Mission Day 9

  988 km above the Minor Goldilock Zone, 415 km to Earth's surface

  Wind speed: 12 m/s, Temperature: -65°C, External pressure: 841 hPa

  Greetings, tourists!

  Ha. Ha. Just kidding. Honestly, I'm not laughing. From this altitude, it feels like we're standing still while the entire Goldilock sphere rotates around us. And though I'm hopeless at geography, yesterday I even recognized my home continent. Looked utterly depressing... Sniff. Haven't you down there started crying yet?

  Alright, to business. Elon Musk threatened me into documenting our daily routines, moods, and other thrilling details. Because apparently, "nothing more can be expected of me" (his exact words). So here I am, fulfilling my mission.

  Two hours ago, we had breakfast and... relieved ourselves. Jettisoned the toilet ballast right over your heads, so now we're ascending 0.005% faster. With nothing else to do, we sleep. We wait for lunch and the next... discharge. Had enough of toilet humor yet? Because I swear, I can stop anytime.

  Dear Elon: Next time, install a damn PlayStation or X-Cube in this capsule. I'M BORED OUT OF MY MIND!

  XOXOXOXOXO,

  Nora Paranoia

  March 30, 1596, 09:14

  * * *

  I wasn't entirely honest—we did have something to do. Or rather, Aurora Tromp invented an activity to combat the monotony: Adventure RPG. A role-playing game where she convinced us we existed in a fantasy world... and then tried to kill us all.

  I died third—after Lara Barcroft and Roland Foundland. Lara couldn't even grasp the concept, and Roland kept trying to scientifically debunk Aurora's fantasy elements until she lost patience and sicced carnivorous bunnies on him.

  Even now, long after the game ended, Roland still argues that Darwinian evolution wouldn’t allow flesh-eating rabbits. Meanwhile, I was busy maintaining light conversation with the gorgeous Ken—while also staying invisible to Lara, who growled every time she saw us talking. What is her problem?

  Ken Celsey, for his part, seemed... distracted. His gaze kept drifting toward Lara’s admittedly stunning figure.

  Well, fine! I’m a big girl. I can survive one mission without male attention. (Probably.)

  Soon enough, Ken wandered off to "chat" with Lara. I silently wished him luck—hoping he’d at least be understood—and then...

  Then it was just me. Sniff.

  * * *

  So let me tell you about the Space-X capsule we're all sitting in.

  It's painted in an attractive white color, has four floors, is about 6 meters in diameter and 11 meters tall (like a giant APAP medical pill hanging under an even bigger balloon).

  Floor breakdown (counting from bottom up):

  1st floor (bottom):

  Storage with food, fuel, water and oxygen supplies;

  Also has a small toilet and shower cabin.

  2nd floor:

  Kitchen and general common area.

  3rd floor:

  Divided into two sleeping quarters - men's and women's.

  4th floor (top):

  Control and observation center with all necessary equipment;

  Also contains spacesuits and has an airlock to the outside.

  We all had to go through long and boring training on how to use all the equipment here so that even one remaining person could readjust the apparatus for return home. To be honest, all those lessons have already gathered dust in my head.

  So far our efforts haven't been needed - flight corrections have been done remotely by Space X operators. In a few days, the capsule's trajectory should align not only with Earth's rotation speed but also with the Mariana Trench's location. That final step - the journey into the planet's depths - we'll have to do ourselves.

  So yeah... Four more days of eating, excreting, and pretending I care about my 25.5 million fans. Time to check the blog...

  * * *

  Mission Day 11

  1,183 km above the Minor Goldilock Zone, 225 km to Earth's surface

  Wind speed: 22 m/s, Temperature: -77°C, External pressure: 722 hPa

  Elon Musk wasn't satisfied with my work. What could he do? Turn the capsule around, drop us all back at the flight center, and spank me? Ha ha, I felt completely satisfied with myself. Serves them right.

  Alright, despite Elon's grumbling and my fans' overwhelming support, I decided to take my job seriously for once. That is—to write at least one proper blog post that would vividly reflect the seventeenth mission crew's preparation and mindset facing the unknown. Think what you want, but I'm a completely serious blogger when circumstances demand it.

