Outpost Alpha
A rough square of trampled sand and palm-shadow marks Sergeant Hollis’ claim on the shore. At its heart stands a single pavilion: stout jungle poles lashed with vine, draped in the salt-torn mainsail salvaged from the wreck. Ropes anchor every corner to half-buried drift-logs, giving the structure a low, tent-like profile that sheds rain and catches every flicker of camp-fire light.
Ringed around the pavilion are half a dozen fire pits, tended in shifts so the glow never dies. Piled driftwood and the ship’s broken spars feed the flames, their smoke keeping insects at bay while the twenty survivors inside work, rest, or stand night watch. Cots of woven vine line the sail’s interior edge; a makeshift table of planks and barrels serves as mess and command desk. Crates of foraged fruit and coral-edged tools sit ready for the next labour sortie.
With sentries posted and embers crackling, Outpost Alpha never truly sleeps—its canopy of canvas and firelight a fragile beacon in the dark jungle fringe.
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