Entry 11: It's June 17th. Tonight's the night I finally get out of this hellhole. Benson, Freddy and the gang are gonna bust through one of the courtyard walls, and we've roped some poor sap into playing the decoy for us. As the only one who acted decent to the guy, I hope things go okay for him, since nobody else will.
	Anyway, the plan goes like this: Ted slips under the western courtyard wall and distracts security, while Benson smashes the weakened corner of the east wall. Christ, that guy is insane--I bet he could do it with his bare hands! I hope I never piss him off... but tonight I can see Deneb Adige through my window, so I think things will be okay. I just wish I had some smokes--I'm so damn agitated right now. I'm waiting for Freddy to knock out the guards and bust me out, and he should be here by now, so I'll stop writing and put you away.

Entry 12: We made it! We're free! I think Ted got shot, but we're fucking free! We ran ourselves ragged until we reached the puny city by the coast. Johnny found us some new duds, and now we're holing up in some old guy's place. Freddy saw a flyer advertising a mining expedition on some island, and most of us are planning on going since it pays pretty well and doesn't have many requirements. I'm coming along since I've had... experience in this sort of thing. We'll be using the geezer's boat to get there, and Freddy is the only one who knows port from starboard, so he'll be our navigator. We found the island on some maps, and it's actually not too far from here. Since we're not leaving for 3 more days, I'm stocking the fuck up on smokes. I hate boats.

Entry 13: I've been lying in the cabin all morning and I can't get the taste of puke out of my mouth. Freddy said it'd take about a week to get to the island. Even Benson looks to him now--he's the only one capable of getting us there safely.
	I still fucking hate boats, though.

Entry 14: The vomiting has regressed to constant waves of nausea, which is only slightly better. I can at least stand up to smoke now. Benson decked Joe in the face for looking at him funny, the poor sucker. He's been pretty pissy lately. Maybe he hates boats, too.

Entry 15: We've arrived on the island, and I've never been happier to see rock in my life. There's a lot of it here. We're splitting up into groups to look for the expedition, and, uh, I'm stuck with Benson. Freddy's staying on the ship, and we're supposed to report to him every couple of days. Deneb better have my back on this one, too.

Entry 16: We found an old pickaxe and broken mining light by the entrance of a cave. We're trekking back tomorrow to check in with Freddy--it's been a few days, and we're low on food. We roasted some of those lizards that pop up everywhere, and they were delicious. Benson even made jerky out of some, even though he didn't care for the taste. I had no idea he could cook! I guess no one ever asked.
	By the way, he sleeps with his eyes open. Crazy motherfucker.

Entry 17: Welp, Freddy's dead. We found him on the shore, with weird, black lumps all over his body. Benson said we might as well just head back to the cave, and I wouldn't want to argue with him. I wonder what happened to Freddy, though.

