The Seventieth Day of Dark: 12:00 PM: LOG 0048

A BRIEF ENTRY.

JUST CONFIRMING THAT I'M FINALLY BACK IN CONTROL OF THIS THING, FUCKING HALLELUIAH. BIOLOGUES ARE PRETTY RAD, AND IT'S NICE TO HAVE IT BACK. I NEED TO GET MYSELF A STRONGER NECKLACE CHAIN TO HOLD THIS FUCKER ON. A SHARP TUG FROM A GUARD SHOULDN'T HAVE BEEN ENOUGH TO PULL IT OFF.

The Seventieth Day of Dark: 12:00 PM: LOG 0049

The place where you're staying is nothing short of the pipe fantasy of some cave-dwelling race of eyeless elves. The stone walls are lined with sconces, each powered and illuminated by a generator, whose fumes are redirected up and out of the space by a towering metal funnel, which presumably runs to aboveground. The furniture is sparse, and most of it is carved straight out of the stone.

You've seen photos of this in chapters on ancient Old Earth. Pre-technological people carved massive, awe-inspiring temples and dwellings out of pure stone, just like this. You're surprised to even be in a space like this.

But, the novelty and ingenuity of such a feat is dulled by the fact that you've completely wrecked any chances of getting your haul from the kill. You're a rebel, now, and there's not much you can do beyond rolling along with whatever happens. You've been publicly exiled from the order of assassins for which you worked, and any sign of you in assassin territory is grounds for immediate death.

Whereas Kanaya and Rose have tried to dissuade you from becoming an around-the-clock helped for Dave, you've taken it upon yourself to do so. Beyond the fact that you realize you're now inexorably linked to this fucker, you also feel a huge serving of fresh-from-the-oven guilt. If you hadn't shown up and wrecked everything, like the incompetent, bumbling bastard you are, none of this would have happened. If you hadn't been so greedy, you wouldn't have taken the job. To some extent, you're also mourning the loss of your former future. You could be living like a king, now, if you'd just offed Dave earlier. You could have the world at your fingertips, and be none the wiser for ignoring the plights of Skaia.

Now, though, you're caught in some sort of huge conspiracy. You're a wanted criminal, and an enemy of an entire shitty artificial planetary colony. (Or, as it stands now, absolute monarchy.)

And, you need to tell Dave.

At some point, you know you have to tell him. But, you can't bring yourself to do it. Not now. Not any time soon.

"It's dinnertime, fuck-o," you announce as you step through the curtain separating Dave's room from everyone else's. "Rose fixed the most surprising goddamned thing ever. Want to take a shot at what it is?" As you say this, you set aside Dave's plate.

You, personally, have recovered nicely. You're nearly back to your usual self.

Dave, however, is still out of it. He's been in bed most of the past week, and the cave floor has ended up causing more problems than you'd imagine it would for his chair. You're starting to suspect that he's depressed, but he's been switching between states of outrageous lucidity and distant disconnect.

Today, judging by the spark in his eyes, is one of the better days.

You sit on the side of the bed, help him sit up, and prop him up with spare pillows. With the hissing machine—apparently known as a mechanical ventilator—plugged into the port at the base of his neck, he can speak only a few words every few seconds. His chest rises and falls at regular intervals. His hands shake often, like what you've seen in some older Humans. "Canned peas," he wheezes, brows furrowed.

"How'd you guess?" you ask, shoving a spoon into the bowl and sticking it into Dave's open maw. You recall how grubs are fed by their lusii.

He, in response to your commentary, offers a small smile. He promptly spits out his meal. "Ugh. There's really nothing else?"

"Look, jackass, you're leading a movement comprised primarily of people on the lower end of the socioeconomic shit-train and people labeled as unemployable. What do you expect, a goddamned steak?" Your counter comes as you drop off of the bed and scour the floor for fallen peas, looking like the perfect image of a starving orphan, you're sure. Eventually, you return. You pull from your pocket a sealed packet of peanut butter crackers—something you'd been hiding for a special occasion, and reluctantly open them. "Fucking fine. Just... Don't tell anyone I have these."

