Journal sbszine's Journal: Martian Chronic
Another odd email:
OFFICIAL TRANSCRIPT OF LT. DESMOND SCHMIDT, MARS BASE DELTA
SPACE-DATE: 17 April-tron 20XX
Something happened in Science Lab #5...Mars Base Delta...something bad.
Dawson was listening to his Led Zeppelin MIDI files again, rocking out to minimalist Casio keyboard versions of Misty Mountain Hop and Kashmir. Also, I imagine he was getting blasted on a fatty of Martian chronic with cyborg janitor Wayne Alpha 7 when he should've been monitoring the wormhole anomaly in Science Lab #5. I could smell the weed when I walked past the storage closet on B-Deck. I could see thin tendrils of smoke creeping out from under the crack in the door and I could hear the tinny and metallic MIDI version of The Immigrant Song. At the time I found it amusing. I laughed to myself, shook my head, and thought "Oh, that Dawson! Bless that silly genius! That lovable, pot-headed, particle physicist stoner, sucking down a blunt of the dopest weed on Mars with a subhuman android when he should be reinforcing the containment field that stabilises the isolated wormhole in Science Lab #5. Oh, that Dawson!"
If only I had done something then!
I didn't hear the screams until I was half-asleep on my space futon. Leaping from the bed, clad only in my snug and form-fitting space pajamas which revealed and highlighted every ounce of taut muscle tissue on my athletic frame, I raced down the hall to the source of the bloodcurdling and testicle-slapping screams: Science Lab #5.
The observation window was smeared with something...green. I could see Dawson, or something that used to be Dawson. There was a shapeless blob wrapped around his head. Something...green. The green ooze dripped and pulsed down his neck, his torso, and enveloped his entire body. Dawson fought against it, writhed and struggled, but that only brought more searing screams. I caught a glimpse of Dawson's green and contorted face and the true horror of the situation struck at my core: It's not easy being green.
It was not Dawson anymore, I knew that then. It made a move toward the exit; a slow and lumbering step. Without thinking, I activated the emergency lock and sealed off Science Lab #5. Before the security doors slammed into place, I heard one more scream emanate from the lab. A terrible scream. A horrifying scream. A really shitty and just totally crappy scream like the way a spoiled kid might scream at the K-Mart check out lane. Or the way a puppy might scream if you burned it's wet nose with a lit cigarette. Or the way a piglet might scream if you cut it's throat with a serrated hunting knife. Or the way a nest of baby birds might scream if you--
**(At this point the recording device runs out of battery power)**
OFFICIAL TRANSCRIPT OF LT. DESMOND SCHMIDT, MARS BASE DELTA
SPACE-DATE: 17 April-tron 20XX
Something happened in Science Lab #5...Mars Base Delta...something bad.
Dawson was listening to his Led Zeppelin MIDI files again, rocking out to minimalist Casio keyboard versions of Misty Mountain Hop and Kashmir. Also, I imagine he was getting blasted on a fatty of Martian chronic with cyborg janitor Wayne Alpha 7 when he should've been monitoring the wormhole anomaly in Science Lab #5. I could smell the weed when I walked past the storage closet on B-Deck. I could see thin tendrils of smoke creeping out from under the crack in the door and I could hear the tinny and metallic MIDI version of The Immigrant Song. At the time I found it amusing. I laughed to myself, shook my head, and thought "Oh, that Dawson! Bless that silly genius! That lovable, pot-headed, particle physicist stoner, sucking down a blunt of the dopest weed on Mars with a subhuman android when he should be reinforcing the containment field that stabilises the isolated wormhole in Science Lab #5. Oh, that Dawson!"
If only I had done something then!
I didn't hear the screams until I was half-asleep on my space futon. Leaping from the bed, clad only in my snug and form-fitting space pajamas which revealed and highlighted every ounce of taut muscle tissue on my athletic frame, I raced down the hall to the source of the bloodcurdling and testicle-slapping screams: Science Lab #5.
The observation window was smeared with something...green. I could see Dawson, or something that used to be Dawson. There was a shapeless blob wrapped around his head. Something...green. The green ooze dripped and pulsed down his neck, his torso, and enveloped his entire body. Dawson fought against it, writhed and struggled, but that only brought more searing screams. I caught a glimpse of Dawson's green and contorted face and the true horror of the situation struck at my core: It's not easy being green.
It was not Dawson anymore, I knew that then. It made a move toward the exit; a slow and lumbering step. Without thinking, I activated the emergency lock and sealed off Science Lab #5. Before the security doors slammed into place, I heard one more scream emanate from the lab. A terrible scream. A horrifying scream. A really shitty and just totally crappy scream like the way a spoiled kid might scream at the K-Mart check out lane. Or the way a puppy might scream if you burned it's wet nose with a lit cigarette. Or the way a piglet might scream if you cut it's throat with a serrated hunting knife. Or the way a nest of baby birds might scream if you--
**(At this point the recording device runs out of battery power)**
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