Information

Renegade

The

Riftborn Ontra
Owner: Possum

Age: 1 year, 11 months, 3 weeks

Born: November 10th, 2024

Adopted: 1 year, 11 months, 2 weeks ago

Adopted: November 15th, 2024

Statistics

Level: 73
Strength: 128
Defense: 19
Speed: 13
Health: 15
HP: 15/15
Intelligence: 66
Books Read: 61
Food Eaten: 0
Toys Played: 0
Job: Full-Time Test Subject

Ground Control to Major Tom...

I have no idea how long I've been floating. A few days? A week? No idea. Communications with Earth first became muddy... a few days into the mission. I could hear Ground Control, but as far as I could tell, they heard nothing I said. Then eventually... nothing. All communications went dark.
Our rations are supposed to last a year, and by my count, I've had maybe a couple of weeks' worth, which is fine. My fellow astronaut is scheduled to wake up from cryo-sleep in six months, after which I'll be going under, assuming everything goes according to plan.
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Going by the amount of rations we have left, it's been three months since my last journal. The cryo-sleep station failed a few weeks ago, and my fellow astronaut did not survive the revivification process. I once again tried to reach out to Ground Control, only to be met with nothing but static. Per protocol, I had to jettison the body. Needless to say, I will not be going into cryo-sleep, and I now have a rough estimate of the time I have left to live.
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Six months since we launched. It's been six months. I am alone, far from Earth, with nobody for company. Nobody to talk to. Communications are still dark. So this may be my last entry. My name is James Hampton. I was from Dayton, Ohio. A fresh recruit to NASA's deep space exploration program. I was excited to be heading into space. And now... now it looks like I may die here.
He turned off the video journal, sighing. Nothing left to do but count out the days.
Two weeks had passed since he last left a journal entry. He monitored the instruments. The shuttle was still on course for its destination. I guess that's good? Internal atmosphere, good. Oxygen, good. James found himself purposely cutting his rations down - anything he could to make sure he could survive just a little longer. It was on week three, post-journal, that he made contact.