizziness washing over me. The air in the pod is thick with the smell of burnt wiring and ozone.

“Computer?” I ask, my voice a croak.

No response. The panels are dark, the ship's AI as dead as the rest of the systems. I'm alone. Truly alone.

The main hatch is buckled, twisted into a grimace of metal. But the viewport... it's a spiderweb of fractures, but a large section has been knocked out entirely. A way out.

I haul myself towards the opening, my boots crunching on shattered glass.

The air that drifts in is sweet and damp, surprisingly breathable.

I take a cautious sniff. No obvious toxins.

The scent is alien: like rich soil, crushed mint, and something else, something electric and floral.

I run a quick diagnostic with my wrist-mounted enviro-sensor.

Oxygen levels are high, nitrogen a bit lower than Earth-normal. Trace elements are... unidentifiable.

That's not good. Unidentified elements could mean slow-acting neurotoxins. Or cumulative organ failure. Or nothing. Insufficient data.

I push the thought away. I have to get out of this metal tomb. I carefully, painfully, maneuver my body through the jagged opening, my bad arm held tight against my chest. My boots sink into soft, spongy ground that feels like moss but is the color of lavender.

I'm standing in a small clearing, carved out of the forest by my crash. The pod is a mangled wreck behind me, smoke coiling from its ruptured hull like a dying breath. And all around me is the forest.

My God, the forest.

It's nothing like the blurry image I saw during the descent.

It's a place of impossible beauty and terrifying alienness.

Trees taller than skyscrapers pierce the sky, their bark shimmering with a pearlescent sheen.

The foliage isn't just leaves; it's a cascade of broad, violet fronds, some so dark they're almost black.

Photosynthetic nodules, glowing with a soft, internal light, dot the undersides of the fronds, pulsing in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

The air itself seems to hum with life. I feel... strange. My senses are on fire. The purple of the leaves is so vibrant it almost has a sound. The clicking of some unseen insect is as sharp and clear as a bell. A wave of dizziness hits me again, and I brace myself against the pod's hull.

Atmospheric composition. Trace elements. Potential hallucinogenic or neuro-sensory effects. Or maybe I just have a concussion.

I need to be methodical. I need to treat this like any other field expedition, albeit one I didn't plan. I activate my personal log recorder, a small device clipped to my collar. Its tiny green light is a reassuring beacon of familiarity.

“Log entry, cycle one. Dr. Kendra Miles, reporting.” My voice is shaky, but I force it into the detached, professional tone I've used for years.

“Mission vessel Stardust Drifter ... experienced a catastrophic failure.

I have crash-landed on an uncharted M-class planet.

Planetary designation... Xylos. That's what the nav-computer called it before it died, anyway.”

I pause, taking a deep breath. Just the facts, Kendra. No emotion.

“Initial assessment. The emergency pod is a total loss. Communications array destroyed. Long-range sensors offline. Life support systems are failing; reserve power at nine percent. My survival supplies are... minimal.”

I look at the wreckage, at the shattered remains of my scientific equipment. The resonance imager, my custom-built spectral analyzer... all gone. My heart sinks. That was my life's work.

No. Stop. Your life is what matters now. Focus.

“The local environment appears to be breathable, though atmospheric analysis is incomplete. Flora is... complex.” I trail off, staring at a tree whose roots seem to be pulling nutrients directly from the humid air, dangling like woody tentacles.

“Evolutionary path is radically different from Terran standards.

I'll need to establish a secure perimeter and begin cataloging potential resources. For now... for now, I need to reset my shoulder.”

I look around the clearing, my scientific mind assessing, categorizing. I need leverage. A sturdy branch, a rock crevice. My eyes land on a section of the pod's landing strut, bent at an angle. It'll have to do.

Setting my jaw, I approach the strut. I take a deep, steadying breath, hook my armpit over the metal edge, and let my body go limp.

The pain is white-hot, blinding. A scream tears from my throat, raw and animalistic. My vision blurs, and for a second, I think I'm going to pass out. Then there's a sickening, wet clunk .

My arm hangs loosely at my side, no longer at an impossible angle. The intense, sharp pain recedes to a deep, throbbing ache. I sag against the pod, sweat-soaked and trembling, my good hand cradling my injured arm.

Step one: complete.

The rest of the day cycle, which is alarmingly long, is a blur of methodical work. I salvage what I can from the pod: a medkit, three days' worth of nutrient paste, a water purifier, my multi-tool, and an emergency energy blaster with a half-charged pack. Not much, but better than nothing.

I use the multi-tool's cutting function to shear off panels from the pod's hull, creating a crude, defensible shelter against one side of the wreckage. It's not much, but it's a barrier between me and the unknown.

I force myself to eat a tube of the nutrient paste. It tastes like chalk and despair, but it's fuel. I use the purifier on a puddle of rainwater collected in a piece of bent hull. The water is clean, but has a strange, metallic aftertaste.

As I work, I keep my log running, a constant stream of clinical observations that keeps the terror at bay.

“The soil composition is rich in heavy metals, which may explain the unusual pigmentation in the local flora. Spectro-analysis required.”

And I have no spectro-analyzer. Brilliant.

“Observed several small, six-legged arthropods. Seemingly harmless, but caution is advised.”

They have way too many eyes. And they watch me. I swear they watch me.

“The twin suns are setting. One is a G-type star, similar to Sol. The other is a smaller, red dwarf. This will result in a complex and extended twilight period.”

As the larger yellow sun sinks below the horizon, the forest transforms. The red dwarf casts long, eerie shadows that seem to writhe and twist. The bioluminescent nodules on the plants begin to glow more brightly, bathing the clearing in a shifting, ghostly light of purple and green.

The sounds change, too. The gentle clicking and rustling of the day cycle are replaced by deeper, more menacing noises.

A low chittering from the treetops. A heavy, shuffling sound in the undergrowth just beyond my perimeter.

A mournful howl that echoes from far away, a sound that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand on end.

I huddle inside my makeshift shelter, the energy blaster clutched in my good hand.

The Earth Science Directorate's emergency protocols seem like a sick joke now.

'In case of hostile fauna, maintain a safe distance and do not engage.

' What a load of bureaucratic nonsense. I am on an alien world, millions of light-years from home, surrounded by things that want to eat me.

The dizziness returns, stronger this time. The glowing lights of the forest seem to pulse in time with my own heartbeat. The air feels thicker, heavier.

“Log entry, cycle one, nightfall,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

“Sensory distortion is increasing. Possible neurotoxin in the atmosphere, or a reaction to airborne spores. I need to synthesize a broad-spectrum antihistamine, but the necessary equipment is...” I trail off, staring into the encroaching darkness. Destroyed. It's all destroyed.

A twig snaps just outside my shelter.

My head whips around, heart pounding. I raise the blaster, my finger tense on the trigger. The safety light glows a weak green. I have maybe five shots left.

What was that?

The rustling is closer now. Something large is moving out there, circling my camp. It's heavy, dragging something.

Don't panic. You're a scientist. Observe. Analyze.

But it's hard to be a scientist when your hindbrain is screaming that you're prey.

Another sound joins the shuffling. A low, wet, guttural growl. It's a sound of pure hunger. It's the sound of an apex predator that has just found its next meal.

My hand is shaking so hard I can barely keep the blaster aimed at the entrance of my shelter. The green light seems to mock me.

This is it. My first night on Xylos.

And I have a terrible feeling it's going to be my last.