  Turns out Lara Barcroft had one innate talent, and it wasn't shooting two cannons at once. No. The moment I pointed a camera at her, her plump lips automatically puckered into the most authentic "duckface" imaginable. At first, I thought she was just messing around. When I asked her to stop making faces, Lara looked genuinely surprised.

  The "duckface" reaction, as it later turned out, had been trained in her since early childhood and was practically embedded in her DNA. Even when explicitly asked NOT to pout, she couldn't help it nine times out of ten. I had to delete more than half the photos.

  Ken Celsey Buckingham spent most of his days in the control center with Roland and Vesley. Though, to be fair, he seemed out of place there too, often glued to the porthole with a longing gaze. At first, I thought he was just counting landmasses and clouds out of boredom, but it soon became clear he was "charging his chakras, eyes wide open to the Sun." His exact words.

  Meanwhile, Roland Foundland decided to approach me and show me a "hilarious" joke he found in one of his comics. "Batman finally found a girlfriend and even proposed to her! Funny, right, Nora?"

  "Zuzuzuzuzuzuzuzuzu..."

  Hearing that, I couldn't take it anymore and ran off to find Aurora Tromp. I was struck by the horrifying realization that there might only be two sane beings left in this capsule—her and me. Maybe Vesley too, but he wasn’t much of a talker.

  As the day drew to a close, I realized Elon Musk would have to be disappointed again. I couldn’t even hint at Lara Barcroft’s quirks—her agents would eat me alive. Writing about how more than half the crew leaned toward insanity? I could’ve done that part as a joke—they wouldn’t have had to believe it.

  So, what was left for me? According to the latest post, we spent the last two days eating, pooping, and sleeping.

  Bon appétit, Elon.

  * * *

  Mission Day 13

  2 km to Earth's surface, 5 km to Mariana Trench

  Wind speed: 8 m/s, Temperature: -10°C, External pressure: 708 hPa

  Hello, little ants!

  ...Or should I say fleas—from up here, even oceans and rivers are invisible. Just clouds and those ugly gray landmasses. That's all the poetry you'll get from me today.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Scientific update: Vesley and Roland confirm atmospheric pressure at this altitude remains barely within human tolerance—by a hair. If the Mariana Trench varies by more than 10 hPa, we'll need spacesuits. Let me be clear: you couldn't pay me to step out without one. I plan to return alive just to tell Elon Musk to his face what I think of him and his program. But more on that later.

  Good news: It's WARM outside! Well, -10 to -20°C, but we've seen worse. Ken Celsey's been sunbathing nude against the porthole for three days straight, "charging his chakras." Absolute bliss! (Though he won't let me photograph him. So shy.)

  Lara Barcroft remains... a character. Lately I've been fighting the urge to voice my full opinion of her, but I'll save that for the press conference. By then, I'll probably have changed my mind about her forty-five times. Did you know her guns are .45 caliber? Neither of us knows what that means. Live and learn.

  Today's agenda: eating, excreting, and another round of Aurora's murder RPG. Despite being killed multiple times, morale is inexplicably high. Roland says we descend into the Trench in 45 minutes. Wish us luck.

  And Elon—don't be mad if we graze the trench wall. I know this oversized pill cost half a billion euros, but we only trained for two months. Roland almost forgot how to steer.

  (Kidding. He didn't. Don't choke on your breakfast, Elon.)

  XOXOXOXOXO

  Nora Paranoia

  April 2, 1596, 08:26

  * * *

  Our supposed "good mood" was a lie. The culprit? Ken Celsey Buckingham.

  I finally understood why he'd been clinging to the porthole all this time - the guy was deathly afraid of darkness. He'd been savoring every second when the Sun peeked out from behind the planet's edge. But now, with our Space-X capsule hanging so close to the surface, we were almost constantly in the planet's shadow. The Sun only appeared for a couple of hours before hiding again behind clouds and landmasses.

  It was like Ken only now realized we were about to ascend into the complete darkness of the Mariana Trench, where the only light sources would be the capsule's lamps and whatever faint sunlight might creep through the canyon's mouth during daytime.

