Wednesday, September 16th 2020
This is Captain Jack Argulus of the USS Cyclops. I know logs aren't mandatory anymore, but I'm writing this just in case we don't resurface.
It has been 3 days since the expedition to the Mariana Trench. 8 crewmen, 1 captain, and 1 second-in-command. Sent to investigate some unnatural signal from deepest point of the ocean. Would've gone back up an hour ago according to schedule, but unfortunately we faced some unforeseen circumstances.
Yesterday, everything (for the lack of a better term) went to hell. Within moments, the submarine was knocked out of its predestined trajectory, sending the crew rocking back and forth between the walls. The fuel was leaking and the pressure hull seemed to be heavily damaged. The communication room got flooded and fried from the inside out. All of the escape pods were somehow jettisoned straight towards the ocean floor, leaving us all slowly sinking to the abyss.
If my math is correct and nothing changes for the better, we might just reach crush depth in about 5 days. I sincerely hope that this vessel doesn't become our coffin.
Thursday, September 17th 2020
All right. Captain's log, second day.
One of the crewmates, Lisbon, proposed a strange little idea, that we could launch the torpedoes up to the surface to signal the Navy. It seemed quite outrageous, with most of us knowing that we are in foreign waters and that it might be mistaken as a war sign, which is probably why Vince, my second-in-command, stepped up and scolded him for his decision, going so far as to tell him that he'd send him out the airlock if he ever proposed such an extreme plan again.
That was a pretty harsh reaction, but maybe it was for the best. Starting a war wasn't really worth the risk.
You know, something funny happened while I was on my way to my quarter.
I just finished up a few repairs to the radar system with Vince and was passing the outer corridors (dimmed, to save on the emergency power) when I saw some faint light passing outside the windows. I needed something to take my mind off our inevitable demise, so I shut off the rest of the lights lining up the corridor and looked back out.
Then I saw it. Layers and layers of monolithic cities scattered throughout the ocean floor, stacked on top of one another and trodden with strange luminescent marine life. They strongly resembled great towers, with their lowest foundations utterly swallowed by ancient yet blooming forests full of impossibly flowering trees. The weirdest part? The ones on top looked a bit like those apartments back in New York.
God, why won't you just let me sleep?
Friday, September 18th 2020
2 of the crewmen have gone missing. Jim and Andy, the ones who were guarding the airlock.
The crew are already shouting bloody murder, but Vince kept on suggesting that they simply got trapped in the sub's lower compartments. He even managed to gather 3 more of the crew (Andrew, Oliver, and Caleb) to start a search.
Normally, I'd strongly protest against that, but I couldn't suggest anything else to alleviate the situation, so I just let them venture down. They just finished gathering some supplies and are about to descend in a few more minutes. It shouldn't be much of a task for them, but I still solemnly pray for God to ease their journey.
Saturday, September 19th 2020
Only Vince and Caleb came back. They said that nearly every room around the airlock are already submerged. Told me that they found lots of cracks forming in the walls every minute and that the other two were swept by the current to the lower hulls, most likely drowned or crushed under the pressure. Even had to seal the remaining entrances to make sure the flood doesn't reach us.
Fuck, this is seriously getting worse with each passing day.
Sunday, September 20th 2020
We've been compromised from the inside. There isn't much time left for me in this world but I'll try my best to summarize everything.
That morning, I entered the dining room, being the latest one as always. I was immediately greeted with the sight of 2 crewmen (Eggers and Tom) dead on the floor, surrounded by puddles of their own blood. Lisbon was hiding behind an overturned table, his firearm drawn. If I had focused on that one scene for longer than a second, I wouldn't have noticed the other 2 people on the far side of the room, one trudging with a limp on his left leg while the other whipped out his own pistol and aimed it towards me.
By some unknown instinct, my hand struck the breaker panel by the door, sending the entire dining room into complete darkness. I pulled out my sidearm and ran past the tables, desperately trying to remember the assailants' positions. The one without a limp wouldn't be trying to waste his bullets, and instead would try to reactivate the breakers or tackle me down and finish me off point blank.
Thankfully, it wasn't the latter. One of them reached the breaker panel and reactivated it, while I was merely a meter away from him. I rushed forward and attempted to clobber him with the butt of my pistol. The assailant, who I saw in the limelight as none other than fucking Caleb, hurriedly bent his arm with the gun at my direction.
The shock of seeing a member of my own crew retaliating against me wasn't enough to overcome my will to survive, and I managed to push his gun backwards, facing his eyes. I honestly don't know if it was either a slip of a finger or just my anger subconsciously rising up, for his own gun was triggered, and for a second, I could see his mouth wide open in utter horror, a final frame before the end of his life.
Dear God, I made him eat his own bullet.
