Recycled

Log of Diana Iglesias T3-22. Night:

Test. Test. I hope this is working, Brian says I should record my logs but this is more comfortable to me. I'm not too confident in my voice yet so I'd rather have it written. Alright check, check. Yeah, it's working.

So! As it says on the tin my name is Diana, I am part of the Waste Removal team working for Utopic Corp. A company specialized in Bioengineering for the future! As their tagline reads.

I'm a cadet, your run of the mill garbage girl (heh) helping get rid of everything that gets dumped around the galaxy.

That makes it sound way more adventurous than it is. Brian and I, he operates the machinery, are on an abandoned research and development station at the far edge of the ouroboros asteroid belt.

Not the fanciest of places but we get by, it's an easy job to do and the pay is…well, it's enough, hopefully. 

We move waste around. Wires, scrap of all varieties, lost or abandoned tools. It can be dangerous if you're not careful so I'm hoping we can have each other's backs. But not too hopeful, Brian doesn't seem like the friendly type.

Like I said he works the machines, shuttles for carrying the heavier stuff, pincers to take them off the floor, blowtorches, that sort of thing.

Anyway, not much to report on day one but I'm happy to just have things written down this time. And, since I programmed it to only register my voice I can keep it private here. Yay! See you later! (Who am I talking to…?)

Log of Diana Iglesias T3-29. Night:

So it's been a week, we've found plenty of stuff to throw around. The first few days I was waking up with callouses on my callouses. I'm a strong gal don't get me wrong, and I didn't smudge any of my make-up (I'm allowed to feel pretty at work, sue me) but there is a lot more garbage around than I anticipated.

Heavy beams of metal for Brian to drag away with the scarab. Ah, that's how he calls the shuttle, because it's bulky and round.

One of Brian's many toys it seems. Boys.

Don't get me wrong, I'm no slacker either. I pull, lift, drag and use my big meaty brain to find solutions when something is stuck, won't go through a door or is in too many pieces. I would dare say Brian respects me. A bit.

I was surprised to find so much medical equipment laying around. I guess it makes sense given the place, but a lot of these syringes are in better condition than you would think.

The thought of using them crossed my mind, those aren't cheap and I could save them up for my shots. But I decided not to risk my life with potentially deadly and painful diseases. Believe me though, it was a tough choice.

Log of Diana Iglesias T4-6. Night:

Found my first corpse. Yeah they told us about it, the possibility of finding dead bodies here. They said it was so minimal, we were unlikely to find even dead guinea pigs. This was no guinea pig.

She was a bit older than me, the same shade of blonde but with a blue streak crossing her face. I wish I could pull that off, and she looked so peaceful too.

It is difficult to confront death, to see it so plainly, so unavoidable.

The thought of dying keeps running through my head now. Its not suicidal ideation, I just think what it would be like. Being a cool, stylish scientist. Working on a far field station until a freak accident suddenly ends my life. Just like that it's all gone. Dreams, aspirations, morning coffee, fancy new hair, the chance to love and have a career of my own.

At least it was quick, or so Brian said. That's another thing to note, for all his devil may care demeanor he actually seemed to, well, care for her. 

Two days ago he laughed when I fell into a sticky puddle of god knows what (thank god for airtight suits) then tossed away a children's toy like it was nothing. When faced with real human death, he treated it with kindness.

I don't know, I like that. I'm hoping that if I die all alone, someone will be gentle with my body after I'm gone.

Log of Diana Iglesias T4-13. Night:

More corpses. I don't really know what to say, how do I talk about this in a respectful manner? How do I talk about this at all?

Brian says there's no point in dwelling but what else can I do? I keep finding dead bodies, some stuck inside the machines, some floating around, both inside and in the void outside.

I saw a shadow through one of the windows and almost shit my pants. I don't know if I feel better knowing it was someone's remains. The alternative would be…what? God I fear I'm losing my head.

And the weirdest part is that I keep seeing similarities between us, t-the corpses I mean. Don't get me wrong, we're not twins, but a lot of these girls, well at least those I can identify as female presenting, have the same…tastes as me.