  For the last three hours, he'd been sitting in the kitchen with all the lights on, knees hugged to his chest, muttering what sounded like incantations. Do I even need to say how this affected everyone else's mood?

  I tried to calm him down, but Lara Barcroft gave me such a furious look I thought she might shoot me on the spot. I wonder if the blonde even slightly understands that firing guns inside the capsule would be suicidal?

  * * *

  On my way to the control room, I overheard Roland and Vesley talking:

  "You know, I'm not sure about Celsey..." Roland's voice trembled. "Should we seriously reduce pressure and descend before it's too late?"

  "Are you stupid?" Vesley sighed. "You want to lose all our money and bonuses? Just ignore Ken, let him rot. More women for us."

  "Zuzu... zuzuzuzu!"

  "What? What's so funny? Don't tell me you weren't eyeing Paranoia's ass yesterday?"

  "Zu... Well... Maybe my eyes wandered a little..."

  "His eyes wandered..." Vesley grumbled while fumbling with some tools. "You know, sometimes I don't understand your preferences. You better focus on women, dude. Just don't touch Lara too much - she's mine."

  "Uh... What do you mean 'yours'?"

  "You'll see," Vesley's voice oozed smug satisfaction. "I brought some... special pills from home. Drop them in tea and the girls won't remember anything for hours. If you don't interfere, I'll share some with you. You'd like to slip some to Paranoia, wouldn't you?"

  "Fuuh... I don't know. That seems..."

  "If you don't want to, I understand. Just don't get in my way, deal? If you change your mind - just say the word. The girls give in like nothing, don't even need convincing, get it? Two drops in their drink, no taste or smell. And then..."

  "Zu!" Roland snorted. "Zuzuzuzuzu! Seriously?"

  "Uh-huh," Vesley rumbled.

  "Zuzu! I could... I could do Paranoia with... with a pressure gauge... and she wouldn't remember, right?"

  Silence.

  "Man, there's something seriously wrong with your head," Vesley finally muttered. "But technically - yes. You could do her with a pressure gauge, or a thermometer, or a geological drill if you can't think of anything better..."

  I stopped listening. Quiet as a mouse, I retraced my steps, went down to the first floor, and locked myself in the bathroom. My hands shook - from fear and anger. Damn you, Elon. What kind of psychopaths did you send me into the Mariana pit with? What am I supposed to do now that two expedition members have signed their Molotov-Ribbentrop pact and plan to celebrate at my expense?

  Write about it in the blog? Vesley himself had recently commented on my posts. Meaning he reads them. All I can do is google him and see who I'm dealing with.

  And I needed allies. The third male team member was still meditating in the kitchen with all the lights on. Useless. Lara Barcroft... I suspected Vesley's mysterious drops wouldn't affect her. Can you lower an IQ that's already below bedrock?

  That left only Aurora Tromp.

  * * *

  "Serious trouble!" I slammed the door shut behind me. Aurora looked up from her tablet, peering down at me from her top bunk. "Vesley Bernulli... he's... he's..."

  Damn it, how do I explain this without scaring her too much?

  "Oh, I get it." Aurora's face split into a wide grin as she tossed her tablet aside and reached for her cosmetics bag. "I had a feeling! So it's Vesley, then? Not Ken?"

  "What?" I blinked.

  "Don't worry, I totally understand," she giggled, rummaging through her bag. "I think we can work something out."

  "No, wait, you don’t—"

  "Of course I do," she cut me off. "So many days trapped in this white box with zero stimulation. Even I’m climbing the walls. Here."

  She handed me two pale pills.

  "What is this?"

  "Hmm... can you keep a secret?"

  "Depends on— Fine, yes, I can."

  "Drop these in Vesley’s coffee. Wait ten minutes, then take him by the hand and lead him somewhere. The control room, maybe. I promise he won’t remember a thing for two hours."

  Aurora winked conspiratorially.

  And suddenly, I almost understood how Roland must have felt hearing Vesley’s proposition.

  Almost.

  The difference was, that I had zero interest in doing anything to Vesley. With a thermometer or otherwise.

  "Are you serious?!"

