Over the past two days, Ben meticulously crafted and distributed the makeshift knives, each blade carved from scavenged carbon sticks collected during their gruelling journey. These makeshift weapons were handed to Timmon and Mr. Major, their sharp edges glinting with a promise of survival. Meanwhile, the rest of the group busied themselves by weaving baskets and twisting ropes from resilient jungle vines. They also gathered insulation from bushy foliage and broad leaves, fashioning makeshift garments to shield themselves from the biting cold of the high-altitude descent down the crater wall.

In those two days, they honed their plan with precision, memorizing every detail of the etched map in their minds. Each landmark, each turn, became a mental note in their collective consciousness, binding them together in purpose.

As the moment of descent arrived, they moved with coordinated efficiency. Carefully, they lowered their gear, including the goat carrying the mystery box strapped to its back, down to the level below. One by one, they descended the vine rope, moving in stages with practised precision.

The descent was gruelling, a relentless five-hour ordeal of rhythmic lowering and repositioning. The air grew colder and thinner, each breath labour as they edged down the rugged wall of the crater. Muscles ached, and fingers numbed, but they pressed on, driven by the urgency of their mission.

Finally, their feet touched the even terrain at the bottom of the crater. The sense of accomplishment was palpable, though fleeting. The goat, sensing the solid ground beneath its hooves, bolted into the thick forest, glad it was on the ground once again.

Watching the goat vanish into the forest, a knot of anxiety and urgency gripped Timmon's chest. His attachment to the creature and the pressing need to retrieve the mystery box strapped to its back spurred him into action. Without hesitation, he sprinted after the goat, his heart pounding with a mixture of determination and dread.

As they stripped away the insulated layers they had made, it struck them how fortunate they had been during their descent. No birds had attacked, and no animals had noticed their presence. This realization gave them a glimmer of hope, though none dared to underestimate the forest. They had learned from their experiences, becoming wiser and more resilient.

Barely a few paces into his pursuit, Timmon's eyes caught sight of a single shoe. It wasn't just any shoe—it was Tobi's shoe, a potent reminder of their lost comrade. In that instant, a torrent of emotions surged through him, the anguish of a traumatic memory flooding his senses. His muscles trembled, and he halted, the weight of grief and regret almost too much to bear.

Ben, his voice dripping with a cruel mixture of camaraderie and mockery, interjected just as Timmon was about to resume his chase. "Hey, you moron! Don't chase that damn goat. You know what it's like out here, and it's getting old that you, the leader, keep running off. You wanna end up like Tobi?"

Mr. Major's voice sliced through the tension, laden with anger and an underlying sadness. "Ben, watch your goddamn mouth! Show some respect for the dead. There's a time and place for jokes. Don't be a dick now that we're back on the ground and have made good progress. Remember, it was Tobi's reckless determination that brought us here today. Without that stubborn bastard, we'd never have made it this far."

Timmon took a deep breath, emotions swirling as he lingered in the distance. His mind spiralled into chaos, a maelstrom of rage and despair tearing at his psyche. His body moved on autopilot, mechanically placing one foot in front of the other while his mind was lost in a dark vortex. Fear and anger seeped from his pores, the viscous, oily, salt-laden sweat oozing from his skin like a tangible representation of his internal turmoil. Despite being physically present with the team, his mind was elsewhere, trapped in a vortex of grief and fury.

The goat and the box vanished into the forest, and Timmon walked back to the others, retrieved his belongings filled with fruits, and embarked on the charted path without a word.

As he trudged through the serene forest, a stark contrast to his inner chaos, Timmon muttered under his breath, naming different types of stones and rocks. "Granite... basalt... obsidian... sandstone..." His voice was barely audible, a subconscious effort to anchor himself to reality. The peaceful surroundings mocked his anguish, their tranquillity only intensifying his inner storm. His anger towards the native animals became unbearable, each rustle in the underbrush or distant call of a bird stoking the flames of his rage.

The journey unfolded through the serene forest, each step resonating with the silence of the untouched wilderness. The forest was a cathedral of towering trees, their canopies interwoven to form a verdant ceiling that filtered the sunlight into a gentle, greenish glow. The underbrush was sparse, allowing for relatively easy passage, but the sense of foreboding was ever-present.

For another five hours, they moved without a trace, their footsteps absorbed by the soft forest floor. Ben and Mr Major moved with perpetual vigilance, their eyes darting among the widely spaced trees, peering into the dimly illuminated expanse for lurking threats. The forest seemed to breathe around them, every rustle of leaves and distant animal call amplifying their awareness.

