Log Transcript

$_ console

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. . . [ XENOCORP INDUSTRIES : NEW GENES FOR A NEW GENERATION ]

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> loading . . .

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> welcome back, [REDACTED]. entering admin mode

> data saved irregularly. reboot from last session? [y/n]

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> recovering log transcriptions . . . COMPLETE

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Experiments seem to be proceeding as planned, despite the setbacks. Possible queens have been isolated — while it's a shame MAT-9186 wasn't fruitful, we've determined that two of her final brood have the potential to become progenitors. Units A and B have been assigned to oversee the growth of the two specimens, assigned MAT-9187-1 and MAT-9187-2, respectively.

Ah, well. We will need more hosts — forwarding the request to HR the next chance I get. I hope all this is worth it.

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Specimens hatched with minimal complications. Gene splicing seems to have been successful — both units have begun to exhibit abnormal vocalization patterns, interspersed with monosyllabic attempts at what appears to be simple commands. Hivemates, upon introduction to the new specimens, seem to defer to both. The progress seems promising.

We begin testing with auditory stimuli next week. I've already asked the team to forward me their favorite songs. When our little monster releases the next hit single — that's when I'll accept my Nobel Prize, thank you very much.

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Seems like our experiments have backfired, a little. MAT-9187-1 seems to be adapting quickly, picking up on repeated syllables and piecing together words once trained and conditioned with rewards — grisly business, that. MAT-9187-2, on the other hand, seems to have taken my joke to heart from last log. Verbal vocalization remains minimal, but it's begun to imitate melodies from the intercoms. Sent chills down my spine first time I heard it echoing out of the containment ward. Crew are unnerved, too — and I can't blame them. Working with the 'morphs has never been a recipe for successful mental health, and, well.

In any case, work — and science — marches on. We'll focus our efforts on MAT-9187-1: it's learning fast, and it seems like we might see the fruits of our labor earlier rather than later.

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Most of the team has been reassigned to focus on MAT-9187-1. That's a mouthful, really — some of them have started a betting pool for which nickname will stick.

It's a dangerous game, I think: names make it easier to forget how easy it is for these creatures to kill us.

Whatever the case, MAT-1's doing just fine. It's picking up verbal commands quicker and quicker these days, like a twisted version of teaching an old dog new tricks. Except, of course, this is far from man's best friend. It seems like there's insurrection among the hive members as well: MAT-2's been ostracized, probably because of the attention — and rewards — MAT-1's been getting. It doesn't seem to be taking the news well.

Well, there's a mistake: assuming these things can feel. We're leaving [REDACTED] to monitor MAT-2's data. He's a good kid, and it'll be a good break for him, after all of the grisly sights of the lab's epicenter. We'll take MAT-2 into isolation if the situation escalates: either way, we don't need it anymore if MAT-1's successful. Somehow, though, I've got a bad feeling about this.

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Something out of a horror movie, the other day. MAT-2 went off the walls. Started wailing, with fragments of songs it'd picked up mixed with something not unlike nails on a chalkboard. I'm beginning to think that I'm not cut out for this job. I should've stayed back on home turf — or, well, as close to terraformed home turf as you can get, I guess. Not sure I want to live out my golden years on a science colony thousands of clicks away from the next settlement. Especially not with these things.

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Shit's hit the fan.

[REDACTED], the one guy left on MAT-2's team? Started going on about hearing voices through the walls, like singing. Keeps talking about how "she's" calling him, how he has to go "let her out." It's creeping me out. Kid's young, impressionable — probably just cabin fever mixed with, I think, trauma from watching these things feed all day. It fucks you up.

Calling up HR to see if we can get an medivac for [REDACTED] within the next week or two. We've let him off-duty for now, and I'll be keeping my eye on him.

He keeps humming the same shit over and over again, though. Unnerving. This place is starting to get to me, too, don't get me wrong.

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I know I said that shit hit the fan last entry, but that? That was nothing. This is real shit, and it's hit the fucking fusion engines of my life head on.

[REDACTED]'s dead.

Fuck.

This is going to be my last log before I get the hell off this planet, and if you know what's good for you? You should do the same. [REDACTED] got up and swiped into the lab security room in the middle of the night. The guard on duty, [REDACTED] took a food replicator to the head — he's concussed, and I'm afraid he might have some internal bleeding that might pose an issue for us soon, but — well, the evac's coming soon, or so they said.

Anyway, [REDACTED]. He opened the locks and tried to fucking open the ward gates — if [REDACTED] hadn't happened on the open security room in time, we would all be xenomorph food. [REDACTED] tried to charge [REDACTED] with that same fucking replicator — but took a blaster shot instead. He bled out fast.

I feel sick. He was a good kid. Don't know what the fuck got into his head like that.

I have a sneaking suspicion, though. The two-way comms into the isolation ward? I powered all of them down. I finally realized why the spooky shit [REDACTED] had been humming was so familiar — it was my song, straight off of MAT-2's mixtape. That thing'd been singing it ever since it got put into isolation.

We might've bitten off more than we can chew, with that adaptation. The only silver lining is that this planet's barren, devoid of life — we'll get the fuck out of here in the morning, and we'll mark it down as a Category X. Hopefully that'll be enough to keep this shit from ever spreading.

Still, I can't help but wonder — how the hell did that thing know the comm's were two-way? Did it even know?

It doesn't matter. It's asking these kinds of questions that'll lead me down [REDACTED]'s path — straight into madness, in this kind of job.

It's better to leave it at that.

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