Journal 4
…
Entry: hopeless
I have so few materials to work with and so much I need to do. Electricity planning, getting food (my original fishing plan seems to have scattered fish from the area), trying and failing to sleep and only wasting time by staring up at nothing but glowing moss, mind crowding with things that are useless in my situation like Stanley and the portal and regrets I can't help, concerns that it's getting even hotter outside when I was sure it was already reaching the 100F degree mark daily.
Could this place be entering a hotter season? Will it get too hot for me to survive out here? I don't know if there's anything else edible for me out here, even the fish looked odd and furry. It's been 75 days- approximately 2250 hours, I'm near 100 earth days, not even a third of the year, and I'm already panicking? That's infuriating!
I've been too busy to write in this for the past 25 days, though I told myself back then I'd try to write in this journal every week at least. The only reason I'm doing it now, is because to make everything worse, it seems this place gets massive sandstorms. So I'm stuck inside the dome until- however long it takes a sand storm to pass. I'd try to get sleep- I am so, so tired- but like I said, it's useless. Thoughts of bill make it hard to sleep.
I can't believe this, now this pen isn't even working. So much for writing more often, eh?
…
With an annoyed sigh, Stanford eventually gave up after having to go over and over the question mark 10 times. He threw the pen toward the mess of parts from dissecting the monitor-screen device. Maybe the stupid alien-weird-pen-thing'd be useful some other time; though he more wanted to just throw it then he cared what he did with it later.
More carefully, he closed the notebook- sighing again as he caught a glimpse of the crossed words from many days ago, averting his gaze up to the top of the dome as he set the notebook down with the other. Journal 5 was quite well endowed with information on the animals and plants, Ford reminded himself; the pen dying out made sense with how much he'd written in the other one.
That's right, Ford. When you think about it, it makes sense.
You have to think.
If you just think a little harder, concentrate on your intellect, you'll figure it out.
And so, back to the drawing board.
He moved from sitting on the desk back to the ground and on two feet, which had become habit to sit there when he was writing in the other journal as well as journal 4, and Ford made his way to the sprawl of vaguely sorted parts. He didn't have much of a clue what the thing had been before, not built like any computer he'd ever seen, for sure, but he recognized some of these parts, even if they were different. Initially he'd tried to just fix the thing. Now that he grasped that he didn't even know if it'd help him when fixed, he'd directed his thoughts to using parts of it instead. After a while, his best option turned to making a Radio.
If there was any intelligence left on this planet, if he could get a powerful radio signal up, it was just low tech enough that maybe there was someone else out here that'd invented a radio broadcaster and receiver, and he'd get help. Or… something. Something.
It was a long shot.
A very, very long one.
Is there life here to receive it? Could he build something to send the signal? Could he make something to power it? Could whoever received it, if anyone did, be able to help him? even understand him? For all he knew, whatever found his signal might be weird enough and dangerous enough to try and eat him or something.
If Bill was any indicator, Stanford Pines had very bad luck with creatures he met from other dimensions.
He sat amongst the bits and parts, and pushed away the thoughts. He could fry to death, starve to death, poison himself to death, or run himself into the ground and die of either exhaustion or insanity. What's one more possible death like something trying to eat him? At least he could try and shoot the alien with the laser gun or something; there wasn't much he could do about the heat or the disappearance of the only good source of food or the dream demon in his head. Those were things he couldn't fight. An alien, please, bring it on.
The day came and went, and here was no indicator how long Ford had worked as when he glanced outside to check the position of either the sun or the two moons for approximate time, he'd only felt the sting of the lashing sandy wind and seen nothing. So, trapped in a dank underground igloo with no idea how long he's been down here was making just a little, little bit claustrophobic.
Absolutely fantastic.
Why did for always get the short end of the stick anyway?
He relented to trying to sleep again; curled up with both the blanket, and kept his trench coat on to separate himself from the cold cavernous air as he set his glasses off on the floor beside the mushy bean baggy bed. He had to of stared up at glowing moss with vision blurred eyes for at least an hour before exhaustion finally claimed him.
bill didn't show up that night, but the sleep was as restless at it had been for the last few months, even before he'd called Stanley up to help him hide the journals. Nightmares full of regret, like Fiddleford, like Stan, like missing out on his college, like bill. Bill entered his nightmare, even when the real one wasn't actually there, and it was only the vision his brain created as his greatest fear.
When he woke, it was with a startled shout and drenched in buckets of sweat, breathing heavy.
