Day 6: Emotional Stabilisation
Morning drifted across the meadow on a soft breeze, carrying the scent of crushed grass and something faintly sweet. For the first time since the collapse, the camp didn't wake to groans or sobbing—just tired faces, swollen eyes, stiff limbs. Heavy exhaustion instead of raw terror.
Once awake, people moved back into camp and into their morning routines, still fragile, but less like they might shatter with the next breath.
Talia sat on a low stump, boots half-laced, watching the slow stirring of her people. Someone yawned so wide their eyes watered. A child climbed out of a blanket pile. Two aunties shuffled toward the camp firepit with the blank stare of sleep-deprived saints.
Grandpa Lev returned from dawn foraging with a bundle of broad-leaf greens in one arm and purple-tinted roots in the other. He beckoned for space beside her on a crate, pulled out his portable microscope, and began testing with an intensity that made bystanders shuffle back.
After an hour of sniffing, slicing, rubbing samples against cloth and placing tiny dabs on safe skin patches, he finally grunted, "Edible. Probably nutritious. Possibly delicious."
A small ripple of applause went through the onlookers.
"See? Told you I'd find breakfast," he said, already planting cuttings of the safer species in a shallow tray lined with scavenged dirt. His first portable garden—a tiny, deliberate claim on this new world.
People paused to watch. No one said it aloud, but the sight of a small green patch being grown on purpose loosened shoulders.
Across the camp, the crafting aunties gathered. These were half a dozen women who could turn a broken chair into a functional carriage if properly motivated. Grass, reeds, and vine bundles piled beside them as they began weaving with steady, rhythmic hands.
Soon bowls, baskets, hats, mats, toy animals, and rough little dolls began to form.
Someone whispered, "It looks like home," and a quiet hum spread as more people drifted closer.
Parents brought children, teens arrived with armfuls of reeds. Even a handful of people from neighbouring Lord camps hesitated at the boundary and after a nod from Talia, were waved in.
The weaving circle swelled into an impromptu class. Kids sat cross-legged copying motions. Aunties clicked their tongues and corrected grip angles.
The central bonfire from the ritual still stood unlit, but someone had set up makeshift swap stalls beside it. Bits of Earth paraphernalia—bracelets, spare shirts, metal clips—were traded for dolls, bowls, and tiny woven animals meant to hang from belts.
Another stall held hand-crafted items to swap. People drifted around bartering, digging out odd or extra items from their own storage. A man from another camp bartered a spare tarp for a vine-woven sling.
Talia wandered past, letting the atmosphere soak in. She paused at a stall where a girl traded a rusted pocket multitool for a grass-woven rattle. Talia rummaged through her pocket space and pulled out a few things she'd scooped during her final scavenges: a reusable heat pack, joint cream, and a soft herbal salve.
"These are better in your hands than mine," she said.
The elder smiled, then exchanged them for a beautifully woven drying basket and simple leg wraps, clearly made with care and long use in mind.
Talia smiled—soft and surprised—slipped the items into her space pocket, and waved before heading toward the Lords' tent.
Inside, the department heads had gathered in a loose circle. Theo passed out simple parchment-like sheets labelled with names and skills. Dale rubbed sleep from his face while Grandpa Arlen frowned at the toolmaking section. Brielle sat cross-legged, scribbling potential childcare tasks. Dav flipped between weapon descriptions and positioning diagrams.
"Nothing's official until we have a territory," Theo reminded them. "But if we shape the teams now, the transition will be smooth."
"So I'm a puppet," Talia said dryly.
Theo didn't look up. "A very dignified puppet. I hold the strings; you just smile and wave."
Several people snorted. It was the first soft laughter they'd heard since arriving.
"Pick the people you want working with you," Theo continued. "Experience helps, but willingness matters more. Bring me the names later, I'll organise schedules and supplies."
Talia watched as the heads of every department leaned together—first quietly, then with more confidence. The sound of low planning murmurs replaced the empty hush the camp had carried for days.
Outside, children began shouting.
Talia stepped out and found Luke leading a pack of them across the meadow in a makeshift fitness game—tag, sprints, rolling in the grass. For a moment, the field looked almost like a schoolyard.
Adults stood around the edges, stunned.
"They're playing…" someone whispered.
Grandma Elene had gathered the teachers under a tree. They sat in a loose circle, discussing future lessons, curriculum, survival knowledge. The fine lines of worry softened around Grandma's eyes as she gestured.
"We have time," she reminded them. "First, we plan. Then we'll build a school. We have the Family Clan behind us."
Meanwhile, the crafting circle had doubled. Someone had started teaching simple whittling. A teen held up a carved wooden bird, and a few watchers clapped. A family from another camp joined with their own vines.
Even a couple of researchers cracked smiles as they poked at harmless plants for pigment experiments. Grandpa Lev must have smelled it, because he arrived and the group promptly devolved into a full research meet—experiments, discussions, furious writing. No time for emotions here.
The small swap meet blossomed beside the bonfire—colourful, messy, hopeful.
