Day 2 & 3 — Raw emotions unravel
The second day did not begin so much as bleed out from the first.
People slept in fits. Most didn't sleep at all. By the time the twin moons softened into dawn-light, the camp felt thin. Like canvas stretched too tight, ready to tear.
A man woke up screaming. Someone else jolted upright, gasping like he'd been drowning. A child whimpered in her sleep until an older woman gathered her close, both trembling. Every time a sleeper shifted too fast, five people flinched.
Talia drifted along the southern edge of the camp, wrapped in a blanket she didn't remember someone putting over her shoulders. Her wounds ached, but the pain felt distant, muted by the heaviness in her chest.
No orders today.
No building.
No formation drills.
Today, the camp was simply… surviving.
She walked past a cluster of insomniacs sitting near the dying fire. Their faces reflected the embers—hollow, red-eyed, stiff. One woman stared at the flames without blinking. A man beside her rocked gently, whispering something rhythmic under his breath.
Theo walked slow circles nearby, hands clasped behind his back, head down. He wasn't guarding; he was grounding himself. Every few minutes he paused to offer a hand to someone hunched over, guiding them back to steady breathing.
On the far side of the fire, a child clung to a stranger's shirt—the same stranger who had shielded him during the final beast surge on Earth. He looked at her the way drowning people look at lifelines.
A sudden, hysterical laugh broke out across the camp. A group of adults jolted. When they saw the source—a young woman, laughing with tears spilling down her cheeks—they relaxed. Some even smiled weakly. A helper approached and guided her to a tent on the side.
Trauma had a thousand faces.
Someone else hummed a childish tune on repeat. Another paced until one of Grandma's volunteers walked with him in slow, measured steps, talking him back from whatever cliff his mind was walking. A teen punched the ground until his knuckles bled; Dom knelt beside him and let the boy hit his palm instead, murmuring steady, grounding words until the trembling stopped.
Somewhere beyond the tents, a woman collapsed into sobs mid-breath. Two others caught her before she fell, guiding her toward Grandma's tent—the one she'd set aside last night as the Quiet Tent.
Talia approached it quietly.
A tarpaulin draped low to block wind and sightlines. Inside, lantern-light flickered over blankets, woven mats, and a few books donated from people's system rewards. Soft voices drifted out—comforting murmurs, not conversation.
Near the entrance, Teagan knelt beside a man who stared at his shaking hands like they weren't his.
"You're safe," she whispered gently. "Look at me. You're safe. Breathe with me."
He tried, failed and tried again.
Talia stepped back, giving space. If she walked in, people would try to stand for her, ready for orders, instinct overtaking their exhaustion.
She didn't want that. She wanted them seated, breathing, healing.
A little further on, Grandma had set up what she called "safe corners" Tents or simply shaded areas set aside for people. The Crying Corner was a tent with a ring of blankets inside where people curled in on themselves, crying freely without eyes watching.
A shaded seating area ringed the newly built firepit —the Companion Corner. Here, silent pairs and trios sat shoulder-to-shoulder, offering touch instead of words, holding each other upright.
Aunty Junia constructed a Reflection Spot on the outer rim of their camp, almost the centre of the eight camps. This spot held a few smooth stones, a circle of blue flowers, and a small pile of memorial markers. No religion, no instruction. Just a place to speak to whatever they'd lost.
A thin man sat before it now, hands folded, whispering something too soft for Talia to hear. She watched him for a moment, then continued her slow path through camp.
Several groups had formed natural "anchoring circles" around scattered fires. Three to six people sat together, legs touching or hands clasped. Some whispered their names, where they were from, whether they were injured. Others practiced slow breathing taught by one of the counselors.
Every so often, someone broke down mid-sentence, and the whole circle shifted inward, wrapping them in arms and warmth until the wave passed.
Kids cried too—but their tears were shorter-lived. Children's grief moved like storms: hard, sudden, then quiet. They clung to adults as though waiting for permission to fall apart. The moment a caregiver smoothed their hair or whispered a soft story, they melted into the touch and simply held on.
Brielle had gathered a small group of kids inside the Children's Sanctuary Tent, where blankets were laid out and tiny piles of stones became towers. She read a story in a steady, calm voice. Half the children weren't listening—they were drawing shapes in the dirt or braiding grass dolls. But the sound of a soft story was enough.