Caleb's body struck down against the floor, the teeth in his mouth completely blown off and a large hole carved through the back of his head. I was petrified on the spot for a moment, realising that I may have taken another human life, which the other assailant probably took as a golden opportunity to finish me off. I saw him in the corner of my eye, stumbling forward with gun in hand, but his movements were cut short by a gunshot which rang out from behind me, followed by him collapsing to the floor and screaming in pain.
My head swiftly turned around, facing Lisbon, who had already emerged from the back of the table with his gun smoking and was now charging towards the wounded man Vince why at full speed. In just a second he was right in front of Vince and thrusted his feet against the fucker's face, sending the poor sod flying backwards and knocking him out.
Lisbon then knelt down and started sobbing, asking me on whatever should he do now. I told him we should try getting answers from the bastard first, which he vehemently agreed on. We dragged him to the walls and tied him up to the railings with some spare rope. Deciding that our time was running short, I kicked him awake in his manhood.
Vince was unsurprisingly coherent as he shouted profanities at me for several minutes. After finishing his small rant, I asked him about the obvious, on why he and Caleb killed 6 of the crew. The goddamn bastard tried to bluff out, saying that they only killed those two in the dining room. Obviously, I didn't believe that statement, so I told Lisbon to shoot one of the fruits of his manhood if the bastard were to try and make any more false answers.
Hearing the threat, Vince finally complied and admitted the deed. Said he and Caleb were just doing their job, that their loyalty to this crew was a far second, vastly underweight compared to their duty to humanity, whatever that entailed. At this point, I was already starting to question his state of mind, yet I let him run his mouth.
He continued by saying that the rest of us should either kill ourselves off or accept whatever fate awaits us in the depths, pressing on that we had to die in the dark so everyone else can live in the light. I promptly told him to stop spitting out bullshit.
That was the part where I should have stopped talking and shot his heart out. But alas, being the curious bastard that I was, I asked him another question, one that I should have stayed away from: "Why are our cities under the sea?"
Hearing those words, he began to sob, which quickly turned into him screaming and laughing through the tears. Lisbon was physically aching to ask for my permission to use his firearm on Vince, and even I was tempted to shoot the poor sod myself, but before the both of us had the chance to do so, Vince bit down on his tongue, which instantly glowed red, followed by his entire body jerking inward, almost as if his very bones were being sucked away to the middle of his chest.
I don't really remember much about what happened next, other than Lisbon shouting for me to get back and an awful ringing sound that appeared out of nowhere, which was somehow followed by me lying on the floor, screaming out all the air that filled my lungs until my throat began to bleed and my vision slowly, but surely, blurring out and shutting down.
I must have been out for half a day, for when I regained my senses it had already been 6 in the evening. I was somehow in the medical wing, with Lisbon sitting by my bedside, somehow sleeping while doing so. I wasn't too intent to wake him up, so I tried to hop off the bed and get something to eat.
It was only then did I realize that my left arm and both of my legs were gone. The stumps beneath my waist and left shoulder were flaked like papier mache. Dozens of small bone white shrapnel jutted out of my ribs, with more of those tiny patches of flake surrounding each one. Understandably panicked, I practically shouted at Lisbon until he jolted awake, asking him on what even happened.
He was unsurprisingly shocked as his rest was interrupted, yet managed to regain his composure and recounted on the previous events, that nearly a hundred of those white shrapnel shot out of Vince's mouth, heavily maiming me yet miraculously avoiding every part of his body. Vince himself was quite dead, his entire form boneless and deflated like an airless balloon, his skin wrinkled and twisted from all directions.
Seeing my condition, Lisbon had tried to pluck some of the tiny shards out. His efforts had only resulted with the flakes crawling up my body even faster, though I don't blame him for trying to help. The flake growth has currently spread to my armpits and down to my belly, crippling and snapping off the flesh along the way. It doesn't hurt, though. I just feel cold.
So, yeah. Currently writing this with my remaining hand. The blood I bleed hardens and crumbles the second it leaks out, and the flakes seem to be climbing closer to the center of my body. Lisbon already pumped me up with the heaviest meds he could find, but they seemed to be doing jack shit. The growth should reach my heart in about 14 hours, give or take.
I don't know anything about the people that hired Vince and Caleb to doom us here, but whoever you are, fuck you, your families, and all you stand for I'm sorry, that was quite uncalled for. They were all good people, including those two, at least that's what I hopelessly want to believe.
Anyways, I don't think I'll be leaving this place alive, yet I can make sure that at least one will be able to. None of the crewmates know, but there is a secret room under my quarters, able to be accessed through the egregiously large painting of this submarine's architect. Inside, there's a small pod, spacious enough for at least one person, but only used by the previous captains for sending very vital materials back to shore.
