[Cover Page] （Arctic marmot，a sketchy drawing）
[Psychological Status Note] Core Logic of the "Submarine Routine":
Structure time to fight the void — Chop despair into manageable chunks, each served with a side of dark humor.
Humor as armor — Mocking the pain robs it of its gravity.
This diary as my inner voice — Keep the words flowing. Don’t forget how to smile in the dark.
Recorder: S
Coordinates: 78°14′N, 118°33′E, Depth ≈ 300m
Status: Still here. Effectively, in cold storage.
[Day "Zero" / Perpetual Night Timer Activated]
(Adopting the submarine six-hour watch system, as "day" is purely a philosophical construct here.)
04:00 (Subjective Time)
Woke up. Ran through the survival checklist:
Pulse check — Still ticking. Feels like a frozen cricket's last struggle.
Breath check — Fog formed. Good, the lungs haven't unionized.
Wound inspection — The ice-silk puncture on the abdomen is healing. New flesh grows like a crooked zipper. I've dubbed it my "Arctic Medal."
The air here tastes of rust and formaldehyde. Michelin should really consider adding an "Apocalyptic Cellar" note.
First win of the day: Discovered faint etching on a ventilation pipe, likely by a Soviet engineer: "1987.3.12. Natasha said no. The concrete here is mixed with my tears."
I solemnly added below: "2023.11.28. S got stuck here. The air here is mixed with my dad jokes."
05:30
Mandatory PT. Space constraints prohibit standard push-ups (ceiling: 1.7m). Invented "vertical push-ups" — palms on ceiling, feet on floor. Resemble a confused spider trapped in a pipe. Must avoid rust flakes falling into eyes.
07:00
"Breakfast."
Today's Menu: Grilled Watcher Haunch (fictional) with Melted Glacial Runoff (real).
Reality: One high-density nutrient block from the equipment cache (Ingredients: protein, fat, vitamins. Flavor: "compressed hope"). I persist in logging culinary notes:
Polar Survival Recipes - Day 1
Main: Watcher hindquarter (harvested from the patrol unit with the most arrogant strut).
Prep: Remove mechanical casing, extract neural processor. Meat appears dark red, emits a metallic, fishy odor.
Method: Slow-roast over intermittent vent heat (in theory). Season with wall-mined salt crystals (in practice).
Tasting Notes: Texture rivals truck tire. On the 87th chew, hallucinated a hint of reindeer. Loneliness-induced palate fallacy, likely.
Pairing: 200ml filtered condensate, branded "Perpetual Night Spring." Lingering aftertaste of iron oxide.
(Note: 23 nutrient blocks remain. A half-block daily ration yields 46 days. Curating this menu makes me feel like a hellscape restaurateur.)
09:00 - 12:00
Facility reconnaissance.
Discovered a "Staff Lounge" on B-3. Contents:
A 1990 deck of cards, Soviet Space Agency logo on the back.
A water-swollen, half-consumed sci-fi novel: Stars Under Ice.
A group photo: dozens of identical faces (Suzuki clones) smiling at the lens. Creepiness Factor: ★★★★★
I inscribed the photo's back: "If clones have team-building exercises, does it count as overtime?"
Today's victory: On B-2, found a 1991 Soviet terminal. Screen displayed a pixelated red star and prompt: "Comrade, system update required?"
Clicked "Nyet." It blue-screened. Excellent. Cold War reliability endures.
12:30
"Lunch."
Menu: Steamed Chimera Ribs (fictional) on a bed of Moss Salad (fictional).
Reality: Half a nutrient block, chased with water. Seriously considering naming them. Today's block has a map-like swirl. I shall call it "Columbus," honoring his navigational spirit.
14:00 - 18:00
Data collation & gear maintenance.
Switched from simple tally marks on server racks to Morse code (·—/—···) feels more spy-proof.
Repaired an old radio module. Only one frequency is clear: a looping Russian weather report. The announcer’s voice is weirdly soothing, like he’s reading love poems, even though it’s just "blizzard / minus 40°C." My new ASMR.
Critical find: In a lab cold-storage unit, three unopened crates of "High-Calorie Test Subject Nutrient Paste" (Real). Label states: "5000 kcal per tube. Recommended: ?? tube daily."Sampled one. Tastes of toffee blended with vitamins—ten times better than the blocks. Immediate ration revision: ?? tube paste + ?? nutrient block daily. Projected survival: 90+ days.
