The first thing that happens today is Subnautica having a small moment. I get the “passed 100m” message like
I’ve just descended into the abyss, when I’m very much indoors and pretending my base is a real home and not
a glorified underwater shed. I chalk it up to another glitch. The peeper-in-the-lifepod incident still lives
rent-free in my head.

Glitches aside, I’ve got one job today: make this new base functional. “Presentable” is ambitious. “Not
embarrassing” is the real target. Step one is a fabricator, because I’m done doing the lifepod commute every
time I need to make a wire.

Weather / Loot / Mood

• Weather: Clear enough to trust solar power. Briefly. Foolishly.
• Loot: Diamond, cave sulfur, titanium (so much titanium), quartz (eventually).
• Mood: Productive, then annoyed, then productive again. Standard survival rhythm.

A Base Without a Fabricator Is Just a Bad Camping Trip

Once I’m out gathering materials, the game finally gives me a little kindness: another diamond. That’s the
missing piece that turns “soon” into “today,” and suddenly the Laser Cutter isn’t a distant dream anymore.

I head back to the lifepod, dig out my other diamond and the cave sulfur, and just like that: the Laser Cutter
is mine. The Aurora is officially back on the menu, and the Captain’s Quarters is finally starting to look like
a real plan instead of a brave lie I tell myself.

But not yet. Today’s obsession is still the Moonpool. I can taste it. I can also taste salt water. Both feel
inevitable.

Another Distress Signal, Another “Not Today”

I catch another distress signal, and it’s immediately obvious it’s outside my comfort zone. It’s not a “never,”
though. It’s a “give me five minutes and a better module.”

That’s the thing about Subnautica. The game doesn’t lock doors — it just points at the ocean and says,
“You can go there whenever you’re ready.” And then it laughs.

Moonpool Madness (And the Corridor Betrayal)

With the fabricator up and running, the base finally feels like mine. Not long after that, I scrape together
enough titanium for the second ingot I need, which means there’s nothing left between me and the Moonpool
except… building placement drama.

I try to be sensible. I build a corridor so the Moonpool can connect neatly, like a planned base and not a
panic build. The game disagrees. It refuses to attach, refuses to cooperate, and refuses to respect my desire
for symmetry.

So I remove the corridor, try again, and suddenly it’s happy. Of course it is. The Moonpool finally goes down
and I don’t even hesitate — I dock the Seamoth immediately and give it the charge it deserves.

Power: The Problem I Created on Purpose

The moment I dock, reality hits: the Seamoth is now drinking my base power like it’s a free refill station.
And my base power is currently solar.

Which means when the sun goes down, my base turns into a very modern art installation: “Darkness, But With
Regret.”

I need another solar panel. Simple. Easy. Except for one tiny detail: quartz.

I know where quartz is. I just can’t find the routes to the places I know have it, which is a very
specific kind of frustration. Eventually, I stumble into the right area, collect what I need, and the second
panel goes up. The base breathes again.

Mobile Vehicle Bay: Why Is It Like That?

Next up is the Mobile Vehicle Bay. I get it crafted and deployed, and immediately have to accept a hard truth:
it will never be centred the way my brain wants it to be.

I take the win anyway, because I’m here for upgrades — and the one I’ve been eyeing for a while is finally
within reach: the Seamoth Depth Module MK1.

The Depth Module, and My Sudden Forgetfulness

Another salvage trip follows. I grab the titanium, head back, and in the excitement I immediately forget the
part where titanium becomes an ingot.

So I do an unplanned little jog back to the fabricator like I’m running errands in a shopping centre, except
the shopping centre is the ocean and the parking lot is trying to kill me.

Once the ingot is made, the depth module goes in, and suddenly 300m is on the table. That’s not just a number.
That’s permission to go looking for trouble in places I previously pretended didn’t exist.

Valentino, Paint Jobs, and Immediate Karma

With the Moonpool built and the module installed, I decide it’s time to make the Seamoth feel like it belongs
to me. It needs a name. It needs a fresh look. It needs… not to be treated like a bumper car.

I take it out to repair it, because it has a few dents from my usual “precision docking.” I fix it up, feel
proud, immediately damage it again, repair it again, and dock it back in the Moonpool like nothing happened.

The name, at least, is locked in. I called it earlier in the series and I’m sticking to it:
Valentino.

The colour, though? No idea. I know it’s possible. I just don’t know how to do it yet. Hopefully by next time
I’ll have figured it out, and Valentino can stop looking like a default rental.

Next Steps

• Head back to the Aurora and finally use that Laser Cutter like it wasn’t made for decoration.
• Figure out how to change Seamoth colours, because I refuse to be beaten by a paint menu.
• Start tracking down rocket blueprints, because “escape” is technically the goal. Allegedly.

Continue the journey

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Next: Submerged Log 11