Cycle 377
This log will not be transmitted to admin. I’m unsure why I wrote that. My studies have concluded, and I’ve made a choice.
I’d waited months for Beatrice to return to the cafe, but day after day, the only sign of her was the deck she left behind. After the barista expressed his pity for me, some time at the end of fall, urging me to move on, he handed me the deck she left. The cards are lined with gold paint, one with the stain of tears on its back. I choose not to note what it says on its face. “Spoiling the magic”, as humans say.
Cycle 378
I’ve concluded my preparations. I’ve arranged for something none of my kind would do. My station, my sanctuary, the birthplace of my works will be destroyed. I’ve placed it in the collision course of the [BULLET]. All its stored energy will be released and shatter the meteor. Its chunks will be spattered in all directions, harmlessly sailing through the cosmos. The ones that fall to earth will break up in the atmosphere, as will pieces of my satellite. It will light up the night sky, only with a rain of silver dust and “shooting stars”. They aren’t stars. They aren’t shooting much of anything. As it should be. All my research has been transmitted back home. They’ll think I died. I’ll have sailed far away in my tiny [SHIP CLASS NAME/CLIPPER?].
I’ll carry the deck with me, and see things Beatrice could never have imagined. (She probably could’ve. She had a wonderful head on her shoulders.)
I write this from a hill overlooking this meager college town. I’ll send it back to my ship, to burn with the rest of my memories. Only one last thought remains, buzzing in the back of my head. I’ve shed my disguise, my modifications, so I can feel the breeze on my skin, my actual skin.
I’ve read of carnal pleasures of flesh that humans share with each other, in preparation for this mission. Perhaps it’s for the best that I never experience such a thing. But wouldn’t it be nice to think that we stayed together long enough to do so? No. Never again, I’m afraid.