The Logs of the Dead

Log #1:

I'm dead.

To clarify, I'm still very much alive, but I have no doubts that there has been a funeral in my name. I lived on a technicality. I owe my life to the alcohol that was in my system, for if it hadn't relaxed my body I would have been snapped in half. I watched the love of my life weep over what he thought was my corpse, motionless as my suit locked up. My childhood friend accused him of murder. The suit malfunctioned from the hacker's interference, registering me as dead and deploying the final stages I had set up in case I kicked the bucket in battle.

I'm sad to say that I doubt I will be missed.

Where am I now? Naked, I've found myself on an alien world untouched by human hands for years. My home planet. The contents of my armor sent here to be buried, leaving the husk behind to be inherited in my will. A will that never came to pass, to be specific. I'm on my home planet. Alone. There's no ship or telepad to escape to. For now, I will have to survive and work on fixing the old radio in the shack.

Firehawk, Cuddleclaw, Julius... If you're out there, I'm sorry for the distress I've caused. The ICIA is needed now more than ever. But I have my own problems to deal with.

 

Log #2:

A second log in one day. The radio was unable to be salvaged despite hours of work. It's very possible I will pass away without any further contact with the outside world. I've set up shelter in the run-down shack and have begun fishing at the docks I used to play on as a kid. Strange, the X sector has such a bad reputation for being hostile, but for me it was just how life was.

I remember when my father first taught me how to survive on my own. My motto, "The first rule of combat is to cheat," stems directly from those lessons. Even now I'm stacking the odds in my favor right off the bat. It's as if as soon as I found myself alive in the soil I kicked into automatic. Food, shelter, water... easy. I know this place better than the back of my hand.

I'm more worried about my sanity. I only have a few packs of cigarettes and odd junk. Despite never caring much for people, I know I will miss them in a few days. Dusk is falling, and with it the temperature. I need to find something to cover myself with. What I'd do for a set of armor...

 

Log #3:

Reality hits hard. Today I've realized just how long I have to wait before I die of old age. I might go insane if I don't see anyone.

I have officially begun my diet of fish and poultry. It's hard not to smoke unless I really need it, but I haven't gotten through the first pack yet. Ever since I stopped taking morphet thanks to Pandora I've had to move the addiction to something else. If my smokes run out on top of this hellish situation...

The radio is salvageable. I'm not an expert with machines, but I tapped into a nearby radio signal and broadcast my message. I don't think they understood a word of what I said, they spoke in a language I've never heard before. "Hab hoom, meat. Spaceshroom nab carpa cantara. Naturra nabi bravada no danger. Cartography halb house smashroom?" was the response I received. I think they're Agarans. Damnation.

If they manage to show up, I'm dead. Not because of the spores, as that's well-known to be superstition, but because of their ruthless nature. The spores are nonexistant unless it's reproductive season, which I don't think it is. The issue stems from the infected florans' barbaric customs. Despite once being peaceful, I have my worries on the grounds of torture or worse. A "welcome party" consisting of rudimentary spikes has been prepared to greet the fiends, and I've taken to hiding in a covered cave.

This may be my last entry.

 

Log #4:

Shit.

The agarans arrived. From what I can tell, one of them by the name of Clashroom(?) is somewhat of a leader. He also sounds like whoever was on the radio. Oddly enough, I never saw a ship or them beaming down, so I haven't a clue how they got here. The traps laid at the beaming point are a joke, as they were completely ineffective.

Their alien tongue gets louder every few minutes. I've been holed up in this cave for a few hours, though, and it won't be much longer until I'm discovered. I don't mean to make these logs so frequent, but I will update if I don't meet my demise. So much for daily, but who's going to complain? These logs are the only thing keeping me sane. I hope I can see Cuddleclaw again.. I miss his feathery neck and kissable beak.

I hope they're frie

 

Log #5:

I'm alive and well. Clashroom and I have been able to communicate despite our language barrier. They seemed more interested in trade and curious of my culture than anything sinister. Although that may have been due to their oddly extreme hydrophobia and my makeshift canteen. I still don't trust them. They did bring a floran prisoner, however, and I'm assuming she got them on good terms with me. She insisted she could fix the radio if they released her from what I could tell, but the agarans aren't stupid.

She was executed by being drowned in the lake, held under by two of Clashroom's most trustworthy guards. So much for "peaceful" relations. I have, however, arranged to see something they refer to as a spaceshroom. This is most likely a broken ship, and if luck were to have it I will be able to do a makeshift repair enough to get me out of the X sector. I wonder how much of a shock my reappearance would cause...

In other news, I've managed to find some combat armor. It's not digital or mechanical in any way, though, so I won't have to worry about a suit lock-up. Keeping with the theme of changed appearances, I might as well mention I cut my hair to prevent it from getting caught on anything. I don't have a helmet to keep it back anymore. This spaceshroom might be my ticket to seeing Cuddleclaw again, or at least Julius at the very least. I'll be seen to it tomorrow.

 

Log #6:

I was right! This spaceshroom is most certainly a ship, and it was on my home planet. I'll admit, it's oddly convenient, almost a Deus Ex Machina, but I'm not complaining.

It's completely destroyed, but that's fine. Right now all that's left to do is wait until the generator is warmed up. It has just enough energy to use the telepad, and I can beam to my ship from there. I have at most two hours to wait, thought it could be ready any minute now. The agarans remain hostile to all but me, whom they seem to be fascinated with. I have doubts that they've ever seen a human before. They haven't pulled anything on me yet, though, so I might be able to get away before something shitty happens. Until I arrive on a populated planet I will remain paranoid.

Thank the stars for my Ehler's cigs.