Fashion, jewelry, make-up. Even the way they keep a pen tugged behind an ear. If they are lucky to still have ears when I find them

Alright maybe that's a bit too much. Not all of them are blonde and plenty have cool piercings or tattoos I was never brave enough to get. And there's only been eight corpses total. Well, maybe eight and three quarters, it's difficult to tell.

I don't know, maybe I'm projecting onto them because, at the end of the day we are all in this together, you know? Facing the great equalizer…corporate greed. Hah!


Log of Diana Iglesias T4-20. Night:

No more corpses, thank the stars! We keep finding junk, duh, but it's actually stuff we can work with. As in we can recycle it! Not all of it goes to the company so Brian and I can make crafts!

Let me tell you he does some amazing stuff with very little materials. I gave him some wood I found floating around and a single sheet of metal. He made a wonderful key holder with the design of a key in barely three hours! That 's amazing!

Not like we have that many keys but still!

I mostly do jewelry, or something like jewelry. But I like it, to turn a so-called ugly thing like a broken conveyor belt chain, loose rusty bolts and shards of wine glasses into a beautiful necklace…I don't know, I like transforming things. Seeing the beauty in that which others have deemed useless or ugly.

Yeah I know I'm very cheesy. But I love that about myself. And Brian likes it too! I made him a bracelet! Something that doesn't impede his work and can wear even while welding.

Anyway, it just feels nice to be doing some work while making it our own. I'm really starting to feel like I've found my place here.

Log of Diana Iglesias T4-23. Day:

I…fuck…FUCK!

Log of Diana Iglesias T4-23. Night:

Fuck. Shit. Fuck. FUCK! FUUUUU-

Text log registered a peak in sound and cut off. When it came back on, it registered ten minutes of sobbing close to the mic.

Log of Diana Iglesias T4-24. Before Dawn:

Mom said I should have tried something different, I shouldn't have made such a mess…heh…heh…oh fuck, is that even my…do I? Shit-

Sobbing is registered close to the mic for twenty minutes.

Log of Diana Iglesias T4-24. Day:

I'm not working today. I don't care what my pad says, frankly it and the company can go FUCK themselves. Brian thinks I lost it, I wish I did.

But I know what I saw. I know he knows as well because he hasn't moved her…

Fuck…

Sobbing is registered close to the mic for two minutes.

You're not writing down all of that, right? Stupid machine…

Alright, so. I don't know why I even bother with these now but…I found my corpse.

In fact that's all I've been doing. One short haired Diana here, one blue streak Diana there. The only reason I finally put it together is because this last one was impossible to…differentiate from myself.

No missing limbs, no disfigurations, no scars or scratches. Not a blemish on her at all. However this one died…fuck.

Fuck.

I'm not gonna cry, I'm not having that written down again.

However she died, it left no marks and we were about the same age. About the same…amount of time on estrogen, that we looked almost identical. The only difference is unlike me she didn't care much for her nails.

That 's silly. I'm laughing about it now. I get so worried about them, take every measure to do my job without ever breaking them to the point it annoys Brian. But this…me, she just…didn't care.

Its reassuring, in a way, to know that even if I was…cloned? Is that it? I would still be me. Each and every single one of us, an individual, with their own wants and needs. All of us are the best versions of myself, in different ways.

If I wasn't spiraling into madness it might even be beautiful.

Like I said, Brian doesn't believe me. Says plenty of corpses don't look like me but that's only because most are impossible to identify. He insists too many are too different, have different bodies or are a different gender.

He's got a point, to a degree. I've yet to recognize one that looks like me before I started treatment. Which is again reassuring.

But there's another possibility, the elephant in the room neither of us wants to address.

That some of them might not be me.

Log of Diana Iglesias T4-26. Night:

We found Brian's boot. Oh, sorry, let me be clear. We found a third boot of Brian's favorite pair. It wasn't just the same brand, it had his name written on the sole with his handwriting, like a child would.

For a moment I thought it might have been a prank, that he was a sadistic asshole who wanted to screw with me. But even the best actor in the system couldn't fake the paleness that took him.

We didn't say a word. What was there to be said? He stared at the proof that my, no, our fears were real. And it wasn't difficult to tell he was dissociating.

I tried to help but I don't know him very well. So I just stayed nearby, giving him what time he needed to…process this.