Entry 18: There's definite signs of drilling here, and the ground is littered with bones and various equipment (most of it useless). I keep stepping in this weird black, sticky goo. I've never seen anything like it--it drops from the ceiling sometimes, too (found this out the hard way, it tasted disgusting). I hope it's not some giant thing's sh
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	His writing is interrupted by an immense quake, waking the snoring Benson. "Get out of the way! The floor's collapsing!" Daniel shoves him to the side before disappearing with the flashlight.
	The giant man flounders in the darkness, yelling the other's name with irritation before stumbling down the hole where the floor has indeed collapsed. After tumbling down a mountain of rubble, he spies the flashlight, still on, and snatches it up. He sweeps the beam across the huge cavern, in which he now stands, and manages to identify some vaguely building-ish shapes, obscured partially by stalagmites. He starts towards them, only to trip over something soft. Shining the light before him, he recognizes Daniel's scrawny frame, pinned under heavy rocks.
	Hurling the boulders aside, he pauses to listen for the man's breathing, which is ragged but faintly audible. Gathering the unconscious body in his arms, he tries to lift him gently, but is met with some resistance. He gives a mighty tug--and hears a sickening snap.
	Blood gushes from his bony stump of a right arm. Quickly, Benson removes his jacket and ties it as tightly as possible around the limb. Gradually, the bleeding slows, and the injured man is laid on a semi-flat pile of rock. Visibly annoyed, the bulky convict sifts through the fallen ceiling for any stray possessions. Tucking Daniel's bloody journal into his backpack, he begins his cautious journey to the peculiar objects in the distance.
	As he progresses, two hushed voices become audible, their words muffled by the walls. Gradually they grow louder, until snippets of a bizarre conversation can be heard. Benson fails to realize how close he's getting until he rounds a corner, staring directly into two sets of brightly glowing eyes. Startled, he lobs a vicious punch at the yellow pair, and the owner collapses to the ground.
	"Whut," he wheezes, "whut'd I do?" The pale blue ovals glance at him from above, and they chuckle nervously. Benson shines his flashlight before him, revealing two peculiar men. Blue light radiates from the slightly shorter man's goggles. He wears a grease-stained tracksuit, a toolbelt, and a black bandana. Yellow bands glow on his companion's black eyes, rendering the small reflector on his head obsolete. A rust-splattered apron is secured around his medical scrubs. The standing man helps the other to his feet.
	"Who're you," inquires Benson, clenching his fists in anticipation. "Name's Don. This's Doc. What's got you in such a fright, stranger?" The blue-eyed voice is a smooth, southern drawl, a refined variation of his companion's. Curtly, the convict explains the situation, and leads the odd pair back to Daniel. Doc's eye patterns undulate softly as he examines the injury.
	"He'll make it. Ain't nothin' I kin do 'bout that arm 'cept dress it proper, but Don-" The man in question's hand covers the speaker's mouth, and any point about to be made. It is slapped aside, and a glare is exchanged. Benson repeats Doc's last words, cracking his knuckles impatiently. Don smiles nervously.
	"Well, sir, Doc here was about t'say if I could scrounge up the parts, there's a possibility, a small one, mind you..." With both men glowering at him, he gets to the point. "I may be able to conjure a new arm for your buddy, here." Benson yanks him up by the collar. "Then get to it," he imposes.
	Don is unfazed. "What's in it fer me?" Benson decks him in the face, and he laughs, spitting out blood. "Mister, I'm no use to you bruised up. We're all that's left on this goddamn island, and you're in no place fer negotiatin'." He is released, but the hatred in his assailant's eyes remain. He chuckles and pulls him aside.
	"That's the way. Now then, you're a big brute, so you'd be perfect fer testin' my sch'matics." "I ain't no goddamn lab rat." "'Course you ain't. Anyhow, I jes' happen to have all I need fer this thing, but it's jest a prototype. There's no guarantee it'll work." Seeing Benson grow increasingly livid, he elaborates. "If it don't work, you ain't obliged to do squat. Hell, I'll let you guys stay with us- 's not like you got a place to go."
	"And if I refuse your terms?" Don grins nonchalantly. "Then you leave yer buddy with us, and he takes yer place. We'll tell 'im you're long gone. And if you choose to take 'im with you..." He draws a gun-shaped mass of wires and metal from his toolbelt and fires a blue beam at the wall. It blasts a Benson-sized hole through the rock.
	"... then yer no longer welcome here." Realizing he has little choice for now, Benson begrudgingly resigns himself to his fate. "How long 'til the arm's done?"
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Entry 19: Today I woke up in a bed. I don't remember who I am, or who Benson is, or who Doc and Don are. Benson said this journal was mine, and that I'd been unconscious for a week after losing my arm in a cave-in. This new arm feels different from my left arm, but my handwriting doesn't seem worse than before. Why was I in prison? Why couldn't I just write everything about myself in here? The only stuff that seems familiar are the constellations, and I can't even go up to see them because Doc doesn't want me moving.
	It's boring in here. There's a window, but all you can see through it is the big, stupid cave. Benson is gone most of the day. Did I really used to think he was scary? He's a nice guy. He even said he'd take me to the surface to see the stars in a few days.