 

Log #7:

The first thing I did when I arrived on my ship was contact Captain Firehawk of the Clear Skies vessel. Apparently there's quite a bit of tension between factions.

I arrived just in time for Witherbane's funeral. I hate wearing dresses, but I figured I owed it to such a close friend. I had to leave early, though, and I'm sad to say I couldn't stomach the entire funeral. I missed the burial and a few of the less sincere speeches, only arriving in New Chicago to defuse a situation with Gunderic who made a scene at the local bar. Kind of saw that one coming, but it's a shame he disrupted the memory of my comrade with his shenanigans. I have no place to judge, though, I'm sure I've done worse.

Cuddleclaw was at the funeral. He was surprised to find me alive, but he hadn't replaced me. In fact, he was the one to offer comfort to me when I left in the middle of the processions. It was nice to hug him again. Afterwards, once I was in something more comfortable, we shared a drink and he let me mope around his ship for awhile. I spent the night in his arms and slept soundly.

Man, I sound like a fucking wuss right now. I'm going to go beat the shit out of some fugitives for shits and giggles.

 

Log #8:

Note to self: Flora is retarded.

 

Log #9:

Cuddleclaw proposed to me. I said yes, obviously. I'm making a few accommodations to get a set-up for our wedding in New Chicago. I can probably get a good wedding dress from a bridal shop near Zero City. I certainly have the money for it after my raise when I agreed to manufacture ICIA uniforms and armor. I heard a rumor I'm also going to be promoted to head of security soon. Right now I make 2400 a week, with bonuses on top of that. And I do, like, nothing.

I can send invitations out to my close friends and make a post on StarNet about it. Hopefully it won't be jumping the gun as much as my funeral was. Speaking of death, I got to test a few new types of cigarettes from the Ehler's Cigs Corporation. They also made a cigar, but I'm not too into those. I also dyed my hair teal. It was supposed to be midnight blue, but obviously that didn't work out. Feather-fingers seems to like it, though, so it's not a huge loss.

 

Log #10:

Clashroom nab meat halb nab nab spaceshroom! Nabi carpa weepa, deka nab nab. Tentacrush fry nab meat. Shroomy workest? Plesta mesti feara, growa naturra. Enjoy halb scratchy sillyflap, meat!

What the fu-?

Hab hoom!

How the hell did you get on board?!

Bizarra nab oaken bravada.

No, seriously, what in the name of the sun-

House?

Yes, this is my- Don't touch that!

*an alarm is heard blaring over muffled speech for a few minutes*

Dammit, Clashroom, what did I just say?

...Nah, torry, atton zed maimozed gun?

That's not even agaran gibberish. I said don't touch that.

No! Stamper!

Cut it out! Wait, shhh, do you hear that beeping? Clashroom, did you turn on the recorder?

...weepa pl-!

 

Log #11:

Grr. Even as head security, that asshat Rawne thinks he can order me around. I don't think so.

I've been getting the whole "miss" and "m'lady" bullshit recently. I need to look into getting more masculine armor. Things ran much more smoothly when everyone thought I was a dude. I swear, the next polite gentleman that speaks to me is going to get his ass whooped.

My brig was put to good use today. It served as the final gray sight a mikignov agent had before his skull was scattered across the tile. His brother is a bit less stable, and currently locked up in New Chicago. Some freak named Valentine is "taking care of it." I'm not beyond pulverising him, even if he is above me in rank. I spoke with Cuddleclaw about arranging the wedding, and we agreed on August 5th, 21:30 EST on New Chicago. I might want to announce it.

Damn, I'm on my way to settling down. That's a future I didn't foresee. I was hoping to get killed in combat. Maybe I should stop drinking so heavily and put down the smokes...

Nah. -the flick of a lighter is heard-

 

Log #12:

I salvaged this strange wooden cabinet with a brass sea-shell attached to the top. They came with really big discs. And I don't mean like 2 inches, like a foot at least across. It's obvious they're some kind of ancient artifacts. Hang on, let me look it up on StarNet.

A "record player." Built to last a long time, out of date when CDs came into use. This thing is either centuries old or an amazing recreation. I could sell it for a few grand, it looks like. But what is it for? Messages? Voice reminders? Hang on, I'll put the disc in and play it for the record.



...that was beautiful. I haven't heard good music like that in a long, long time. I wish I could still read the label to know what it is. That isn't the end of the disc, but I'll go through the rest with Cuddleclaw later. I might not actually sell it after all.

 

Log #13:

-sigh-

There was a bank robbery. I mean, that's not as important as the fucking serial killer. Julius is convinced it's a vigilante, which would make sense, but I'm waiting for more evidence.

A few cameras have been set up to catch whoever decides to go through with this again, and I'm going to check the cameras that were already set up now to see if the killer was seen with either of the victims. At least it'll add to the suspects.

Some guy also already admitted to killing the previous vic, so that's worth looking into. Valentine told me he was suspicious of the body placement, and he'd know that because he's an engineer. I think he's full of shit, but what do I know?

Julius is already trying to replace me with some asshole military guy in a crew cut who had the balls to call me dollface. I think I can handle finding a serial killer, thank you, especially one that's this messy.

 

Log #14:

Well, I'll be. Guess who showed up on the footage? It was hard to make out, but our security cameras record on multiple different functions ever since that hacker hid his face behind an overlay. Aishiteru, the guy who claimed self-defense on the first vic, was the last person seen with both John Does. Alone. He also owns an apartment right next to where both bodies were found.

Goddamn idiot is going down next time I see him. He and I need to have a little chat.

 

Log #15:

-Elmwell's voice seems happier than usual, almost as if a weight has been lifted-
On honeymoon, may settle down soon. I don't have time to update these anymore, and I might have no reason to.