I…don't know what else to say. Hopefully he's spared from finding his own dead face, staring back at him like I did. But this place is blind to the concept of mercy.

Log of Diana Iglesias T4-27. Night:

There it is…or was. There he was. One of the corpses I mean, it was him. There was no way to deny it, he even had the same birthmark Brian has on the back of his neck.

A part of me wanted to mock him, to say a thousand “told you so”. But that's such a shitty thing to do. And for what? We're both in this together, am I supposed to turn on him at the first sign of conflict?

Thankfully he sees it the same way. He took it better than me, or he pretends to. I don't buy it, but I'm not gonna pry. He's allowed to freak out in private, the stars know I did.

Neither of us is doing any work, there's no point to it. The company has a system of check-ins, to make sure we're achieving our daily quota. But of course they gave us nothing that we could use to request for…I was going to say vacation days but really, we can't request for anything.

If we send a message it takes days to get there, not to mention getting a reply. That would have to be processed by the most dense bureaucracy known to humankind. Ah but the “Workers are not working” alarm? That reaches out and gets there immediately.

Fuck them. I don't care if they're spying on us, that they can hear this. In fact, I hope they do.

Fuck.

You.

Log of Diana Iglesias T4-29. Night:

We took some time to assess what information we have, and try to parse what sort of hell we're in.

So, the facts: We are in an abandoned space station, belonging to a bio engineering company, that suffered a catastrophe and it is filled to the brim with corpses of what we could reasonably assume are clones of us.

Or, more likely, Brian and I are the clones. Not the originals.

Surprisingly, neither of us is as upset about it as you'd think.

Maybe its that we both see life in a very particular way. As he put it, “a stream that never stops and is always shifting”.

Whoever the originals are, whoever the corpses were, we are different people. All the other Dianas made different fashion choices, all the other Brians patched their uniforms in a different way.

In a perverse, positive twist, we both found comfort in our uniqueness.

It feels very reassuring, to see in all versions of me I have chosen to live as I am, no matter what.

Granted I have also seen myself dead multiple times, and in some gruesome ways so…

Now to what we don't know: why are we here? Not in a philosophical way but why would the company put us up in this horrible maze of mortuary self recognition? Are they studying us? Are we the crew that handles the waste while a different crew of “us” does a different task?

Did we do this to ourselves? Cloned ourselves and see the clones as disposable? And what sort of space station was this?

Brian says this is definitely not staged, or at least was not built for that purpose. It was a far field research station, it got wrecked and its full of dead bodies, debris and an assortment of tools, personal items, etc.

That is all we know for certain. Supposedly a ship would come to bring supplies in two cycles but we're both doubtful it'll ever come, which means we are essentially trapped here.

But, we have yet to explore the whole station.

It is unlikely they would leave us with a ship to escape on our own, but with enough material we could…improvise something.

We're rocket scientists but both of us know how to build and man an outreach communications device. As a matter of fact we already have a lot of what we would need for that.

It's a long shot and our maps I'll bet are not to be trusted, but we could start working on something instead of sitting waiting to die.

And it's not like we're lacking in food, both in rations and…

Well, if it comes to that we have ways to process the…produce, to an edible state.

We don't want to discuss it, unless it gets that bad. Then we'll see.

What we have confronted is the fact that we can't trust our memories.

Really, we don't know if the lives we remember are even real. That is a hard pill to swallow.

I mean there has to be something real otherwise it wouldn't make sense that all the other “mes” ended up so similar, so it is definitely not all lies but…

My stomach hurts just thinking about it. That such precious memories may be prefabricated. Or worse stolen stories put into my brain. All so I could falsely believe I have hopes and dreams, to serve the purpose of some suited up motherfuckers who don't have enough, no matter how many planets they own.

But they don't own me. They don't own us.

Log of Diana Iglesias T4-30. Day:

We're leaving. We grabbed our bags, as many tools we could carry and food of course. I wanted to take some of the machinery, at least one of those pincers but Brian says we need to move quickly, and those things are heavy.

I get it, we're both assuming that they're onto us and for good reason. We were due for a check-in. I filled, filed and sent it, hoping it would buy us some time before they realize what we're doing.