Yet, the fictional recipe log continues:
Today's Secret Menu
Starter: Failed Experiment Brain Sashimi (served with imaginary soy sauce and wasabi).
Main: Eight-Hour Braised Watcher Joint (requires constant body-heat warming of nutrient block).
Dessert: Frost Crystal Candy (licking icicles from the vent pipe).
18:30
"Dinner."
Half-tube of nutrient paste, accompanied by meditation: Visualized sitting at a Tokyo sushi bar. Chef X prepares nigiri with deadly seriousness, then swaps the wasabi for a dab of explosives. Woke myself up laughing. That tracks.
That’s so X.
20:00 - 22:00
Skill practice.
Today's focus:Dust calligraphy using air currents. Wrote the seal-script character for "X" , but the second stroke blew away—kind of like that relationship.
Advanced drill: Got two dust particles to waltz. Hummed the music.
Result: They crashed and fell.
Felt… symbolic. A fitting end for most things.
22:30
Log entry.
"To the eventual finder of this record:
Nutrient paste cache behind the third east ventilation pipe. Ration it. It tastes like sweet lies.
If you encounter a Suzuki clone, ask: 'Is the seventh Suzuki the most handsome?' He will freeze for 3 seconds. Tested.
If you see the flame-haired ice-wielder, tell her this: "S's Under-Ice Bistro always keeps her seat warm. The chef's special is 'Memories That Never Cool.'"
24:00
Forced sleep cycle.
Before the eye mask, addressed the dark: "Goodnight, ruins. Goodnight, Watchers. Goodnight, X."
Dreamt of playing piano on an ice field. The keys were white bones. The piece was Chopin's Raindrop Prelude, but what fell was blood.
[Key Survival Discoveries]
Ventilation Cycle: Every 3 hours, 47 minutes, a strong airflow surge (likely synced to external storms). Useful for masking acoustic signatures.
Condensate Source: West pipe junction yields ~120ml daily (triple-filter required). Flavor profile: "licked an old coin."
Temperature Refuge: A corner in the server room maintains a constant -5°C (balmy!). Relocated my berth there. Named the primary server "Ivan"—its hum sounds like a subdued Soviet anthem.
Temporal Anchors:
Basic Unit: Ventilation surge cycle (3h 47min) = "alarm."
Day Cycle: 6 surges = 1 "day," aligning with submarine watch rhythm.
Date Log: Morse code etched on server cabinet. Today is: ·—/—···/···— (Day 14).
[Psychological Status Memo]
Self-deprecation: Functional (e.g., "Arctic Medal").
Delusional Tendencies: Mild, controlled (e.g.,serious research into "monster doneness"（how to properly roast a monster）).
Emotional Index (0-10):
Loneliness: 7 (Trending down. The walls are surprisingly good listeners.)
Will to Survive: 9 (The story isn't finished. Can't die here.)
Anger: 3 (Successfully sublimated into culinary fantasy.)
The log's final page, handwriting deteriorating:
"Perpetual Night Cycle 14. Temp: -11°C.
Culinary breakthrough today: Conceptualized a 'Watcher Medallions with Raspberry Glaze.'
If I ever get out, maybe a career change. Chef specializing in improbable sashimi.
Or, just play piano for one person. Watch the steam rise from her mug of hot milk cling to her lashes.
That would be more real than any imagined feast."
— S, beneath the ice, sustaining hope on a diet of lies.
PS.
A doodle on an attached scrap: A fox in an apron grilling mechanical tentacles. Speech bubble: "Medium-rare, served with a side of guilt."
（Ｕ^皿^Ｕ）0
[Note] — Found tucked between pages:
An irregular, curved bone plate, palm-sized. Edges are rough. Surface is calcified, with bluish-gray biological texture underneath—looks like a deep-sea fish gill. Traces of dead micro-circuits run through it, like frozen veins. Words are carved on top, scraped through the calcium. The dust mixed with dried fluid from the plate, leaving a faint glow along the letters.
One line, in fresher ink:
"Perpetual Night Cycle 67. O2 concentration at 11%. But today, I successfully orchestrated a waltz for three thousand dust particles. Outcome: pending."