Feeling just as tired as when he had first lain down, but now starving all the more, Ford slid out of the cocoon he'd built himself in the night with the blanket. He felt a lot older than a man in his late 20s, pushing 30. There was a sickening succession of pops in his back and an ache in his bones, and his eyes barely opened at first, weak ad probably dark with insomnia against the pale of his sickly skin; the dirty clothes probably, most likely, didn't help his appearance. He was suddenly hit by a… none too pleasant fragrance, too.
He'd never been a real filthy guy, and the fact that he still had that tie, which he'd unnecessarily washed at some point and folded up at his desk, was the proof. Though Ford maybe missed a shower for a day, even two, when caught up in work, but He didn't necessarily like this layer of grunge on him. Maybe if it wasn't too late in the day, and the sand storm was gone… he'd commit a little time to the task of washing his clothes and himself. Maybe he'd feel less like trash and like less of a 80-something year old.
His gaze shifted to the pile of parts and the sloppy organization of pieces across the floor as he replaced his glasses on his face, a few scatters of papers scribbled with possible diagrams and ideas and notes about the object he was in the process of building.
Should he waste time with that, going to take a bath? Who would care how clean his clothes looked, anyway?
His stomach growled in protest; the river offered a chance of the strange fish, at least. And he was hungry. Very hungry. His gut reminded him again with a louder gurgle and, this time, a sharp hunger pan that partially made him flinch.
Priorities, ford. Food, work on machine, bathe. That's the order here.
With a tired noise he went to get the gloves, and the spear, before tentively venturing toward the door, wearier of opening it at the reminder of how vicious the storm had been before, beyond the sound proofed walls of the dome.
When he cracked it ever slightly, and no hot sand burst in on a wave of wind, he opened the door further, squinting around at the bleeding red-green sky that, here on this planet, signaled the sun was rising. Earlier than he'd expected. Not unwanted, though. It meant more time before he had to retreat from the sun; maybe the thought of that bath at the river wasn't too out of line.
He huffed at himself, wondering when he'd become such a neat freak- before reminding himself that wanting to get rid of a layer of dirt and sweat the thickness of your skin wasn't really neat freak and more so just basic hygiene.
Thoughts and memories of things like hand soap, germ-x and toothpaste were suddenly very fond thoughts. He really missed shampoo, too.
He chanced a glance down at one hand as he walked for the river, looking over his palm and all six digits. The grit under his nails was gross, there was so much dirt caked into the sleeve of his once nice white shirt and the tan trench coat and there was so much dirt in between his fingers the areas were black.
Gross.
He even physically cringed.
Neat freak or not, who knew what weird bacteria were growing on him right now, breeding in those dark patches of grime. Ick.
He finally made it to the water and sighed. He went down stream a bit, so as not to scare any fish that, if he was lucky, may be there to at least get some of the ick off his hands, before walking back and gloving himself.
A brief flash of sparks that lit up the water, spreading like lightning down under as ford touched the surface made his stomach growl again, associating that light with food, and he scanned the top hopefully, remembering when the first flash had once brought about 8 fish as fondly as he did toothpaste.
A lucky break; one strange, neon fish with an ugly hot pink color to it's fur and beady white pupils on black eyes floated up, stunned.
Ford rushed it without a thought as he stripped off the gloves and dropped them on the smooth round pebbles of the water bank, returning with 'fish' in hand. Small knife from the weapon closet handy, he killed it quickly.
It was a fairly big one, too. It wouldn't counteract the last 45 hours of no food, not completely, but it was a hell of a lot better than nothing.
Ford took a few minutes to spark up a fire and clean and skewer his electrified catch. The anomalous man took a minute to set it up to cook like he'd done many times now on the same patch of charred earth as many timed before- and then looked down at his own grubby, dirty hands again.
Was it worth it? I mean, he'd get back into dirty clothes if he bothered to try and wash. And if he tried to wash the clothes, he'd have to put them on soaking wet.
Whatever. Why not? A while in a wet shirt and pants wasn't going to kill him.
He descended into the water, fish still rigged on a spit to cook and clothes still on. He was sitting down again in the shallower waters, pulling off the cloak of a coat to try and give it a wash- when it hit him.
Or, clamped down on him.
A short curse and a flail of a hand later, and the genius was beaming a bit too wide for a man who'd just been clamped by a crab-ish creature.
That is, because now ford was aware the water was crawling with them, and they looked even more like actual crabs then the fish did fish.
He wasn't just a dirty man who'd been clamped by a crab-ish creature; he was a dirty man taking his first bath in nearly 3 months whom had just found another source of food.