"I can't," Dave's voice begins soft, barely audible above the hum of the machinery and the groaning of the overhead pipes (you can only assume someone is starting to take a shower). As he continues, the volume suddenly rises to a normal level. It fades again, then rises. It's another cycle, and all these patterns are starting to drive you up the wall. "Still too weak to yell. Or do anything, really."

A long, conflicted sigh escapes you as you shove one of the orange crackers into his open mouth. "This is fucking stupid," you mutter.

Dave frowns. He swallows, grimaces, and then looks towards you with expectant eyes. "What? Being trapped in an underground cave, or the fact that you've been hiding peanut butter crackers?"

"Nothing," you snap. You silence him by shoving another cracker into his mouth.

You note that he doesn't protest.

Meanwhile, you consider your options. You'll need to tell him eventually, and you're certain it will wreck him. On an emotional level, it'll be devastating. But, what you're concerned about is the trust. How the fuck are you supposed to earn back the trust of the only person you can feasibly work for at this point? "I was hired to kill you" isn't a fine admission to be making. In fact, you'd rank it just below having to tell a company that you've been embezzling 99% of all its profits since you were hired.

For now, you'll keep the secret to yourself.

"Want another?" you ask, dangling one of the crackers in his face. You make sure it's just out of his reach. If you're going to be doing this, you might as well have some fun. "Hm?"

Dave, however, outsmarts you. He shifts his right arm slightly—barely enough to be considerable, yet just enough for the rest of his body to react. You know it's involuntary, but the fact that his left knee jerks, slamming into your ass like an unwelcome slap, is obviously planned. You release the cracker in shock, and watch as he catches it in his mouth, smirking. "Fuck you. That's not fair."

"Neither is smuggling in actually decent food," he responds. "I have a few tricks."

"I fucking noticed," you respond, promptly removing yourself from the bed. "That was fucking rude."

"So are you." He grins. He waggles his brows at you then, after a few weak coughs, he nods towards the entryway. "That's all I needed. Get your grey ass out of here. I want to take a nap."

"You've been napping all day," you retort.

He snickers. "You're not my mom. Fuck off."

Feigning offense, you turn on your heel.

The Seventieth Day of Dark: 2:00 PM: LOG 0050

Jade has since joined the efforts, and she's also amongst the ranks of the twenty-odd people who share the underground living area with you. This also includes Rose, Kanaya, and John. The others, as far as you're concerned, are mostly faceless Prospitian supporters.

Except for Edgar, the eccentric artist. He's spent most of his time cobbling together decorative items from scrap metal, and you admire that he's taken to leaving inappropriately placed nude statuary everywhere. Your favorite is the most recent addition—a piece modelled after the ancient David, complete with a penis made of an electric mixer's detachable whisk. "I call it The Grace of Man," he had informed you, before promptly skittering off to whatever strange corner of the cave he lives in.

Returning to Jade... Today, she seems perkier than usual.

And, of course, there's a reason.

"I've made this," she announces, showing you what seems to be a retainer.

You, naturally, are unimpressed. "What the fuck is that supposed to do?"

"It's a remote control," she says, looking vaguely upset that you didn't realize this initially. "I know it sounds super gross, but it actually works with your tongue. I've had John working on Dave's chair, and we think we might have invented something that will let him drive it."

"You think? You didn't test this?" Here, you pause. "How do you know it won't just blow the whole fucking place to bits?"

"We don't!" Jade grins, "That's the fun part."

Before heading off to check on Dave, you mutter, "I'm surrounded by airheaded fuck-wits."

The Seventieth Day of Dark: 4:00 PM: LOG 0051

It works.

Your mind is blown to shit and back, but the little retainer Jade hacked together actually works. You, of course, have a few questions. The primary one is how she got a mold of the inside of Dave's goddamned mouth, but you're not about to press this. For now, you're content with finally having slightly more free time, as you no longer have to be Dave's escort.

And, it seems that Dave is fond of this development, too.