But, just a couple of hours ago we got a warning of an “unexpected malfunction due to a comet crossing around two hundred kilometers from the station”.

Comets are big, they're not hard to miss both by our instruments or any far field base they have close by. We should've known sooner, so I don't buy it.

They want us to stay still, so we're moving.

Brian led the charge, I think he gets a kick out of feeling like the big, strong man protecting the frail woman behind him. And he thinks I can't tell how scared he is from behind.

We left our designated work area and started exploring the place properly. After about an hour we were still somewhere we could recognize. We weren't technically forbidden from doing so, it just would have made our job harder to stray so far away.

This place is massive, level after level after level of abandoned rooms, laboratories, hangars with no ships (predictable), withered gardens (less predictable), kitchens full to the brim with packed food (what?).

We stopped, Brian wanted to take some of it but I was skeptical. Why was there still so much food in here? And completely intact? He said it was reasonable for a place like this to have tons of packed food in case of an emergency, being so far away from any aid stations. Maybe I'm too paranoid, but you'll agree with me in a moment.

While he worked on that I did a search of the place, see if there could be anything else useful. But nothing, not even rusty knives I could feel safe wielding. The place was devoid of kitchen utensils of any kind.

That was when…

Alright, listen. There’s something I’ve been avoiding so far. Because I want this now to be a record of what we’re going through. So I fear this will make it sound like I’m…like I’m crazy! Or worse just making it all up!

I swear all of this is true, everything written down here, every word I’ve spoken to the mic that was then printed on here is true. I am not lying and I am not crazy.

But…

Several seconds of either strong winds or heavy breathing are registered close to the mic.

I…I’m too scared to tell, so I’ll give you a graphic impression.

Imagine you’re standing alone in a room, a kitchen. You can hear your only mate, perhaps the only one you’ve ever had, ransacking the pantry in the distance.

You have come to the horrible conclusion that you’re not real. That either all your memories or part of them are fabricated. Still, even through the existential crisis a silver lining can be pulled and brought to light. You are you, you are real. Not how you thought you were, but you are.

To keep too many dreadful thoughts from filling your head, and to emphasize that feeling of being, you keep yourself busy. You plan a way out of this hell, you work with your hands, you search a place that has been emptied before you got there, maybe on purpose.

When suddenly you’re confronted with the most terrifying, cronenberg-esque thing you’ve seen in your life. Something that moves like a slug, flails its arms like a feverish monkey and howls like a hound. And before you’re done processing this living embodiment of un-being, it looks at you, with dozens of eyes, all a different color and speaks. It tells you about your life, your mate’s life, the lives of everyone that has come to die in this abandoned space station. It tells you of this hell, this place made for science then quickly turned into waste disposal, used to fulfill the fantasies of one spoiled, rich brat of being a system renowned scientist.

And while you’re processing all of this, coming to the conclusion that you are hallucinating, it reaches, takes your wrist and tries to  pull you into it.

You, like me, will likely be very thankful to have a friend like Brian, who pulled you back out before you were melted into it, and used a blowtorch to keep it at bay before you both booked it.

Something tells me you wouldn’t want to commit it to paper, right?

Well, perhaps you and I are different.

Log of Diana Iglesias T4-30. Night:

We ran after that, of course we did. We went through corridors I knew like the back of my hand, then those I had only seen in passing, then ones I had seen from a fair distance, then finally, we were firmly and decidedly lost.

When we found the kitchen before, we had a general idea of our place in this labyrinthine wreck. But now neither of us know what it is.

Brian recommended I get my mind off of…that, by talking to my little friend, as he calls it.

I don't know if you're my friend, for all I know you are part of this as well. A recording device conveniently put in my list of accessible inventory to bring into this job. I requested you, but perhaps they expected me to.

God, is that really what happened? I have been avoiding thinking of my memories so far because…

Because…

So the room.

It's big. I thought it might have been a hangar but Brian said the closed up double door at the other end of it is not pressurized, just locked. His running theory is that this place was a deposit where they kept the machinery he now uses for clean up, given all the trail marks around and empty hooks on rails.

I joked that it might have been an abattoir, but we didn't. There was a non zero chance of that being true, and we didn't want to think of what sort of cattle would have been in here.