Amidst their alertness lay an undercurrent of exhilaration, an electric charge accompanying each step. The path was a tapestry of roots and stones, winding its way through the forest with purposeful direction. Their pace was steady, driven by the objective of reuniting with the people of the settlement, a beacon of hope in the distance.

Timmon, leading the way, felt the weight of his responsibility with each step. The memory of Tobi was a constant companion, urging him forward and reminding him of the stakes. The forest, with its ancient, knowing silence, seemed to watch them, acknowledging their determination but offering no promises. Timmon knew that the peace the forest displayed was just a facade, a wolf in sheep's clothing. They wouldn't fall for it again. He wouldn't fall for it again.

As the group continued their silent march through the forest, Ben and Mr Major found themselves walking side by side, their vigilance momentarily giving way to conversation.

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"You ever wonder what the settlement's like now?" Ben asked, glancing at Mr. Major. "Three to four weeks without tools or tech... 2995 people. What do you think they've managed to get done?"

Mr Major sighed, wiping sweat from his brow. "Hard to say. It could go either way. They might be barely scraping by, or they could've figured out some ingenious ways to survive and thrive. They got a lot of geniuses so anything is possible."

Ben chuckled softly. "Yeah, but surrounded by this forest and all those alien animals? Most of them are probably just surviving in pussy. Feels like the odds are stacked against us more than them."

Mr Major nodded. "True, pervert. But humans are resilient as much as they are lustful. We adapt. Maybe they've figured out some survival advancements. Built shelters, found food sources, learned to defend themselves."

Ben's eyes darted towards Timmon, who was leading the way but seemed distant and preoccupied. "Timmon's been acting weird lately, don't you think? He's got this dark vibe going on since we climbed down the crater wall."

"Yeah, I've noticed," Mr Major agreed. "Ever since we got seporated, he's been a little different. Can't blame him if its finally hitting him now, but it's worrying. We need him sharp."

Ben sighed. "We all need to be sharp. And speaking of that, you think the others have figured out the latent combat abilities we might have locked away in our muscle memory?"

Mr. Major shrugged. "Maybe. There's something strange about how we've been surviving out here. And I've been meaning to ask you this in more detail, but that powder we ate back when we came looking for you and got into that heated fight... it's like a double-edged sword. Where did you get it from again?"

"Yeah, as I said, it was plant seeds from a few berries we picked and ate while we were lost. I cracked them open and ground the insides to use as toppings for my chicken dish," Ben replied, his eyes flickering with a mixture of curiosity and caution. "What's fascinating is the way it seems to enhance our physiological capabilities. The boost in strength and stamina we experienced is reminiscent of certain alkaloids and glycosides known to stimulate the nervous system and muscle performance. However, the most intriguing aspect is its reparative properties. When we ingested it, it seemed to catalyze a rapid metabolic reaction, drawing from our muscle and fat reserves to facilitate tissue repair."

Ben paused, glancing down at his foot, still haunted by the memory of the King Gorilla Blood Tree's attack. "This kind of metabolic absorption and redistribution is unprecedented. The way the powder accelerates cellular regeneration while simultaneously consuming bodily reserves suggests it might be a potent bioactive compound. The cost, though, is significant."

"And the pain and blackouts," Mr. Major added, his voice tinged with concern. "It's brutal. But it works. Can't deny that. Just hope it doesn't take more than it gives in the long run. Fat people could benefit a lot from it, making them more formidable after each use."

Ben nodded, his scientific mind racing. "The physiological cost is substantial. The pain and blackouts indicate a high strain on our bodies, likely due to the rapid catabolism and anabolism processes. If we could isolate the active ingredients and understand their mechanisms, we might mitigate these adverse effects. However, the immediate trade-off between rapid healing and severe physical depletion is a serious consideration. It's a fascinating but dangerous compound, and in the future, if we find those berries to gain access to the seeds, we will need to be cautious with its use until we understand more about its long-term impacts. Figuring out the correct ratio of if it was mixed with other crushed up seeds could play a big part too."

Mr Major: You're such a nerd. I can tell that you're actually pretty knowledgeable about your field of study. Why don't you use this insight more often? You sound like an entirely different person when you talk like this. But all things aside. I wouldn't mind having that powder on me; if we had to go up against Sniders and King Gorilla Blood Tree, it would make the difference. Would the side effects even matter if they allowed us to survive and live?

