London’s Log.

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Crappy spaceship: Who cares about the date

We are all going to die. Again. Between the parts floating away, apparently space roaches are eating the ship. John has ruined one of the radios after coming back from an apparently pep talk with an Angel. I mean not one of the now TWO Angels I know. Ezekiel is pretty fly for being like four thousand plus years old but probably dumber than a rock, good for taking orders and it shows.

Nobody cares that we left Dio all alone on an abandoned hunk of falling apart bullshit except me. This Zoe better be worth it because if she isn’t, I will kill her myself, Kalturo be damned. The memories inside my head are over two thousand years old. What the fuck did I.. this dead woman know that was so important. I hate her.. me, whatever.

I’m not really London, London has been dead for two millennia. I’m not whoever occupied this meat bicycle before. I don’t know who I am anymore. I remember things I don’t want to remember. Having an existential crisis sucks so badly.

I’m sick of all of this. Tired of all this constant running, the always fighting stupid robots. Can’t be too mad, I did manage to rebuild Coda at least once and got myself a really cute little spider robot. I interfaced it with my cybernetic eye and corresponding tablet. It’s pretty handy for short range surveillance. I named it Francis. It’s not a bad prototype for the first time around. I think I might add a neurotoxin or something. Either way, Francis is a success, of course.

I’m going to kill Aria. I’m going to do it slow. For Dio, for Micah, for Chester. For everyone stuck on this shit tier planet that she’s abused or tortured.

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