The Sixtieth Day of Dark: 2:00 PM: LOG 0046

We've planned to visit the prison under the pretense of wanting a tour. I am uncertain of the logistics of this, and our safety isn't guaranteed; the violence has been escalating. The fighting is growing closer, and military occupation is growing dense.

I have, however, confirmed that Dave is in the prison. Shortly after the live execution was finished showing around 12:30, another half-hour broadcast was shown. Dave was the primary focus of this broadcast, during which he pleaded for an end to the so-called insurrections. He was obviously coerced into such a speech, showing little emotion, and often looked at what I assume to be a cue card.

It's apparent that he's not being treated properly, if at all. His breathing has worsened to the point that he's been placed on a ventilator, seemingly full-time. Due to this, I question the reason for the broadcast; his voice was barely audible. They did a poor job of covering his wounds, the most prominent of which was a gash just above his right eyebrow.

Prolonged exposure to this sort of neglect will lead to certain death, which means that the priority of our mission is now to rescue Dave.

Nonetheless, I can't say that I'm confident Karkat is faring any better. My best guess is that Dave appeared only to prevent them from causing harm to him.

The Sixtieth Day of Dark: 4:00 PM: LOG 0047

Getting into a tour group is easy enough. You show up at the prison, claim your names are Porrim and Roxy, and get paired with a heavyset man in his late sixties. He's sweaty, armed with a camera, and creepy in every possible sense. For the past twenty minutes, he's been taking photos of the most morbid museum exhibits—dioramas of jailcell murder scenes seem to be his thing.

So far, you've passed through the prison museum, which housed information about past inmates and the building's history, and several viewing rooms, which offer views of some of the most violent and infamous inmates. To you, it seems like a crude and strange way to spend a vacation, but you're not exactly here to judge.

You're here to find your cousin, which you have yet to do.

And, you're beginning to doubt that you will. Yet, as if that doubt powers some sort of luck-generating mechanism, you're offered a glimmer of hope.

It comes in the form of a not-so-distant bang. The floor shudders, the walls shake, and what you can only assume to be years of dust flutter from the rafters above you. A chorus of sirens and bells heralds the beginning of absolute chaos. Guards rush past, some trying and failing to get you and Kanaya to move with them. Prisoners scatter as chunks of ceiling begin to crumble and fall.

As groups move and disperse and flow like an agitated swarm of insects, Kanaya speaks up. "Karkat?" As the word escapes her, she begins to shove against the crowd.

You let her go. She can take care of herself. If her blade isn't enough, she'll just grab a gun from a guard. Not that she'd ever get to that point.

You move eastwards, against the flow, like Kanaya. You pass her.

The best way to find the cause of something is to trace your way backwards, against the grain. And, the further into the fray you go, the more chaotic it gets. Bloodied, battered corpses begin to line the corridors. Walls are collapsed, ceilings caved in, cells completely destroyed.

Without hesitation, you loot the corpse of a guard. His head seems to have been wiped out by a fallen slab of concrete. Not that you care. You're taking his flashlight and gun, regardless. You pocket both items before pushing onwards, using the light once you reach the point at which the electricity has ceased functioning.

Here, the walls are almost completely blown away. If you look up, you can see through the ceiling, up to the floors above. The walls of various cells are covered in blood, their occupants crushed or blown to bits.

"Leave the bastard!" An unfamiliar male voice grabs your attention. You flick off your flashlight and scramble for a hiding place, eventually settling on squatting behind a bloodied slab of ceiling. "Does it look like this fucking freak could have done this?"

"Well..." Another voice stammers. "But we have orders to make sure this one stays alive."

"He's already half dead, you idiot. We've got to get out of here!" As if on cue, the end of this statement is punctuated by the rumbling thud of more of the building crumbling. Shortly thereafter, the soft plodding of a pair of retreating footsteps echoes up and down the wreckage of the corridor. You stumble back into the hallway, turn on the light, and work your way deeper into the fray.

A few feet in, you hear something. A mechanical sigh, followed by a few moments of silence, and a hoarse wheeze. It's a noise you're not accustomed to hearing, though you remember it from not-so-long-ago. Sweeping the beam of the flashlight back and forth, you begin to follow the noise.

Eventually, it falls upon a rusted wheelchair. In it is Dave, held in place by little more than rough, knotted rope. Blood colors his normally blond hair, and the disgustingly dirty tube sticking from the plastic port at the base of his throat connects to a ventilator mounted haphazardly to the back of his chair.

You have little time for shock, though, as your arrival is marked by another powerful shudder. You approach him and, as your hands touch the handles of the chair, the building sways. A loud crack comes from above you, and you have just enough time to realize that the remainders of the cell you're in are crumbling around you before—