The strange brownish stains on the floor don't ease my mind on that.

It is well illuminated at least, and full of crates. Big ones. Most of them are sealed and those already opened are completely empty.

They…

I can't keep doing this.

I can't.

Every word I say is a lie. How the fuck can I know anything I think is true? If I can't trust my own memories, how can I trust my decisions?

How can I know that I am who I am if all I have believed of myself may be a fucking lie!

And that thing, God.

Was that another me? Is that it? Brian says there's no chance, what with all the different eyes but…

What if another me is in there? Is that my future? Is that what I'm going to become. Oh god. Oh fuck. Oh f-

A loud noise followed by a screaming and two voices arguing are registered closed to the mic

What? No, Brian, wait…

What? Who…that is…

Wait, Brian don't!

A loud noise is registered close to the mic

Wait Brian, wait. Look at her!

[ERROR 107 - A second instance of a user is registered closed enough to the mic (often occurring when a recording of the user is reproduced nearby the unit). Please stop the recording so as to prevent overloading the unit]

That's a very fancy toy you have there.

I…what…

Don't worry I'm not here to steal it.

Then why are you here? Who are you?

You know the answer to that.

You are…the original?

The user laughing is registered a couple of steps from the mic.

I don't think I've ever met a Diana who likes the concept of an original.

You know what? Yeah. You're right.

[ERROR 107 -]

Alright I got it you piece of junk, I'll stop recor-

Log of Diana Iglesias T4-31. Morning:

So, I’m letting uh…her, do the talking so this thing doesn’t act up.

Thank you. I’m sorry, this must be quite a shock, I’ll start from the beginning.

As I told you and Brian last night: you are correct in that we are all clones, and we are here by design. Utopic Corp has been running some sort of experiment, I’m not sure what the goal is but some reports I’ve got from other Dianas paint quite the picture.

I can see the face you’re making, I promise I’ll get to it. Like you I started working here hoping to strike it out on my own, then found out I was made to clean up my own bodies, although back then there were a lot more.

Yeah, I’m sorry too. I had my own Brian too. Don’t worry, he is alive and yes, I’m getting to that.

Like you two we looked for a way out. And like you two we encountered…that.

I cannot tell you what it is exactly, a failed experiment, an effective countermeasure or both. What I can tell you is that it seeks to play with your mind. It is designed to screw with your fleeting sense of self, which is why I'm here.

I am here to help you, Diana. Like I helped others, like others helped me. Back then there was a whole group of organized Dianas and Brians, all looking out for each other. They rescued us from that thing, telling us about what this place was and how long they’ve been fighting it.

At first I was struck by an overwhelming sense of dread. If so many of us, of me, could not destroy such a thing, merely hide from it, did that mean I was cursed to stay here forever? To suffer this hell as my punishment for a crime I couldn’t remember?

But of course, that wasn’t it. They just hadn’t figured a way out yet, but you know us. You know you. We just need to vent for a bit and we’re ready to find our own way. It helps to have this lovable bickering old man too.

The echoing laughter of the user is registered close to the mic.

Echoing, huh? That’s one way to put it I guess. Well as long as it doesn’t break. Funny thing you brought here, I chose a sonic screwdriver. They’re very handy, with a lot of uses. I know what you’re thinking, yes, each of us picked a different item to bring along. Well at least from what I’ve seen. Its possible there have been doubles but…

Anyway, point being that’s what helped us find a way out. With it, plus a lot of junk and some of the other items in the group we managed to get in contact with a nearby mining facility.

Good news was that the miners wanted to help, most of them anyway. Bad news is that as you may know, clones are in a gray area when it comes to legal rights and personhood. It took time, lots of red tape to sort through, but we managed to get a ship to fly most of us out.

However we couldn’t stop the ongoing experiment, which meant more of us would still be born and forced to suffer. Yes, it is bullshit, especially since Utopia managed to also keep their rights to the Slither. The thing you found back there.

No, don’t worry it is not one of us, but it is programmed to haunt us, like a fleshy ghost. 

So that’s where I come in. I stayed behind to help more of us, including Brians of course, escape.

I bide my time, try to get close and help them get to the actual exit, a hangar from where we call a ship to come rescue you.