Adults sat near the entrance. Watching. Crying quietly into their palms because seeing the children safe made something inside them unclench.
Near the tent, Luke had started guiding a small group of youth on a short "adventure loop" around the inner perimeter. Nothing risky—just walking within sight of the camp, pointing out a strange plant or an oddly shaped rock, helping them pretend, for five minutes, that this world wasn't terrifying.
Talia caught a snippet as one girl asked, "Are we going to see more monsters?"
Luke responded gently, "We will. But not today, today we are just breathing."
The girl nodded and gripped his hand.
Adults overheard. They breathed, too.
Dom had stationed himself near the southern fire pit, teaching kids how to twist the meadow grass into bracelets. They lined up for their turn, tiny fingers fumbling. Adults watched from a few metres away, some smiling through tears. One mother murmured, "I used to make these when I was little…" and someone beside her squeezed her hand.
Dav was doing slow perimeter loops. Each time he passed, there was someone walking beside him—a man with shaking hands, a woman with panic tremors, a teen who couldn't stop pacing. Dav talked them through physical grounding techniques.
"Feel your feet. Feel the ground. Count your breaths, follow with me."
Sometimes he didn't say anything. Just walked.
Cael appeared from the near-west with a sobbing teen in his arms. The boy had collapsed near the edge of camp, overcome by the memory of running from beasts on Earth. Cael carried him like he weighed nothing, murmuring something low and steady.
Talia followed him with her eyes until he passed the Quiet Tent.
Someone screamed near the northern tents—a short, sharp sound. It wasn't danger, it was grief. A cluster of adults sprinted toward it, slowing as they realised the source: a man curled on the grass, hands over his ears, shaking violently. Two volunteers knelt beside him, one talking softly, the other rubbing slow circles on his back.
The scream faded into sobs. Then into hiccups. Then into exhausted stillness.
Near midday, Grandma coaxed people into gentle rituals.
A small patch of ground she'd dedicated to Earth in the Reflection Spot was lined with stones, flower petals, and little etched pieces of bark. People approached in twos and threes, leaving tokens—names, thanks, goodbyes.
A woman whispered, "Thank you for giving us time."
A man murmured, "I'm sorry we couldn't save you."
Children placed flowers and whispered, "Bye Earth."
No one laughed. Not one person.
Evening approached, and normalisation began.
Grandma's makeshift activity tent drew a soft crowd. Inside it were salvaged games—cards, dice, a memory match sheet someone had scribbled onto bark. A few people played slowly, movements uncertain. Others watched, comforted simply by the sight.
A resting tent beside it lets people lie down without the expectation of sleep.
The tea station—really just warm water in wooden cups—became a social anchor. People lined up just to hold something warm, some sat on the ground drinking in silence, others whispered about nothing in particular. The warmth steadied their hands.
Grandpa taught a slow Tai Chi flow to anyone who wanted to join, the motions were careful, repetitive. Ten adults and three kids followed him, their poses shaky but earnest. One man cried silently halfway through and kept moving.
As the second night came, people lay near the fires rather than in tents. They wanted to see each other, hear each other breathe.
Talia walked through them, blanket wrapped around her, eyes heavy.
Someone asked softly, "Are we really alive?"
Someone else whispered, "Is this world safe?"
Another murmured, "I hear beasts… but farther today."
A child looked at the moons and whispered, "They're pretty."
Adults looked up too. Their fear didn't vanish—but the moons were no longer something they hid from.
On the morning of the third day, the emotional bleeding slowed.
People still trembled, but their eyes weren't as hollow. The crying still came, but not as hard, not as constantly. A man who'd been mute the entire previous day whispered, "Thank you," when a volunteer handed him tea. A woman who'd been catatonic blinked into focus long enough to accept a blanket.
Children played grass-tag inside their designated safe zone, shrieking with sudden, wild laughter. Adults watched with soft, aching smiles.
Talia stood at the centre of camp just as the sun crested over the distant horizon—pink light washing over the meadow.
She hadn't slept much, her wounds still tugged and her memories of Earth's implosion and the final 24 hours still tore through her dreams like broken glass.
But as she watched throughout the day, small pockets of laughter, soft conversations, groups slowly forming, a firepit dance led by Brielle and people leaning gently on each other, something in her chest eased.
The camp wasn't healed, not yet. But it had stopped bleeding.
For now… that was enough.