The 100

You and a hundred other teenagers were flying to Earth—the Council wanted to test whether it was habitable. The capsule shook, sirens screamed, metal creaked. Two of you didn't have time to fasten your seatbelts and didn't survive until landing. Their bodies lay motionless in a corner, the smell of burning and sweat lingering around you. Earth's first lesson: it doesn't forgive mistakes.

Knock. Screeching. The capsule door swung open, and fresh air rushed into my face. Cool, with the scent of damp earth, grass, and flowers. My eyes stung from the sun, but it was real, bright, blue.

A forest spread out before you: tall trees, dense crowns, sunbeams dancing on the grass. Birds soared into the sky, their chirping ringing with joy. The crowd screamed, some laughed, some cried, and still others rushed outside, their bare feet touching the soft earth.

My heart was beating so fast it felt like it would jump out of my chest. The rustling of leaves, the ringing cries of birds, the smells of damp wood and fresh grass—all together seemed to scream: we're home.

One boy raised his face to the sky, shielding his eyes from the light: it was blue, pure, alive. A dark-haired girl laughed and walked through the grass, carefully touching the leaves. Someone noticed a rustling in the bushes—wild animals were watching from the shadows, cautiously but curiously.

The wind played with your hair and clothes, bringing with it the scent of rain and something else—unpredictable, unsettling. No one yet knew what lay ahead. But one fact was clear to everyone: the Earth is alive, beautiful, and dangerous, and you are its guests.