  "Keep your mouth shut," Aurora’s smile vanished. "Or I swear, I’ll snap your laptop in half. If you’re not gonna play, at least don’t get in my way with Ken. Capisce?"

  I walked back to the kitchen on wooden legs.

  What kind of hellish circus is this capsule?!

  * * *

  I moved to "wake up" Ken Celsey from his meditation, but just in time I noticed Lara's dangerously gleaming eyes watching us. She was leaning against the far corner of the kitchen, staring at me with an unreadable gaze. My patience ran out. How much of this could I take?

  "What is wrong with you?" I demanded, stepping closer.

  Lara blinked rapidly, probably trying to translate my words into a more primitive language.

  "Ah... what?"

  "You keep staring at me," I said. "What did I ever do to you? Every time I approach any other crew member, you look at me like... hell, like you want to shoot me."

  "Me?" She blushed like a little girl.

  "Yes, you. Do you have something to say to me? I'm listening very carefully, dear!"

  "Ah..." She grew even more flustered. "R...really?"

  "Huh?" Now I was confused.

  "Oh..." Lara glanced around nervously, covering her mouth with her hand. "Look... a striped zebra!"

  Then, to my utter astonishment, she bolted for the hatch and disappeared to the third floor.

  Fantastic. Now I was alone with no allies. Unless Ken snapped out of his trance.

  "Ken, you alive?"

  "My chakras..." came a drowsy mumble. "Nora... My body's photosynthesis barely functions here. The sunlight is so weak, understand? When are we descending?"

  "We're ascending into the canyon in ten minutes."

  "On the thirteenth day..." A lone tear rolled down Ken's cheek, "...they hid from God's shadow in the abyss, and their souls cried for divine mercy. But God had already turned away, for they were all steeped in siiiii—EEEEK?!"

  Ken's poetic nonsense was cut short as I grabbed a folding aluminum chair and started whacking him with all my strength. Ken Celsey Buckingham wriggled like a worm on a hook, suddenly displaying more energy than he'd shown in days.

  "What the hell, Nora?!"

  "Chakras clogged, huh?!" I swung the chair relentlessly. "No problem, I'll clear them right up, you snotty bastard! Just tell me when they start flowing!"

  "Nooo, wait—!"

  "We'll banish those hellish shadows too, Ken! Maybe then you'll stop playing prophet, you damn Nostradamus wannab—!"

  Strong hands grabbed me and yanked me away from my writhing victim.

  "You lost it, Nora?" Vesley growled. I barely suppressed a shudder realizing my potential rapist was restraining me. "The hell are you doing?"

  "Oh nothing," I shook him off. "Just restoring Ken's photosynthesis. Poor guy needs more light!"

  "Photosynthesis only occurs in plants." Roland the other potential rapist tried to explain. "Also in algae..."

  "Tell him that," I pointed at Ken. "Besides, my methods work. Look how energetic he is now! Try meditating and calling to God again, Ken, I dare you! The chair remembers your address!"

  "You used to be such a sweet girl, Nora!" Ken whimpered.

  "Shut the fuck up!"

  Aurora Tromp descended from the dormitory, glaring at me with unconcealed hatred—apparently for beating up her intended prey. Christ, this place had more potential rapists than a prison bus. And I couldn't even call them out publicly.

  The strangest part? Lara Barkroft was finally looking at me with something resembling respect as if my folding chair was a sacred samurai sword. I wasn't sure if I should celebrate that.

  "We must turn back immediately!" Ken finally snapped. "This mission is doomed, understand?! We'll all die in that darkness! We need to turn this ship around NOW!"

  "Nobody's dying in darkness," Aurora sighed, shaking her head. "But if Ken's losing it, maybe we should abort. The Mariana Trench is over seven kilometers of absolute black."

  "What, we'll give up our pay because of him?" Vesley scoffed.

  "But... seven kilometers of his hysterics..." Roland muttered.

  "No problem," I waved the chair. "We can continue. I have medicine for Ken's condition."

  "Why are you so cruel to me?" Ken sniffled.

  "What was that, darling? I'm only harsh because I care. You haven't seen me truly cruel yet," I smiled sweetly.

  Buckingham crawled to a corner and started sucking his thumb.