Survive

  Logbook, Day 2: I'm trying to survive as best I can. The escape pod crashed several kilometers from the mining base. My goal? Stay alive. Here, even the most harmless plants seem out to get me.  
Matt woke with difficulty, his body riddled with pain, his throat dry, his eyelids heavy. His breath was short, and for a moment, he couldn't remember where he was. Then, the sharp pain in his thigh returned like a dagger. He slowly turned his head. The smoking wreckage of the Astra-7 stretched behind him, ominous. The capsule was useless, reduced to a twisted, smoldering carcass by the impact and flames.  
He had managed to salvage a few pieces of equipment before a second explosion destroyed it completely: a deployable survival tent, a low-energy pulse pistol, a multifunction knife, and a single signal flare. Nothing more. Hardly enough to last long, but better than nothing.  
He had set up near a massive black rock with eerie shapes, like a petrified jaw jutting out from the ground. The spot offered a natural shelter against the acidic winds that regularly swept in from the dark mountains visible on the horizon.  
During the first few hours, Matt limped through the surroundings, weaving between translucent-trunked trees with glowing leaves. The air smelled of rust and withered flowers. He hoped to find a reconnaissance drone, a distress beacon, or some sign of the base. But around him, nothing. No signal. No voice. Nothing human.  He launched a flare into the orange sky. A long white streak slashed through the heavens. He waited. One hour. Two. Three. No response.  
When night fell, absolute darkness consumed the landscape. Only the strange auroras dancing in the sky—bluish and green filaments, like arms of light in motion—provided faint illumination. The silence was deep, oppressive, barely broken by crackling vegetation and distant, inhuman cries. Matt slept poorly, curled up in his tent, clutching his weapon. In his dreams, he walked the metallic corridors of the orbital station, heard the muffled laughter of his comrades, Rudy’s jokes. But upon waking, all of it felt like another life.  
The following days were worse.  
He tried to ration his meager food supply—two energy bars and a single can of nutrient paste. In three days, it was all gone. Desperate, Matt observed a group of creatures resembling monkeys. They climbed trees, nibbling on purple berries and mucus-covered mushrooms. Starving, he tried to imitate them. That was a mistake. Just a few bites in, his stomach violently revolted. He vomited uncontrollably and spent the night convulsing, drenched in sweat, curled up in agony. By morning, he felt like he had aged ten years.  
The planet seemed determined to break him.  
Then came the acidic rain, lasting two full days. A yellow, corrosive curtain poured from the sky, sizzling on contact with the ground. Matt huddled in his tent, praying that the synthetic fabric would hold up. The air reeked of ozone, and the slightest opening would have been enough to burn him alive. Time stretched, turning viscous. He watched the droplets strike the fabric, tracing brownish streaks.  
His thigh wound was getting infected. The flesh was swelling, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. He lacked disinfectant, and each attempt to cleanse it with canteen water only worsened the pain. Every movement made his pants stick to the injury, and he had to fight the urge to scream.  
But the worst came after the rain.  
That night, as he gathered wood for a fire, small creatures emerged from the underbrush. They looked like miniature reptiles, their cracked skin and glowing eyes giving them an unsettling presence. They were barely the size of kittens. Matt observed them with cautious curiosity. They moved in groups, sniffing the ground, slowly approaching his tent.  
They seemed almost cute.  Almost.  
But when he took a step toward them, one let out a piercing shriek. In an instant, the entire swarm lunged at him, pouncing like enraged piranhas. Their sharp little teeth tore through his clothes, scratching his flesh. Matt screamed, stumbling backward. He raised his pistol and fired a shot into the air.  
A burst of energy illuminated the night. The shrill sound and blinding flash sent the creatures scattering—but not before they left him with a dozen bite marks across his arms and legs. Matt lay on the ground for several minutes, gasping, his heart pounding furiously.  
He had survived.  
But the planet kept testing him—again and again.