"My name is Alec Trevelyan. I am an agent of British MI6, and I have inherited a code designation from the agent before me. I am 006."
"October 18, 2002. Bella pulled me out of that place—though in her exact words, it wasn't a 'rescue.' She said she had merely 'restored me to my original state.' Some angel had been treating me like a program, like a character in a script, rewriting me at will!!"
The handwriting here was irregular, clearly written while the arm had not yet fully healed.
"October 20, 2002. Bella explained to me why I had been having such terrible luck all my life. She warned me to stay far away from anyone I see chanting '666' in the future... There are some things I've never told her..."
This section had been scratched out and overwritten multiple times. But if you looked carefully at what remained, you could make out fragments—words like "Alessa," "the Harmon couple," "Antichrist," and "they were always nearby."
The handwriting steadied in the lines below.
"October 21, 2002. Monk Doshin recommended a substance called the Rejuvenating Waters to me—supposedly it can grant immortality, but it requires something called the Sakura Dragon's Blood as the primary ingredient. Where in the world am I supposed to find that? I almost asked Bella, but bit my tongue. I have the distinct feeling that if I ask, something terrible will happen immediately. That bald monk Doshin is still holding a grudge from when I hit him. He's getting me back. He has to be!!"
"October 22, 2002. Bella is such a..." (Several lines of Cossack profanity followed, all violently crossed out.) "She expects me back at work after two days of rest?! My arms and legs were severed. Two days of recovery for injuries like that?! Is she serious?!"
"October 22, 2002—Midday. Bella brought up the Templar treasury. She has my full attention now."
"November 16, 2002. After twenty-four days of Arctic expedition, Ben Gates and I finally located the sunken wreck of the Charlotte. According to Bella, the pipe was the critical prop—though for the life of me I couldn't see what made it so special."
"November 23, 2002. Ben Gates stole the Declaration of Independence—and Bella's people switched it out with a copy right under his nose. The operatives she has are something else. Their professional caliber is no worse than MI6's. How has she quietly built up this many elite agents?"
"November 25, 2002. Beneath Trinity Church in Manhattan, we located the treasure—priceless beyond all reckoning. A pity it has little to do with me..."
"Among the finds, three stone tablets caught my eye and genuinely excited me. I feel as if an entirely new frontier has opened before me. I have to convince Bella to launch the spacecraft project!"
"November 27, 2002. Yashida Shingen recommended a shop called 'Master Mex's Magical Goods Emporium.' He says Master Mex holds the title of 'Contemporary Supreme Sorcerer' — which stopped me cold. Even Bella wouldn't claim that title for herself. Anyone with a title like that must have real skill. I'll pay a visit when I have the chance."
006 drew three thick underlines beneath this entry, apparently afraid he might forget.
"November 29, 2002. I met Gavin Banks today. We hit it off immediately—talked for barely a few minutes and already felt like old friends. Gavin runs a company called Yutani Corporation, which is another piece of... well, I was going to say 'Bella's arrangements,' but let's just say 'that woman's' arrangements. She has so many secrets. I don't know how she keeps track of them all."
"Gavin and I separately approached that woman to recommend merging Weyland and Yutani. Both of us were turned down flat. It seems we touched a line she doesn't allow crossed."
That page ended there. On a fresh page, 006 had written something unusual for him—a title: "The Flying Dutchman."
"December 3, 2002. Day One aboard the Flying Dutchman."
"That woman says this ship can navigate underwater. I find that perfectly believable—magic can accomplish many things I don't understand. Fair enough."
"What I don't understand doesn't bother me. But if this sailing ship is going to dive straight into the seafloor with zero visibility and zero lighting, how exactly am I supposed to write in this journal?! Good thing I brought a flashlight. Ha ha ha ha —"
"Current passengers: myself, Gavin, Anton Vanko and Ivan Vanko (father and son), and two enormous robots that defy all rational comprehension!!" The three exclamation marks had been pressed so hard the pen nearly tore through the page.
"...The ship doesn't just have us on board. The giant robots are still within the realm of comprehension—but the other phenomena certainly aren't. Inexplicable whispers. What sounds like water dripping, except when you go to look, it's blood. And outside the door, something that sounds like footsteps—the kind made by someone walking on their hands. This ship has more than just us on it. Something else. Something..."
"Everyone has their own cabin. But with noises like that, who can possibly sleep?"
"I stepped out to investigate and ran into Gavin. We went together to check on the Vankos."
"Anton Vanko and his son had started drinking the moment they stepped aboard. They brought an entire crate of vodka. Down the hatch—out cold. The whole room reeked of alcohol. Right now the two of them are blissfully unaware of everything happening on this ship. Lucky them. As an elite operative I can't allow myself to get drunk. Gavin seems to feel the same. Going to ask that woman for help would be humiliating. We have to hold out on willpower alone."
"December 4, 2002. Day Two aboard the Flying Dutchman."
"The strange sounds haven't stopped. Now there's a violin added to the mix. God almighty—if I could at least mentally block out the ambient noises through sheer force of will, this funeral dirge cycling on an endless loop is something else entirely. I can't take it. It's utterly suffocating."
"After a full day of the same mournful tune repeating endlessly, I went to speak with that woman as the crew's representative."
"She was in her cabin reading—absolutely buried in books and ancient scrolls. She really is dedicated. When I walked in, she was sitting on top of a white serpent—at least 16 feet (5 meters) long, nearly 2 feet (half a meter) in diameter. She was surprisingly receptive. Nodded, agreed to my request. The funeral music and all the other sounds vanished the next second."
"Silence at last. Bliss. Absolute bliss."
"December 5, 2002. Day Three aboard the Flying Dutchman."
"The ship moves through complete darkness underwater. Not a sound anywhere. The total silence dragged up memories of the last time I was buried alive in a coffin... The quiet out here feels the same—like sailing through a moving tomb."
"Couldn't keep my head anymore. Gavin and I snuck into the Vankos' cabin and helped ourselves to their vodka. I'll say this—the kick on Russian vodka is something else..."
"December 7, 2002. Day Five aboard the Flying Dutchman. The vodka was running low to begin with. With Gavin and me pitching in, it's gone now. The dead silence is unbearable. I went to find that woman again. Put the funeral music back. Noise is better than nothing. We'll take the dirge."
"December 7, 2002—Afternoon. Maybe because it had gone quiet for a few days, whoever plays that music came back with a vengeance. I don't know where they find the emotional range, but whatever they were feeling today came through in every note. It was the kind of music that makes you want to die."
"We endured it for a while. Couldn't hold out. I proposed we sing."
"We put our heads together and landed on a song we all knew—the Internationale. In Russian. Everyone singing at full volume, every last bit of energy we had."
"December 7, 2002—Evening. God, we made it. Our voices are nearly gone."