I can’t go all in from the start, believe me I tried. Not only is the deployment zone changed often, I am technically not supposed to be here. I don’t give a fuck, I’m staying. For us.

Log of Diana Iglesias T4-31. Afternoon:

I’ve been thinking about what the other Diana said. I should be angry. No, I am angry, furious in fact. I barely discover that I am a clone, that I’m trapped in a Sartre-like hellish trap, then I find out this could have been stopped, but bureaucracy and fiduciary responsibility made sure Brian and I kept suffering. And that more of us will suffer too.

It's bullshit, but I also feel relieved. There are more of us, of me. Dozens of beautiful Dianas, more than the ones that died. Living their lives, fighting for their rights. Each and every single one of them is as unique as I. 

Brian has been joking about finally being able to make the perfect basketball team, once he meets the other Brians. I have a similar idea.

I asked her what happened to the original Diana, knowing she would understand my meaning. We are all our own person, but there was an origin for our DNA. She laughed.

David de Oz-Iglesias. Heir and current VP of Utopic Corp. My jaw almost hit the floor. Of course I had no memories of that, the cheeky bastard cloned himself and manufactured memories that would vaguely fit his own.

It is incredibly surreal, to know some of my memories are true, and some aren’t. That mom is real, our trips, her reading me bed time stories. But kindergarten, college, my school crushes, they aren’t.

I’m gonna need time to process, likely a bucket where to puke into as well. But more than that I keep thinking about him. 

We, all of us Dianas, we all know who we are, we made our choices. We chose to transition, hell, if anything each of us transitioned and tried new things, new styles. We are not only fighting for our lives, we are thriving. Even the ones that passed away had made similar choices. But he is still out there, still the proud heir to a multimillion corporation. Still living that life. Still being David.

I don’t feel pity for him, he is using us as an excuse, thinking he is torturing himself through us. But he isn’t. We are ourselves, not him. He has no right to do this to us, and we won’t let him.

I think…I think I know what I’m going to do with these logs once I am out.

Oh, also, Brian is apparently based on David's long dead mechanic, rumored to have been the only man he cared for. Talk about being unable to let go. I told him he doesn’t need to worry, I’ll treat him better than his previous master.

He insulted me back, and smiled. Man, I love him.

Log of Diana Iglesias T4-31. Night:

We’re leaving. We have the means and the way. The other Diana will guide us through to the hangar and fight alongside us.

It horrifies me, the idea that more of us will suffer like this. But I'm also comforted to know that they won't be alone.

We will help them too, we already have plans for when we get out. Utopia Corp can't keep this going forever, eventually they will budge.

The tricky part of course is to dodge that Slither thing. We may have help, but we have no weapons and barely any tools. Brian says weapons would be useless, and the other Diana agrees. Perhaps I'm looking at this the wrong way.

In any case, next time you hear from me I will be free.

Or you'll never hear from me again.

Log of Diana Iglesias T4-31. Night:

No. God, please. Please. Please. Please 

Several seconds of whimpering and an unidentified squelching wet sound are recorded close to the mic.

No, please, leave me alone. Leave me alone!

An unidentified voice is heard close to the mic. Please be advised this device will only take into writing the words of the registered user.

I don't care, I don't care! I don't want this! Fuck off!

The mic peaks for two seconds before more yelling and unidentified squelching wet sounds are heard.

Leave me alone! No! Wait. Brian no, no let go of him, Brian no!

Several seconds of unidentified squelching wet sounds and struggling from the user and an unregistered voice are heard. A wet crack is heard close to the mic. If you're injured please consult with Utopia Corp’s medical serv-

Fuck off! Shut up! Both of you shut up! Brian, no!

The mic peaks again for two seconds before all the sound is cut off by several seconds of flames and an unidentified screaming likely from an inhuman source. If you're injured please-

Diana, run!

Log of Diana Iglesias T4-31. Night:

Oh god, she, Diana, she saved us. She used Brian's blowtorch.

God.

He's hurt. He's so hurt. Fuck.

Two minutes of sobbing and whimpering from the user are registered close to the mic. If you're in distress, please contact Utopia Corp's medical serv-

He's alive. We're alive, all of us. I…I think he'll live. God I hope he does. That thing, it almost got him. It almost got me.

