Journal:Peter Vanbuskirk
THe diary and musings of a man, twisted by events beyond his control and seeking meaning to the horror he now lives. Grammatical and spelling errors in the journal are to be concidered intentional. A lot of referances are made to Peter VanBuskirks favorite novels written by Edward E. "Doc" smith. Specifically the First historian's "Lensman" series
| Vann Buzz | ||||||||||
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
|
Front Page
scrawled in blocky smeared writing by hand, sometimes with pencil, pen, or other marking method on the front
Journal of VANN BUZZ survivor of the Valarian Space marines
Entries
October
7.10.2005
Where am I? who am I? as I rub the sore spot on my head I see flashes of buring, yelling, and terror. Oh God, what happened? I look around, I see I am surronded by the charred remians of a building. THere is even the smell of ozone and charred flesh. Is this hell? Have I died? or am I still living and experiancing a nightmare? The questions roll around in my sore head as I try to seek .. myself. I dont remember anything.
After what seems a time spent in limbo the reality of the world that surronds me becomes solid. I am alive, and need to find who I am. A quick inventory of myself as I see a charred tag on my chest __ VanBus_i__. The letters roll around in my head which leads to words forming in my dry lips. "V-Van... B-Bus.. I. Van Bus I. *I* VAN BUS. I'M VAN BUZZ!" I have a name the realization excites me, and fills me with vigor. I clench my hand accidently onto something hard and find it is a long rod shaped object with a heavy weight on the end. looking closely I can see three letters burned into the wooden rod. "P V B" it must mean "Property of Vann Buzz" and I pick it up.
The weight on the end is flat and shaped like a wedge, and has a sharp edge on one end, blunt on the other. As I look at it searching for details I see the stars reflecting off of it. Space... this comes from space. That must mean I am a SPace... a space... MARINE! The word marine evokes emotions of pride. This must be it, this is who I am.
Finally I stand up, with the SPACE AXE in my hand. and look around. In the surrounding area I can see other damage, and buildings boarded up. This place needs a good marine. But for now the essetials are needed, food and water, to survive.
8.10.2005
I have taken shelter inside what people are calling a "Pig shop" or "Police Depot" searching like the rest for useful items. I don't understand what a lot of them are talking about, but there are a few people here sleeping, and it must be someplace safe. yet I don't understand the reasons for all the barriers in making it difficult to enter and leave. They often talk about someone named Somby. Could they be talking about Zwilinks? I spin the axe by rolling the handle and get a feral grin thinking about taking out a few Zwilinks with my trusty space axe. But for now I need rest, for another day is coming when those Zwilinks will learn to fear a Space marine.
9.10.2005
After getting some rest, a bit of clean up from some grey soapy water using a dirty rag, and some canned food. I feel ready to find and tackle these dreaded Zwilinks on thier home turf instead of hiding in a shelter.
My space axe is handed over to me after I climb over the barricade and the city seems rather quite. I decide to do a looping search pattern to the NW of my new home. some corpses litter the ground, and graffitti is everywhere. After a couple of hours walking the silent streets I see a melee in front of a church. One is fending off a fiendishly ugly person that is scratching and clawing. I charge into the fray with my space axe held high. Down comes the axe imbedding itself into the shoulder of the zwilink, and i Notice the many cuts and bullet holes in it. He is weakended and should be easy. Yanking the axe out of the body the Zwilink turns its eery focus onto me and stubles back making my second swing miss. I move in trying to cleave it in two but this time it stumbles forward and i can smell the reek of rotting flesh coming from it. backpedaling whiel spining I put all my wieght into another blow and cut into the side of the Zwilink. it falls to the groudn into a heap and I am over come with the rush of adreniline, and let out a loud cry "Vann Buzz of the space marines has killed his first Zwilink!" The other person there who was in mortal grips with the zwilink looks at my with disbelief at who saved him. He probly thoguht the space marines were all killed. I have shown him differant and the word will now spread far and wide that the marines are back to help the people of this city
12.10.2005
My days have become a blur. With sporadict bouts of feverish sleep and momments ofexcesty as I follow my calling. Often I am woken up by shouts of alarm, and head out to slay zwilinks. I have become more of a machine, then a thinking man. Shapening my Space axe blade I wonder if there is something I am missing. But I don't feel that I am ready yet to go on my own. This place needs me, but I shouldn't leave without cleansing my soul, and focusing my mind. The others look at me, knowing that I have not been properly forged yet. The Blacksmith that has personified this city, is still beating me, and tempering me until I become a finely worked blade.
All I need time
14.10.2005
Something is wrong. I have tried going after Zwilinks only to fail to land any telling blow. This has me worried, am I doing something wrong? Is this not my path of destiny? I mull it over my head as I rest, this time in an abandoned factory. The machiney is dormante becasue of the lack of power and the smell of grease and rust permiates the air. the metals... iron, steel, carbon alloy. Then the image hits me. Great Noshabkeming! Holy Klono's wiskers, diamond tip horns, tungsten teeth, gadolinium guts, carballoy claws, iridium intestines, and cloven hooves! He's got so much stuff—teeth and horns, claws, and wiskers, tail and everything—that he's much more satisfactory to swear by than any other space-god I know of.
Holo Klono and Noshabkeming space gods be praised!
