Disclaimer - Disclaimer text goes here. Blah, blah, blah.

Author's Notes - WARNING! May or may not contain any of the following: Violence, swearing, sex with plants, sex with birds, sex with cats, sex with dogs, sex with other humans, sex with tentacle monsters, sex with stars, sex with frog/fish/dolphin/whale/ water-THINGS, acts of awesome awesomeness, bad puns, good puns, running with the idiot ball, taunting of the happy-fun ball, incorrect pop culture or video game references, and typos. If any of these offend, disgust, or appall you, please find another story to read. If not, enjoy.

Also note, this game was played on normal difficulty, and as 'organically' as possible. So no death warps back to the ship, no hacks, no mods, no glitches or other exploits, and STARTED on 'glad giraffe' version of the game. Well, no mods other than adding some extra races. :)

Part 1 - Getting Started (Again)

Beginning diction.

Day 1 (yes, starting over again, shut up)

Wait, is this even thing on? Yes? Awesome, delete previous and start from next.

Journal, entry 1;

Dropped out of hyperspace, after ditching the cargo pod in hyperspace that contained… that tentacle thing that had snuck on board. And was totally not brought on by a member of the crew. Sadly, it had dragged the captain and the other two on board into the cargo pod before I could seal the doors. And then jettison the cargo pod into hyperspace.

I then took stock of the situation. Two airlocks attached to the teleporter bay, and the main compartment still attached to the forward connector. Luckily the engines were still attached to the old teleporter hub/room, but a quick glance out the viewport showed I was not going anywhere; not with that much engine damage. Unless I want to know what the inside of an explosion looks and feels like. Briefly.

Thankfully, Chuckles the black cat was nowhere to be seen, in either the teleporter room, or the main (read: only) compartment, which was a good sign. However, the bulkhead to the cockpit was sealed, and sparking, so there was yet hope for the terrifying, toe slashing, and foot biting fuzzball, sadly. Did I mention me and that monstrosity that disguises itself as a cuddly kitty don't get along?

Unfortunately, my woes had apparently only just started, as the entire ship lost power, but thankfully not artificial gravity, as I was contemplating what to do. Did I mention that the universe seems to hate me? I quickly raided the nearby ship storage locker, and found a couple useful items, like a flashlight and bandages, and several not so useful items, like torches, a massive chipped and pitted sword, and a pickaxe.

Seriously, we are in the freaking future, flying around in space ships, and I find a honest to gods, be damned pickaxe in the space ship. Whatever, I used the flashlight, and locate the main computer console. It still had emergency power, so I booted it up. A couple prompts showed up, so I start pushing buttons. Always worked for me before, no sense changing the game now. And my reward was a matter manipulator dropping out of the slot on the bottom of the console, and right onto my foot. Did I mention that computers seem to hate me?

After stoically and being manly about the injury by assuredly not screaming like a little girl and rolling around on the floor, I picked up the 'c' shaped matter manipulator. A second later a small backpack dropped out of the slot, followed by a small booklet, probably the manual. I hadn't survived to my third decade by bothering to read manuals, though, so the first thing I used the manipulator for was to break the booklet apart for supplies.

Sadly, this was one of the older model manipulators, so all it did was vaporize the booklet. No supplies, no pixels, which is what we use for currency in space. I was a very sad earthling space neanderthal. I picked up and put the small backpack around my waist, where I could easily connect the matter manipulator to it, letting me store things in the small pack. It took a few minutes to find a comfortable position to it, as it would flop around if I tried to run with it, but hanging off my front would damage… delicate parts. I needed the sides of the pack's straps where I could carry items and weapons, so that meant letting the small pack hang over my butt. Not the most dignified position, but it was the one that worked best.

Oh, right, I never told you about the matter manipulators, did I, journal? Well, they work through high end techno-babble, utilizing space magic, electromagnetic temporal fields, spatial and gravitropic distortion, or the infinite power of the messiah (hallelujah), to, get this... manipulate matter. Though it doesn't work on creatures, including sentient plants, but will work just fine on non-sentient plants. But the truth is, noone knows how damned things work, we just use the damned things. We found the first few somewhere, and could make more before Earth got eaten by a tentacle monster from hell, but we aren't sure how they work.

Anyhoo, done screwing around with the alien tech likely irradiating my balls off, I adjust the straps, and sling the notched great sword over my back, and then ensure my spiffy black jacket, red t-shirt and black jeans are at least comfortable, and that my combat boots are properly strapped. I then turn toward the door to the cockpit, and glare at it as I reach for the great sword. Just as I was about to deliver a kickass line about what I planned to do to it, the computer abruptly chimed. "Stable planetary orbit achieved. Teleporter hub, online."

Have I mentioned I hate computers? But now I had a way off this wreck, so I decided to deass from this ship haste-post. Its haste-post, not post-haste, stop auto-editing my entries, journal! Anyhoo, I jumped up onto the teleporter pad, and grabbed a nearby headpiece from the wall rack so I could request extraction when the natives got restless. Or at least get back to the tub if I couldn't find a better ride to smooze out on. The console had mentioned need something called core fragments to repair the engines, so I could keep that in mind. I took a deep breath, a look around, and issued what might be the final words this tub would hear for a long time. "Journal, cease entry recording and..."

End diction. End of Entry 1.