I told Lisbon about it, seeing that he has the best chance of getting out of here. He seemed to already understand my intention, and said that he might be able to alter it so that it can transport a human back to the surface. He also correctly guessed that I wanted to be left here, so I assured him that taking me with him would do no good and that he would only manage to bring my family a pile of ashes.
The pod should be ready in less than 8 hours.
Monday, September 21st 2020
Today's my birthday. How fitting. About to die at the age of 45. I guess I should write down my apologies.
To my wife, Bonnie, sorry for being such a lousy and distant husband.
To my little girl, Penny, please forgive your father for his horrible excuses on why he was rarely home.
To my brother, Joseph, I'm sorry I didn't make it in time for your wedding.
To my mother and father, Mary and Ryan, forgive your failure of a son and thank you for bringing me to this world.
To the good men and women in the army, I'm sorry I failed my mission.
That should be enough regrets. Once I'm done writing this, I'll give this book to Lisbon (and, hopefully, to my family too), then he'll put a bullet between my eyes and take the pod to the surface. I can only wish him luck on the way out.
I'm dying but I won't surrender. Farewell, ye good batch of humanity. May God bless you all.
That was… quite the interesting read.
Howard put the notebook on his desk and cupped his hands to his nose. The night was growing short, and he'd have little time to put his mind to rest before he'd have to report all this back to the mothership. So he sank into thought, deep below his mind, to try and make sense of this whole ordeal.
From a neutral perspective, the log held the impression of a madman that desperately tried to justify his actions. Argulus was quite respected among the ranks of the Navy, but the depths of the sea can change even the most iron-willed men. After all, talking about layers of sunken cities and bone-puking men whilst claiming that you were still sane was no easy feat.
Though on the other hand, if the events detailed in the log were to be taken as fact, then it could mean only one thing: the Foundation hijacked the Cyclops.
It was simply the only logical conclusion. All the intel that he had gathered for the past two years has revealed that the Foundation has put a disturbing amount of effort in filling the Navy's ranks to make sure that the Trench was never explored too thoroughly. His sister, who was far more knowledgeable in the anomalous field, regularly told him rumours about the very iterations of humanity itself. A few superiors of his, who were much more discreet in their approach, had passed cryptic ciphers in every private document that they gave to him, detailing confidential operations involving a certain geyser park.
That Lisbon boy would probably get amnesticized once they sent him to shore. This log, once inspected by the authorities, would most likely be sent to an undisclosed location and burnt until all that remained are ashes. He himself would be thoroughly inspected and quite possibly "removed" by the Foundation if they found out that he so much as glanced a small portion of the log's contents.
Howard snapped back out of his head and intently stared at the notebook on his desk. There was no doubt that the very words inscribed upon it could change the very truth of this world as he knew it. Would be a shame if it ended up in an incinerator.
He had to keep it safe for the rest of the voyage and find the nearest Way once he was back on land. The seventh floor of his bedroom would most definitely suffice, though he'd also have to find someone else to safekeep it once he entered the Library. The few names that immediately crossed his line of thought were L.S., Cursive, Saintsberg, heck, even Kabarat would do. Whichever one that he encountered first shall have the honours.
But for now, the only thing he could do was hide it from the watchful eyes of his nation's military. He reached down and unlocked one of the desk drawers, producing a large sheet of plastic, an unlabeled jar of ink, and an iron syringe.
He began wrapping the notebook with the plastic sheet, trying to create something similar to a package and carefully folding the edges to make sure that not even a pinhole remained for any air to escape. The end result was similar to a newly bought product from a bookstore, quite well done in his opinion.
This next step was going to hurt like hell, but if he could finish this up quickly, then he'd be able to get a few hours of rest. He rolled up his sleeves and forced the syringe's needle to the vein of his arm, gritting his teeth as he drew out the blood until the syringe was halfway full. He dipped the edge of the needle in the ink jar and siphoned a fraction of its contents, filling the rest of the syringe. A quick glance and it was clear that the process would be fast. The blood inside was already boiling with the ink, mixing together into some utterly hellish colour.
With that done, he raised his hand with the syringe above the covered notebook and pushed out the contents, the liquid that was ejected no longer resembling ink or blood, but some vile charred slime that could've easily been mistaken for molten flesh. It immediately spread out and engulfed the book like some ravenous formless beast, hastily sinking itself and the book under the surface of the desk, leaving behind a darkly taint across the wooden furniture.
That was all he could do for now. Hopefully none of his supervisors noticed the slight change in his desk's colour or the faint but noticeable odor that now filled his room. There was only a single day left until he was back on shore, yet that amount of time seemed so distant now. Even then, he had high hopes that this was about to pay off just fine. The world would inevitably be uncovered, one truth at a time.
And so, in countless other universes, the Foundation remained indomitable and were continuously paramount and unstoppable in their one deed of prolonging humanity, repeating the same accursed cycle over and over again like a dwindling record until the degeneration of time itself.
But not in this one.
