Captains log, Tuesday. The sicknesses of everyone else threaten to infect me, but I stand firm in my stance of refusal to succumb to the plague. For at the end of the tunnel, there is delicious hamburgers and foamy beverages that I am bound by duty to consume. For now, work begins, where I must harden my nerves to endure the onslaught of other, less intelligent life forms, who wish to kill me, but lack the gumption, creativity, and force of will to do so. Under normal circumstances, such a battle of wits would be trivial at best, however the prime directive forbids me from engaging unarmed opponents. Perhaps it is for the best, as resources and funding are low until my predetermined resupply date of Friday. With a lingering goal so close at hand, morale is lifted enough to forget the lack of a first mate, the aging vessel that I have been issued, the temporary living quarters, and the total absence of a plan beyond tomorrow. Once more, into the breach, warp factor 9
Posted on: Tue, 22 Oct 2013 13:53:45 +0000
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