Diary of Flatworm Sam

Stardate 2/30
It is a calm, godless night on the planet of the inferno. Morrill and Bongo were fighting, as per usual, but we tuned them out. Again as per usual.

Kolgma tried to interact with some of the planet's native fauna. I tried to warn him, but he would not listen. Presumably because he was screaming so loud running back in. I tried to tend to any injuries, but unfortunately he was only screaming because they were so cute.

As captain, I can admit that the native fauna are cute for things with haunting, dead human faces. I can see the soulfulness in their hollow eyeless sockets, see the whimsy in their fifteen chitinous paws, the playful gnawing at our ship's landing gear with their gargantuan steel mouth-razors. Why, they even have taken to writing messages in... unidentifiable fluid. Aw, they even know our names! And our parents names too! How considerate!

We were hunting this sector for a fiend, a galactic outlaw so foul, so diabolical, that the sector quakes in fear at his name. We did not find him. Because somebody pressed the button.

Now, I know it wasn't me. And I know it wasn't Kolgma. And I know it definitely wasn't the night creatures drawing an absurdly detailed image in... fluids of Morril pressing the button while chanting about secret sins. Which is probably suspicious and something I should do about, but that is a problem for future Sam, and current Sam always observes proper captain recording behavior. unlike future sam, that rapscallion! That rebel! But he and/or she gets results!

Surely, we can sort this all out with the leader of this planet(s rough geographical mass we are stuck on) to talk about this. I mean, surely a person who lives on this lovely planet of death volcanoes and gargantuan fanged sulfur worms taking care of our face-abomination problem now (you win this round past Sam) couldn't be evil! That would be just as unlikely as me reading this indicator-of-deathworld-leader-evillness statistical report upside-down! And that would be a major mistake!

SIGNING OFF-
Flatworm Sam

Stardate 2/31

It appears I have made a major mistake.

[TRANSMISSION INTERRUPTED]

Stardate 2/32
So, good news bad news time. Good news is we are not dead. Morril suggested eating Bongo to survive, but I do not think that will be necessary. Especially given we've been stuck on here for only a day. Bongo seemed saddened for this as he had already begun preparations of himself. When I mentioned he might die, he seemed shocked by the prospect.

Given what I have actually seen him survive, I have no idea whether he would actually die from that. But, then again, apparently I am not the brightest worm in the super-suit, so I digress.

And now, in lesser delay, the bad news. The monsters took our ship. And us with it! And we are in the abyss, a nightmarish perfectly-symmetrical wasteland, isles upon isle of cubes of miserable toil upon computed machines, tangled wires connecting them in their dark toil upon terrible mechanistic trivium! Good god what kind of nightmarish madness...

...I have been informed by my associate Mondegris that this is what they call a "cubicle farm." Huh. Though, they do say it is slightly more unnatural than the one they used to work in, what with the sphere walking and the little blood taps and what looks like... fluids in the water coolers. So, maybe I was sort of right after all! But, I doubt I'll get any answers from the locals, given they seem occupied wit their work and also twisted monsters that look dead inside. Him, what to do...

-Continuation of Log, Two Hours Later-

So, let's do a roll call. Because that's always the most corpulent thing to do when trying to distract one's self from one's impending doom!

We have general contractors/odd-job jabronis Morril and Bongo. We have Vershag, our biologist/under-practiced psychic warhulk, we have Mondegris our psionic medic of the Verdegris Psionic school.

And, of course, we have the crew not appearing at this moment on this skeleton crew because they are on leave.Hopefully having a better time than us right now.

Our current motivation: To get the hell out of dodge. Or hell. Or another space-madness induced halucination. Though I hope not because, darnit, we were so close to getting the 'Days we did not fall to space madness" sign into the double digits.

Of the rations we have twelve days, eleven days, ten days, nine days, Bongo will you please QUIT EATING ALL THE RATIONS! Though, it may be plausible to process some of the fluids. I attempted to ask Mondegris about this, to which she responded by sighing and imbibing what I believe is some sort of sealed intoxicant. Without breaking her stare.

Normally this is against protocol, but the circumstances make being passed out on the floor appsar as a reasonable alternative. Besides, Vershag has a custom distillery for "reasons." Which I believe are also against protocol, but you know what, fuck it.

Signing out
Flatworm Sam

Log 2/33
We have made progress with the the locals. In that instead of a pathetically working in their drknejobs they are now actively hunting us down on orders of the CEO. I said it was progress, not good progress.

The place has opened its demented cruelty to us, but in a more subtle way than first indicated. A way that is more "Wait what?!" Than "GYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

Water has been taken care of, even though it appears to still taste of the scent of... fluids, but rations are running low (THANKS TO SOMEBODY). Our efforts to find parts for the ship have been stuck due to employee com pop outing devices being mostly organic. Which is unusable because SOMEBODY didn't spring for the cross- compatibility kit on the ship. That somebody being me. Curse you Past me, I'LL HAVE YOU COURT MARTIALLED FOR THIS TREACHERY!

Ahem, anyway, these organic components seem to function little better than the devices they appear to be replacing, and judgng by what I rescue from the complaints box/incinerator, neither cost nor convenience are enhanced either.

There is talk of amputations and blood "donations" to sustain the machines, with even one conversation talking about how to fuck it! Which would be a respectable endeavor, but the man sounded so lifeless about it, where is the love man?!

The employees here are… well technically ‘humanoid” is a word for it. So is “heaving nightmare,” but there is significant overlap in their venn diagram. They do have arms, legs, a head. Sometimes.

They have enough discernable anatomy to show they hate their job, for certain. They are made of meat. Oh boy are they made out of meat. Just, skin opened up and organs flopping about, exposed to the air. I’d have half a mind to contact their supervisor for that except I think it was that supervisor’s idea.

They appear to have no idea of the purpose of the work they’re doing or who it’s for. Examples include:

-Writing lists of names from giant stacks of paper onto spreadsheets, and then from spreadsheets onto stacks of paper.
-Filing paperwork for permission to, as far as I can tell, sign more paperwork.
-Printing out reports only to immediately put them in the shredder and then into the Office Flamethrower.
-Building giant death weapons and then having inter-office debates over which one has to be the living component.
-Throwing dead workers into The Hole and then having different workers retrieve them from The Hole for “reprocessing”
-Janitors that move garbage from a cycle of trash cans and are randomly incinerated when they don’t… okay, I have no idea why they’re incinerated.

But, we at least have been able to find small scraps of usable tech in the Supplies Room! And by “small scraps” we mean “a virtual treasure trove of bleeding-edge tech in one tiny room with a very large window”. None of the workers dare to touch it. They appear to just look into it and sigh. What the hell kind of boss do they have?!

But, luckily, I think we will be able to stealth our way into there, if it all goes according to plan.
Signing Off
Flatworm Sam

Stardate 2/00
Everything has not gone according to plan.

[TRANSMISSION INTERRUPTED]