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Chapter 3: Director’s Log
🕑 Added 2025-06-08 09:35:12 +0000 UTC
Top Secret – Research Site 40120191, Siberia
Director: Piotr Roslov
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1970.4.20
Several days ago, a meteor was reported crashing deep in the Siberian wilderness. Upon investigation by the local military garrison, the object was confirmed not to be a natural meteorite—but an artificial construct. A spacecraft. Of no known Soviet or American design.
Inside it? A child. An infant.
Orders from Moscow were clear. A containment and research facility is to be built around the impact zone immediately. The craft and the infant are to be studied in absolute secrecy. The subject is now designated: Extraterrestrial One.
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1974.6.26
Some imbecile had the gall to suggest dissecting our only living specimen.
What kind of idiot gets assigned to my facility? Who let their illegitimate son from a Kremlin brothel sneak onto my team to play scientist?
Let the bastard rot in hell. He wants to blow our one lead on extraterrestrial biology before we even get results? He's either an American spy or a lunatic.
I've filed a report to the KGB. I want his background scrubbed, his lineage sterilized, his family tree set on fire. We don't need that kind of stupidity infecting the gene pool.
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1976.8.14
Subject One is now six years old. Physiology appears largely human. Normal growth patterns. Bone structure. Internal organ placement. Vital signs. All normal. Too normal.
Except one anomaly: the appetite. It's... unclear what his metabolic baseline is. Some researchers proposed increasing his nutrient intake to test physical growth limits.
But others warned: what if he changes? Evolves? Becomes unmanageable?
We've already had enough problems with mutants. Until we have a guaranteed containment method, I'm siding with the conservative camp. Growth will remain restricted.
We only have one specimen. I'm not risking it for hypothetical results.
This isn't 1944, after all—when Tsarist rebels and Nazi mystics tried to summon a demon off the Scottish coast.
That farce gave them a horned infant—one the Americans now parade around as some supernatural weapon. Using demons to fight monsters is one thing. But I've got an alien. I can't gamble that he's equally... useful.
Train him as a soldier? Let whoever proposed that bring me funding from the Winter Soldier Program or the Red Room. Without resources, it's madness.
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1980.2.19
Headquarters is dissatisfied with our progress.
No breakthroughs in reverse engineering the spacecraft. The materials alone are beyond replication.
And the child?
Still no significant genetic anomaly. No superhuman strength. No enhanced intellect. No regenerative serum in the blood or spinal fluid. Not even potential for it.
X-rays suggest a typical juvenile skeleton. Blood work? Malnourished, underdeveloped. Without context, any doctor would diagnose him as a neglected orphan.
If I didn't know he fell from the sky inside a starship, I'd believe it too.
I pulled strings. Re-interviewed the soldiers from the crash site. Their testimony was consistent: this was the child they recovered from inside the craft.
So what am I looking at here? A human born on another planet? Is panspermia real? Are we the alien life?
That kind of metaphysical crap doesn't help me justify fifteen years of funding.
I need results.
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1983.9.30
The Cairo Incident changed everything.
A mutant battle erupted in Egypt—terrifying displays of power. Telepathy. Fire manipulation. Flight. The Americans and Israelis got all the footage.
Now Moscow is panicking. All superhuman research programs are under pressure. And our site? Labeled "unproductive."
What do they want from me? A spell to keep young forever by bathing in virgin blood?
Maybe they'd like me to drain our specimen dry and see what happens?
Idiots.
If they're so eager to study bloodsuckers, they should take a trip to Transylvania.
I still believe Subject One holds secrets. The resemblance to humans can't be coincidental. Maybe he is a step ahead of us in the evolutionary chain.
But our tools are too crude. We need to go deeper—genetics, cellular structure. We may be missing the very data that matters.
No species builds a ship capable of interstellar travel without first mastering its own biology. If his body is the key—not the craft—then we've been studying the wrong thing.
I agreed to surrender the pod. It was a calculated compromise. Headquarters wanted it for military R&D, especially after the U.S. announced their Strategic Defense Initiative in March.
Let them tear it apart.
Now that it's out of my hands, the budget cut didn't hit us as hard as I feared. What remains? I'll invest it all in Subject One.
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1986.12.8
Policy shifts. New leadership. New direction.
On paper, it sounds promising.
In practice? A death knell.
Programs deemed unproductive are being shuttered. We're officially "under review." The clock is ticking.
The boy's reached adolescence. I can no longer delay more extreme testing. The body must be pushed. Pain tolerance. Damage thresholds. Regeneration rate.
Yes, the methods are… unpleasant. But science requires sacrifice.
I have no other choice.
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1988.1.7
Economic instability is hitting everyone—even the Eastern Bloc.
Budgets are shrinking. Rations that were once delivered are now sold to us. Prices are skyrocketing.
If this continues, we'll be trading rubles for black bread and bandages.
I've started pulling favors. Old comrades. Shadow networks. It's risky. But necessary.
Because… I'm finally seeing something.
Subject One heals faster than normal humans. Not like a mutant—no instant regeneration—but still notable. Clean healing. Minimal scarring. Accelerated tissue recovery.
His genome remains unreadable. Every known sequencing method fails.
That's how I know he's not from Earth.
Our tools simply… can't decode him.
The higher-ups don't care. They want results. Military applications. Super soldier serums. Weapons. Cloning programs.
They talk about more Winter Soldiers, finishing the Foxfire Initiative—as if any of that's simple.
But I can't give up now. I'm so close. I can feel it.
He's right there, on the edge of revealing everything. A goddess lifting her skirt—just a glimpse of something divine.
All I need is one spark. One discovery.
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1989.11.9
The Wall is falling.
East Germany is collapsing, and so is the illusion of stability.
Even civilians now question the Party's promises. The veil is lifting, and no one seems to know what to do.
I'm not a politician. I'm a scientist. But someone has clearly made a mistake along the way.
I pray someone with vision takes the reins—soon. I can't afford distractions. I'm on the verge of something monumental.
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1990.8.1
Damn it. Damn them all.
I've been told the KGB is watching me.
Me! A loyal son of the Revolution! Every test, every scar, every sleepless night—it was for the glory of our nation.
And now I'm the liability?
There's talk of restructuring. Of cleaning house.
No.
I won't run.
This place is my life's work. I will not abandon it. Not when I'm this close.
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August 1st, 1990
That was the final entry.
The Director's log ends there.