Well, it did actually. I didn't realize this thing turned on when it did. Thankfully it was after that thing melted my fucking hand away!

Several seconds of heavy breathing from the user are registered close to the mic. If you're in distress or hyperventilating please-

It got Brian on the head. Thank god he is smarter and stronger than me, so he used a tungsten rod to keep it away. Unfortunately it slammed him into the floor and broke his hips. Something's fractured for sure, I fear he may never walk again but I'm no medic.

Fuck.

He can't move and I have one fewer hand. I want to scream.

Diana says I'm unlucky, because it got my hand but not an eye, so I won't look like a sexy pirate with an eye patch and a hooked hand.

Several seconds of hysterical laughter from the user are registered close to the mic. If you're in distress-

God I fucking love her. She got it with the blowtorch, made it eat it by the end while it was still flaming.

Its not death, we both know it. But we're far away from it, and we should be a couple of hours from the exit.

Fuck. I should be sad, and scared. But, and this may be a new brand of mental illness forming in real time. I feel incredibly motivated.

We beat it. We're past it. We're getting out, to the wide open galaxy. To make an actual life, to meet my sisters, and to fight for them.

Fuck I must be crazy. And I love it.

Log of Diana Iglesias T5-01. Morning:

We're out, we're really out. I could cry if I wasn't cackling like a maniac.

It didn't take long for the ship to arrive, if one good thing has come out from this terrifying routine is that the team has gotten pretty good at the rescuer gig. 

I met a new Diana, she tucks her hair in a bun. I cannot believe she is able to pull it so well. She's a pilot, apparently has been learning since she got out.

There's a Brian with her too, working as a mechanic. He has a lip piercing. Can you believe that? My Brian lost his mind when he saw it.

They told us that, once out, Dianas pick new names, to make up their new identities. The majority use the items they picked at the start as a basis for it, a good representation of who they are. This one picked a scanner when she went in so she named herself Radar, after the little guy from that comedy show from the twentieth century. How cute is that?

I can't stop giggling. We're out, finally out of that hell.

I said goodbye to the other Diana, she explained she keeps her name to help the newer ones feel less lonely. I love her so much, and I will get her out of here too.

I'm scared. Yes I am happy too, but now I have to face a whole galaxy on my own, create a new life, with actual memories, confront a past that doesn't exist. Not to mention the storm of bureaucracy I will have to slog through just to become a citizen.

So I am very scared, perhaps even more so than when I was back there.

But I guess I'm not alone, I have Brian, I have the other Dianas. And I have a mission, of sorts.

I'm gonna share what's in here with the public, let everyone know what's happening in there, a log with timestamps verified by the goddamn Utopia Corp itself. 

I know that doesn't mean they will stop, or even that many will read it. But some will, and those will join us in our fight. A fight I intend to keep going for as long as I need to. For me. For them.

I've been thinking about my name, I'm still unsure but I like Maria Elena. If I'm gonna be a journalist and writer well, I'd like to follow in her example.

I have also been thinking about him, David. Like I said, I feel no pity for him, but I can't stop thinking about what sort of life he's living. Rich, powerful and closeted. He must know, in fact I am sure he is doing this because he won't allow himself to be free, so he lives vicariously through us. Yet he hates us and tortures us. I don't pity him, I will bring him down.

He had everything anyone would ever want, and still chooses to suffer, and to make others suffer. Yet we don't, we chose to fight, to live and to care for each other.

But enough about him, I have a life to live and dozens of wonderful women to celebrate it with.

So, this is the last log of Diana Iglesias, also known as Maria Elena Iglesias, one of the many survivors that pushed through the torturous experiments of Utopia Corp.

I would love to end this with a cool radio host one liner, but I think it is better if I'm just plain honest. I am tired, I am wounded, I am happy, and nothing will stop me, like nothing stopped any one of us.

We survived, and we will thrive.

 

• And the final entry is here! This one hooked me from the start but unfortunately I couldn’t finish it in time for the competition, which ended up being for the better because being longer made it so much better. Thank you all for joining me for Moldy Frights Week. It has been a lot of fun and I am excited for more!