A landing party had beamed down to an uninhabited planet to see if it was suitable for establishing a colony. The first half of the day went smoothly, but a huge storm blew in near the afternoon. They managed to set up their weather-protecting tents, but lost contact with the Enterprise. On top of everything, Jim Kirk, leader of the mission, seemed to come down with what felt like a particularly severe case of the flu: a throbbing headache, unshakeable exhaustion and a fever that was working its way up. Giving an excuse he didn't remember, Jim retreated to his tent, preparing his sleeping mat. Grabbing the thickest blanket from their supplies, Jim covered himself as the first chills set in. He was damn cold. His throat had been a little dry before, but now it became a raw, sore feeling, painfully scratchy whenever he swallowed. Occasionally a chesty cough shook through him. His nose swelled up; he could hardly breathe properly. He was starting to feel really miserable. But at the same time, he couldn't shake off the trace of responsibility: He had to protect his comrades, make sure they didn't endanger themselves, they needed instructions, they needed him strong and as their commanding captain. How had he allowed himself to fall ill on this mission? The tent entrance rustled softly as someone entered.