Yury's Journal

[This journal is kept with Yury at all times, and is one of the many things he took from his home in Mud before its eventual shutdown to the outside.

Many pages are ripped out detailing his experiences in Mud, leaving the rest of the unfinished notebook open for writing.]



Entry #1

It has been weeks since I fled Mud. I promise that in this journal I will not speak of this town again. To function properly I must forget my past acquaintances.

I am Yury Ioakim Federoff. Many people who have lived my life have never escaped it.

I believe I can escape it. Unlike my past comrades, I escaped Rho. Perhaps it was luck. But it told me that where others have failed, I will triumph. Call it a hunch, but in these times of hiding, I need this line of thinking. It's what's kept me alive.

I found a space station. Apex design. by the look of these ruined computers, this was a propaganda radio station for the Ministry of Scientific Progression. It is deserted. I could find a use for this station. This will be my temporary home. Maybe I can rewire the machines to churn out music instead of propaganda. Make my own radio station.

I'll call it 'The Resistor's Radio'. No, too obvious. 'Rebel's Radio' Sounds better.

Wishful thinking. I must keep moving, always.

 

Entry #2

I have survived. I have survived by some miracle.

It was only a week into my hiding out in a satellite that danger nearly found me. I woke up to the sounds of clanking boots and whirring robots. I hid behind a broken computer, and peeked out to find cosmonauts of the Miniknog attempting to salvage anything important that has been left behind on this propaganda satellite.

They will find nothing. I sent every important file into space.

They inspected the old computer I was inside, and I hid in the furthest corner of the hollowed out hull. They could find nothing. However, when I thought my worries would be over, they sent the bots.

I'm holding a broken one in my hand. These are the Miniknog's eyes and ears in decrepit places. They're able to scan a large area, and emit a shrill noise alerting other agents. It induces a pulsing pain in one's head only for a second.

Their best tech could never even find a trace of me. The moment one of their sweeping bots attempted to scan the computer's hull, I snatched it and sent my thumb straight through its CPU. When it was quiet enough, I looked out the small window and saw the Miniknog ships activating their FTL drives and reporting back to their superiors.

I have bested the Miniknog. This instills in me the greatest feeling. Rho was not a coincidence!

I am alive! I am alive!

But I cannot stay here for long.

 

Entry #3

It's been about a month since I updated this log. I would apologize, but none would ever read this. I would ensure it.

For the past month or so I have been outfitting and repairing this derelict station, and even space-walking in order to fix satellites and whatnot. At this point, the radio station is in tip-top shape and ready to send and receive signals from across the galaxy.

And about this radio station's supposed name, I've decided on the Resistor's Radio. Rebel's Radio is too cheesy.

The interior is almost done, and contains a multitude of posters, monitors, CPUs, among other things. But a vital part is missing. I read on the old files left behind on the repurposed supercomputer, and it mentions a feature in which the entire station can disappear and blend in with the asteroids nearby. A cloaking device.

From my expertise with station maintenance, I need to find a quasi-chameleus impeller. The multi-purpose omni-wrap and faux-dematerializer were repaired by me (The latter took ages), but the device aforementioned executes the cloak command. It is completely missing. I assume the station's past caretakers salvaged this for repurposing, which bears logic due to the expensiveness of production. Perhaps even the great Miniknog run out of funds at some point.

I will take to my ship and traverse the frontier. Though it seems unlikely that a device like this is found here, it never hurts to try. Who knows how much peddlers and merchants may have this accidentally among their wares, or how much elite Miniknog ships have crashed and remained in smoldering craters. The possibilities are endless.

I hope I don't run into anyone.

 

[The Resistor's Radio Station had been finished. The next month would consist of transmitting music through radios all across the frontier, all in part by a crew of average radio hosts and musicians who'd stop by every now and then. The radio station was almost going to pick up relevancy among radio junkies, when it had suddenly disappeared from the frequencies, without even a goodbye. A squad of Miniknog hackers traced a camouflaged Apex rebel cell ship headed towards the space station. It took only 3 hours before the satellite and its crew were completely annihilated by Miniknog kill squads.

Yury's pet project met an abrupt end as he soared through space. As soon as he learned of this, a powerful, sinking feeling went through his stomach. He was a fool for even trying to contribute to the "Good Fight" in this way. How could he have been so idiotic? Guilt-ridden and grieving, Yury's ship floated through space, headed for nowhere for a few weeks. He was done. A swift execution at the hands of a Miniknog-hired assassin seemed like a fit end.]

 

Entry #56

I have to stop writing in this journal. It's become an addiction.

The past few months have consisted of me floating from station to planet to colony, remaining invisible in the eyes of my enemies, who think I am dead. My ship is unrecognizable now--though it bears the typical design of a Miniknog ship, it's been edited, altered, and painted over so much that now one would have to look at its technology inside to ever discern the ship's origin. I've stockpiled on organically-made jam, basic groceries, and bottles of banana cider. Especially cider. I'm beginning to think that I'm a full-blown alcoholic.

I've also been reprogramming the computer to have further access to Starnet. The Ministry's ship computers are basic, and only serve their primary functions. No access to Starnet is given, that is the job of government bounty posters and other members of the Miniknog's corrupt justice system. Luckily, with my expertise in Apex computers and spare parts from merchants, I maintain good connection to Starnet messenger, but I just lurk. The ship is getting to be quite 'overused', I should say. Landing thrusters are fluttering, and the boarding bridge is completely torn off from a landing mishap so I enter and exit with a rope. Needless to say, I'm not surprised if this thing kills me one day while flying it. It'd make for a clever trap by the Miniknog.

I miss modest village life. It offered me stability and peace in a time where I felt lost.

I should return to it.