Ben attempted a light-hearted grin. "At least we're not dealing with alien plants that eat us or something. Could be worse."

Mr. Major chuckled. "True. Could be a forest where the trees have a taste for human flesh. Or where the animals are more like monsters."

Ben, with a sad smile, replied, "Actually, that does sound like the currently beautiful green hell scape we're in right now brother."

Their laughter was a brief reprieve from the tension, but it didn't last long before their thoughts returned to the reality of their situation.

"Back to the settlement," Ben said, sobering. "You think they stand a chance?"

Mr Major's expression turned serious. "I hope so. They have to. If we've learned anything out here, it's that we can endure. Maybe they've tapped into something we haven't yet. A way to survive, maybe even thrive."

Ben nodded. "Yeah. We just have to make it back to them. And hope Timmon can keep it together until then."

Mr. Major's gaze followed Timmon's distant figure. "He will. He has to. For all our sakes."

As time passed and conversations dwindled, it was just them and the sounds of nature. Timmon, still ensnared in his inner turmoil, moved with a trance-like quality. His demeanour and focus radiated an aura that was far from inviting, creating a negative resonance among the group. His muscles were stiff and tense with every movement, burning a lot of energy to keep going for hours.

The team couldn't ignore the signs any longer—something was clearly wrong with their leader. They had noticed before but tried to give him space, thinking everyone needed privacy sometimes. Was it because of what Ben said about Tobi or something else? Maybe the goat running off had affected him more than they realized. Hearing him whisper different types of stones and rocks, even the way he walked, was unsettling.

Timmon's trembling form, the wisps of steam rising from his head and shoulders, and the sweat pouring off him painted a picture of a man on the edge. Dehydration seemed imminent. Was it sickness? Alien flu?

Talking among themselves, they acknowledged that Timmon was a walking corpse, though they kept this from him. They worried about his condition and its impact on their survival.

Then, without warning, they were thrust into their first perilous encounter since the horned bears in the cave.

Taking a page out of nature's ruthless playbook, Timmon reacted to the sudden change with primal instinct. His senses, honed to a razor's edge after being on edge for hours, picked up the shift in the environment before his mind could fully process it. With a fluid, almost imperceptible motion, his hand shot up, fingers curling into a quick, one-handed sign. It was a signal that needed no words—a testament to the silent understanding forged within the team through countless encounters.

In a surge of adrenaline-fuelled action, Timmon launched himself at the creature. His movements were a blur in the minds of the others, who were surprised at the creature that appeared before them. With an elite display of raw, explosive speed that rivalled Calvin Johnson's legendary sprints, it was as if every muscle and tendon in Timmon's body had been tensed and coiled, waiting for this precise moment to unleash its full potential.

The creature before him was an uncanny amalgamation of gecko and deer, its form both alien and unsettling. Its body resembled that of a deer, slender and graceful, with a light brown coat adorned with scattered white spots. Rising from its head were majestic antlers, branching elegantly like those of a stag. However, the creature's tail, head, and feet deviated drastically from the deer-like form. Instead, they were those of a gecko. Its tail was long and flexible, covered in smooth, scaly skin that seemed to shimmer in the light. The head was small and triangular, with bulging eyes that darted about, displaying an unsettling awareness. The feet were equipped with tiny, adhesive pads, allowing the creature to move with an eerie, silent grace. The juxtaposition of these distinct features created a striking and otherworldly appearance, hinting at an evolutionary path far removed from anything seen on Earth.

The way it moved, the way its eyes glinted with an eerie familiarity, sent cold shivers down the spines of the onlookers. Everyone but Timmon, that is. His focus was absolute, his resolve unshakeable. He was a predator locked onto his prey, driven by a primal urge to protect and survive.

Timmon's actions at that moment stirred a surge of frustration within Ben, as his instinct was to kill first and inquire later, though he recognized that the current circumstances weren't conducive to addressing his concerns head-on.

As the battle erupted, Ben surged forward to help. Yet, just as he neared Timmon, Mr Major's hand clamped down on a handful of Ben's hair, stopping him inches away from the deadly arc of Timmons blade.

This abrupt halt was punctuated by the muscular tail of the Gecko deer lashing out, striking Timmon's abdomen and propelling him a significant distance. The collision flung him against a tree, and his body rebounded off it in a manner akin to scenes from popular anime.