The Green Veins of Quarrath

Subject: Dr. Felix Ma, xeno-botanist Date: 21st Cycle, Post-Collapse Year 2 Location: Quarrath-3 Research Encampment, Sector Epsilon

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ENTRY 1: Rations are low. Morale is lower. Since the collapse, the PlayStation Portal Remote Player is my last anchor to the world before. I keep it in its hard shell case—the only barrier between it and this relentless humidity. The CoBak case’s EVA shell beads off condensation and mud, even as vines crawl over our makeshift shelters. The others jeered at my care for such a relic at first, but now they ask for turns when nightmares jolt them awake.

Dr. Lira found another spiral bloom today, red-veined and humming with static energy. She claims the petals respond to neural patterns. Forbidden or not, she insists we study them. She believes these blooms hold a solution to our dwindling supplies—perhaps even a key to survival.

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ENTRY 5: A thunderstorm knocked out our solar array last night. I sat up until dawn outside the tent, gripping the Portal through its grip case, thumbing over the thumb caps while replaying old save files, desperate for distraction. Lira kept returning to her notes, eyes glazed and distant.

I noticed spores in the air; they settle everywhere. The mesh pocket inside the case keeps my backup battery and data cable safe from contamination. When someone borrowed my charger for their drone and returned it without cleaning it, I wiped it down before sliding it back into its compartment.

We are all growing careless.

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ENTRY 9: Lira hasn’t slept in three days. She mutters in tongues while sketching diagrams of plant root networks that look eerily like nerve endings—or veins. She tried to convince me to touch one of the spiral blooms barehanded; I refused.

In my downtime (what little there is), I retreat into gaming—the screen protector keeps dust and fungus at bay so I can lose myself in digital worlds instead of this green prison. The others notice how meticulously I clean my device each night. They think I’m obsessed; maybe I am.

But what else do we have left?

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ENTRY 13: Lira vanished last night during her watch. We found her boots by a patch of spiral blooms—roots wrapped tight around them like fingers clutching prey. We radioed Command, but received only static in return.

I’ve locked myself inside my tent with my Portal and its case beside me—organized, zipped up tight against whatever spores drift on the wind. There’s comfort in small rituals: checking every slot, making sure nothing is missing or out of place.

I dreamt of a network beneath the soil, pulsing with memory and hunger.

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ENTRY 15: There are voices now—whispers in sleep, sometimes awake too. They urge me to follow Lira into the jungle’s green veins. But each time I reach for my Portal and feel its sturdy case under my fingers, I remember home: sunlit rooms, laughter drifting from other apartments through thin walls, childhood games played with friends long gone.

This device—shielded by its shell—is more than nostalgia; it’s a bulwark against madness masquerading as knowledge.

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ENTRY 17 (FINAL): The others succumbed first—their eyes milky with spores, their minds lost to whatever intelligence coils through Quarrath’s roots.

I sit alone now at the edge of camp as dusk filters through bioluminescent leaves. My device rests beside me in its black armor—unblemished by fungus or fear—and I record these final notes.

If you find this log: beware the spiral blooms and what they promise you in dreams. Protect what grounds you—a memory from home or an old game console sealed tight against a hostile world. Some knowledge should remain buried beneath alien soil.