The foraging–hunting teams returned earlier than expected, moving with the slow, careful gait of people still adjusting to new bodies.
They hadn't brought much, but what they carried drew immediate attention.
First came a ground-bird, about knee-high, its feathers shaped like overlapping leaves. When it breathed, the "feathers" rustled softly like a tree in the wind.
"Harmless unless cornered," Joel reported, lifting it gently. "Might even be domesticable if we can work out what they eat."
Jace froze, eyes huge. "It's a bush-chicken," he whispered in awe.
Lira edged forward, tiny hands clasped behind her back. "Can I touch it? Just the leaf part?"
The bird tilted its head, a soft rustling whispering through its feather-leaves. Its colours shifted subtly with every breath—green to yellow to faint copper.
Brielle crouched beside them, smiling for the first time that day, asking Joel's opinion with a look.
"They're harmless unless they sense danger," he said. "Go ahead. They only attack with the feet." He pointed at the bound legs.
Brielle brushed the children's hair back and gave permission. "Gentle hands only."
A few crafting aunties shuffled closer, baskets on hips. One of them squinted, then poked a feather-leaf experimentally.
"Feels like thick paper."
"Paper doesn't warm," another countered, rubbing it between her fingers. "Think it'll insulate like down?"
"If it does, I'm making pillows and winter wraps," a third declared, already plotting.
The bird chirped—sounding suspiciously like rustling parchment—and the elders hummed, delighted.
Talia watched the scene, her chest tightening with something warm. The creatures weren't just food—they were possibilities. Materials. Companions. Resources.
For now, she simply let the children laugh.
Small paddocks, simple pens, Beast-handling team. Later when we build.
Her mind, still bruised but functioning again, tucked away the thoughts.
Behind her, one of the younger hunters dragged in a dog-sized beetle, glossy moss-green, its shell patterned like tree bark.
"That one wasn't even hunted," Dom snorted. "The thing wandered into the clearing we were in and nearly flattened Reno. Figured the researchers might want it."
The beetle clicked once, unimpressed with its change in circumstances.
Then came the last live pair—and the entire camp paused.
Two rabbit-like beasts were hauled forward on vine ropes, each one the size of a golden retriever, thick with dense muscle under heavy fur. Broad stone-plated foreheads jutted like natural helmets, and rough stone cuffs ringed their front legs like living armour.
Both creatures were hog-tied, legs secured but not painfully, held fast with vine bindings that the hunters had to knot three times over.
"They headbutt," Cael announced dryly, lifting his forearm to show a blooming bruise in the perfect shape of a stone plate. "Hard."
"Hit like a damn sledgehammer," Joel added. "But they only charge in straight lines. Predictable, if you dodge early."
Grandpa Arlen let out a low, impressed whistle. "If those stone plates grow naturally, we could breed 'em for armour stock."
"And food," Dad said, squinting thoughtfully at their bulk. "Meat looks good on them."
One of the rabbits thumped its stone-plated forefoot. The impact echoed like a hammer striking slate. Several nearby children jumped, even some adults flinched.
Dom raised both eyebrows. "Slow to anger, though. We only caught them because they were busy arguing with a tree."
"Headbutting it," Reno corrected. "Repeatedly."
The camp stared at the beasts—big eyes, twitching noses, thick fur—recognisable enough to feel familiar, and yet undeniably dangerous.
The hunters exchanged a look that held equal parts pain and pride.
Then Joel set down three horned beasts similar to yesterday's hunt, all already blooded.
"Not much," Joel said quietly, "but it's something fresh. Better than rationing pockets for another night."
He wiped a spot of blood from the back of his hand.
"As a side note," he added, tapping the ground beside the three live creatures, "herbivores think slow. Still smarter than their Earth versions, but… simple. Easy attack patterns. No real problem-solving."
Then he nudged the dead beasts with the toe of his boot.
"These ones? A whole different story. Carnivores—or whatever passes for predators here—they plan. They test and they group hunt. From what we've seen so far, their brains work on about the level of a young child."
He shrugged, but the unease in his eyes stayed.
"Smart enough to learn, smart enough to adapt and smart enough to be trouble later."
Talia nodded, already filing away details: diet, behaviour, domestication potential for the "stone rabbit," as labelled for now. She made an extra mental note:
Stone rabbits — deceptively cute. Require reinforced pens.
The camp didn't cheer—no one had the energy—but a faint ripple of steadiness moved through them.
Food, information, a glimpse of the world they would have to understand to survive.
After the meal, the camp swelled with movement. People joined Dav's slow drills, grandfathers practiced Tai Chi under the moons, mothers stretched with yoga groups, and kids danced in a messy circle with Brielle guiding them.
Laughter—shaky, but real—floated into the air.
From the edges, members of neighbouring Lord camps watched. Then hesitantly copied, then joined.
As the sky tinted silver and rose-gold under the twin moons, hope spread like fire catching dry grass. Not peace—not yet.
But possibility.
The first breath of a future.
The first breath of hope.