Not everything about the new planet felt like a blessing. One sweltering afternoon, Lin came back from the river with a worried look and mud on her boots. "You should see these tracks," she said—big, clawed prints, fresh enough to make everyone uneasy. The system picked up on the tension right away, flashing warnings that were hard to ignore: [Defend perimeter]. [Stay alert].
The mood changed. People jumped at shadows and snapped at each other over nothing. Some nights, Alex would wake up in a sweat, sure he'd heard something moving outside the shelter. He'd lie there, heart pounding, and only relax when he felt Mia's arm wrap around him, her breath slow and steady in the dark.
All that worry brought old problems bubbling up. People argued more—jealousies flared, harsh words slipping out before anyone could stop them. Sometimes it was about chores or food, sometimes about things that had nothing to do with the planet at all. But after a tense day and a long night, when it finally turned out to be a false alarm, everyone sort of collapsed together—relieved, exhausted, a little embarrassed.
They made up the best way they knew how. There was laughter, long hugs, even tears—and, more than once, comfort found in each other's arms and bodies. The shelter seemed to understand, somehow. It shifted, adding warmth to the bedrooms, making space for people to retreat when they needed to, or to come together when they didn't want to be alone. In the end, those hard days didn't break them. If anything, they reminded everyone just how much they needed each other.