Ray woke to hunger gnawing at his gut, a sharp reminder that his salvaged scraps wouldn’t last. The shelter hummed softly around him, its glowing bark and pulsing vines a fragile cocoon against Islathia’s wild heart. He checked his supplies: a ziplock of adobo, now half-gone; two protein bars; a canteen with barely a few sips left. Time was slipping away, and the forest beyond his wall whispered promises—berries, streams, tidal flats he’d glimpsed from the cliffs. He couldn’t wait for answers to come to him. He had to go find them.

  He packed light but smart. The chargeable flashlight went into his cargo pants pocket, its beam a lifeline in the misty dark. The tire iron, salvaged from the Land Cruiser, doubled as a makeshift spear—crude, but heavy enough to stab or swing. His shotgun stayed slung over his shoulder, a last resort with its dwindling ammo. The laptop, humming on the Jackery Explorer 300, stayed safe in the shelter; he’d need its LLM later. With a deep breath, he stepped past the open east side of his wall, the alien sun climbing overhead.

  The forest greeted him with a chorus of strangeness—bioluminescent ferns flickering underfoot, oaks with leaves that shifted like liquid gold. Ray moved cautiously, boots sinking into the pulsing soil, eyes darting to the bushes he’d spotted yesterday. The dark berries hung heavy there, round and familiar, like blackberries from Earth hikes. He plucked a handful, their shimmer unsettling but their weight tempting. Poison or food? He tucked them into a spare ziplock from his pack, deciding to test them back at camp—boiling might make them safe.

  The sound of water pulled him deeper, a faint trickle beyond the trees. He pushed through the undergrowth, vines brushing his arms, until the forest parted to reveal a narrow stream cutting through the cliffs. It spilled into a tidal pool at the coast’s edge, its surface glinting under the sun. Ray knelt, peering into the shallows. A flicker of movement—a small fish, silver-scaled, darting between rocks. It looked like trout, something he’d seen in California streams. His mouth watered. A meal, maybe, if he could catch it.

  He gripped the tire iron, steadying his stance on the slick rocks. The fish darted again, and he lunged, aiming for its path. The metal splashed uselessly, the fish vanishing into the murk. Frustration flared, but he tried again, slower this time, tracking its rhythm. On the third strike, he felt a jolt—the tire iron pinned the fish against a stone, its body twitching then still. He pulled it free, triumphant, its scales cool against his palm. Food. Step one.

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  The victory was short-lived. A shadow rippled across the pool, too fast, too big. Ray stumbled back as the water erupted—a tidewalker, its serpentine form bursting from the depths. Scales shifted like liquid glass, catching the light in a blinding shimmer. It lunged, jaws gaping with needle-teeth, and Ray swung the tire iron instinctively. The blow glanced off its flank, earning a hiss, but it circled back, faster than he’d expected.

  Panic surged, then sharpened into focus. He’d fought before—survived the bark-scaled beast. This was no different. He dodged its next strike, rocks slippery underfoot, and grabbed the flashlight from his pocket. Clicking it on, he aimed the beam at its eyes—bright, disorienting. The tidewalker recoiled, thrashing, and Ray seized the moment. He drove the tire iron down, targeting the softer underbelly he glimpsed beneath its scales. It connected, sinking deep, and the creature spasmed, collapsing into the pool with a final shudder.

  Ray stood, chest heaving, the fish still clenched in one hand, the tire iron dripping in the other. Blood—his or the tidewalker’s?—trickled from a shallow gash on his arm. He’d won, but the cost lingered in his shaking legs. The pool settled, its water clear again, tempting despite the fight. He dipped his canteen, filling it halfway, figuring he’d boil it later. Food and water—fragile gains, but gains nonetheless.

  Back at camp, exhaustion hit as the twin moons rose, half Earth’s size, painting the sky in silver. Ray slumped by the shelter, the fish skewered on a stick over a small fire. He’d found his ferro rod firestarter kit in the wreckage earlier—a steel striker and rod he always packed for camping. A few sparks on dry bark, and the flames caught, their warmth a lifeline. The fish cooked slowly, its flesh flaking white, Earth-like enough to risk eating. He ate half, saving the rest, and boiled the berries and water in an empty protein bar wrapper, sipping carefully. No sickness yet—good enough for now.

  The LLM glowed on his laptop screen, charging via a pristine USB-C cable. He typed the day’s lessons: aim for soft spots, light disorients, boil everything. Tomorrow, he’d rig a trap—maybe vines and bark—or filter water with the tent fabric scraps. The tidewalker’s attack replayed in his mind, a reminder of Islathia’s teeth. But he’d survived it, carved out a meal and a drink from its wildness. The camp felt less like a crash site now, more like a foothold—one he’d earned.