Alien birds chirped and sung overhead. Below, the alien to their world crawled their the muck of their marshy home as a black shape. Mud caked his armor and effects from the trek. And behind him, a hopeful gang of some thirty individuals attempted to keep pace.

The air was sticky and wet, making the trip all the more painful to Len. And behind him the stragglers he led had refused to stay alone, even against his demands. He still did not know what was out there, and preferred not to find out. Especially if it meant it got everyone killed.

After all, he had a gun. They only had sticks and a handful of thorns.

The Irish boys Carl and informed him about had fessed to the knives. But they became relieved when they were allowed to keep it. By the looks of their pale faces it was one of the larger blessings they had. And Len, while he was at it, had taken the opportunity to learn their names. Angus, Milford, William, Connolly, and Fion; all he was told were out of Dublin. They didn't say why they were here, but Len suspected they had run afoul of someone.

But with this revelation, the matter was no different. They were still lost on an alien world and they needed a heading. Len had hoped to trek into the swamp and scout to the crater sea he hoped was nearby. Use it as a way to get a bearing. Find out where they were, find something he could find on the surface map he had downloaded, then set a course west for Landfall.

That's all he knew. They had to go west. They could go east, but he feared the salt flat on that whole stretch would kill them worse than a flat savannah. He hoped it would be little more than home. He would be comfortable in that environment he felt. He prayed it wasn't Tunisia, he hated it there. And he was already back in Central America here. 

But now here, now getting bearings, he was finding new things he did not expect. Though the flies the size of tennis balls were nothing more than an overgrown nuisance there were already forming clouds of a gnat-like insect. They bit like mosquito and the side of his arms were glowing red from their bites and his itching.

Deep inside he hoped he would not get sick or die from these bugs. It would be a silly thing to die over, and like the thought of a violent death in space the idea of coming to an all-to untimely end here crept back up on him. That slithering black beast, seeping its venom into his heart. He felt himself going cold at the thought. It was dangerous, and he feared if he lost it out here, no one would get back.

He made a bid to stop and turn around, to see how his companions were doing. They all struggled, just like him. Whether it was out of fear or some strange respect for him was beyond Len's imagination. But for whatever drove them, it drove them to at least dare to bother with Invictus on its terms like he. And like he, they were muddied and wet. Sweating and beat red from the swampy humidity and the nagging flies.

Maybe it'd be over soon.

The terrain was slopping gently downhill. The mud did not run. But in spots it could be seen. Light down-hill trickles or dry areas protected by thick dams of brush, rock or clay that made a gentle sweep down. Often cresting up to a hill crowned in trees before falling again.

Len looked up to the sky, it was already starting to get late. The afternoon was dead, if not dying still. And no one had any ideas of what was out on Invictus at night. What stranger creatures they hadn't seen.