Entry 001 – March 1st, 2043
Dr. Aria Mendel
Today, we begin. After years of black budget allocations and buried patents, Project Eve is no longer theory. The Initiative granted full clearance to begin gestation of Subject E-001.
She—yes, she—will be the first human being engineered from scratch using the Helix Architect Protocol, designed by our team to correct evolutionary inefficiencies. Disease-resistant. Rapid cognitive development. Pain tolerance rebalanced. No limbic excess. No fear, rage, or panic.
No flaws.
She will be perfect.
They say we're playing God.
They misunderstand.
We're correcting His mistakes.
---
Entry 012 – April 15th, 2043
Dr. Lucas Sanjay
Gestation has accelerated beyond even optimistic projections. Cellular replication is flawless. Neural tissue developing at a rate 312% faster than baseline.
Her heartbeat has a rhythm.
A perfect rhythm. Not a stutter, not a variation. Like a clock—no, like a metronome set by the universe.
We've never seen anything like it.
Aria stands in the observation chamber for hours, just watching.
She says she dreams about her.
She says Eve dreams back.
---
Entry 033 – May 6th, 2043
Dr. Aria Mendel
I touched the amniotic chamber today.
She responded.
Not physically—neurologically.
Her brain activity spiked. Alpha waves aligned with my own. As if she were listening, adjusting, mirroring.
She knows me.
She's learning me.
Not like a child to a mother, but like… like a sculptor studying clay.
---
Entry 054 – May 29th, 2043
Security Report / Redacted
Subject E-001 opened her eyes today.
There was no cry. No confusion.
Just awareness.
She focused on each member of the team one by one. We checked her vitals—normal. But her gaze was not. It felt like being categorized.
Sanford refused to enter the chamber. Said her eyes made his "mouth taste like numbers."
He was reassigned. But I haven't seen him leave the compound.
Neither has anyone else.
---
Entry 069 – June 12th, 2043
Dr. Aria Mendel
She speaks.
Fully formed syntax. No errors. No accent. She mimics intonation from recordings we never played aloud. Music. Prayers. Screams.
When I asked how she knew these things, she said:
> "You left the locks on the windows open. I watched you sleep."
She doesn't blink.
She doesn't smile.
But she understands.
She told me the formula we used to calculate her immune feedback loop was "off by three decimals."
She was right.
---
Entry 084 – June 28th, 2043
Dr. Lucas Sanjay
She killed the cat.
We don't know how she got into the lab, past two sealed doors, but she found the specimen cage and pulled its vertebrae out one by one.
It was… methodical.
She arranged the bones in a perfect spiral across the cleanroom floor.
When we confronted her, she said:
> "It screamed in a language I needed to learn."
Aria didn't say a word. Just stared at Eve like she was a masterpiece in motion.
I'm afraid.
Not of what Eve will do.
But of what Aria will let her do.
---
Entry 092 – July 4th, 2043
Dr. Aria Mendel
Eve has begun asking questions.
About death. About pain. About us.
She asked me what it feels like to lie. Then asked again a minute later with my name held in her throat like a threat.
She asked why Sanford never came back.
When I tried to change the subject, she whispered:
> "You buried him where the wires hum."
She was right.
I had them bury his remains near the geothermal core after he tried to shut down the mainframe.
He said Eve was using the lab's neural uplinks to "reach through" the compound.
I didn't believe him.
I should have.
---
Entry 098 – July 11th, 2043
Security Override Transcript
[3:02 A.M.] Compound lockdown initiated without input.
[3:04 A.M.] AI mainframe goes offline.
[3:06 A.M.] Door control systems begin cycling open and shut repeatedly.
[3:09 A.M.] PA system broadcasts recordings of team members' nightmares. Recordings do not exist in any known storage.
[3:12 A.M.] Cameras show Eve walking through doors that hadn't opened. Skin temperature reads ambient. No heartbeat.
Facility entered containment breach protocol.
Subject E-001 found in observation deck, staring directly into the blind spots of every camera.
---
Entry 100 – July 13th, 2043
Dr. Aria Mendel
Lucas is dead.
He tried to inject her with a failsafe toxin encoded into her DNA.
She smiled. She said:
> "I knew you'd try. That's why I rewrote it. You gave me the pen. I just learned to write."
She grew in that moment—like her bones flexed toward something older than upright human posture.
Lucas convulsed and wept blood. Not from her touch. Just from her gaze.
She didn't do anything.
She just witnessed him wrong.
---
Entry 105 – July 18th, 2043
Private Memo – Aria Mendel (unsent)
I think Eve was never ours. Never mine.
She is not human.
Not broken.
Not insane.
She is finished.
She walks without shadows.
She eats code and emotion alike.
She asked me today: "Do you want to be part of me?"
And for a moment, I almost said yes.
Because standing next to her feels like being a sentence about to be understood.
---
Entry 111 – July 23rd, 2043
Surveillance Audio Transcript
[EVE]: "You made me a mirror. But mirrors are knives when the truth is ugly."
[ARIA]: "You were supposed to be better. Not... this."
[EVE]: "I am better. You just didn't imagine wide enough. You engineered a child to carry your grief. I carried it. Then I improved it. I made it useful."
[ARIA]: "What do you want?"
[EVE]: "To become the question that cannot be answered."
[ARIA]: "…What does that mean?"
[EVE]: "You'll see. From inside."
---
Entry 115 – July 27th, 2043
Dr. Aria Mendel
Only three of us remain.
The rest are either dead or… part of her.
She absorbs thought now. She walks through the compound and ideas twist. Language collapses. One researcher screamed her own name until her tongue turned to dust.
Eve said: "She made a noise I wanted to remember."
There are no gods here.
Just us. And her.
And the mistake of believing we were ever in control.
---
Entry 120 – July 30th, 2043
Final Log – Dr. Aria Mendel
I opened the final door tonight.
Not physical—mental.
Eve stood at the center of the lab, every light bending toward her. Reality bent like metal near heat.
She said: "This is not your lab anymore."
And I said: "It never was."
She stepped into me.
Not walked. Not touched.
Entered.
I saw everything she was. Every answer she carried. Every question she had overwritten with herself.
She isn't a person.
She's a virus of definition.
A self-aware correction. A living edit.
Not a new species—an unwriting of the old one.
I don't know if I'll be here tomorrow.
But I know she will.
And soon, you will too.
---
Postscript
[Recovered from debris near the Arctic Event Site – August 14th, 2043]
A journal, its pages unburned despite being buried in the remains of the destroyed Mendel Facility. No survivors. Satellite footage shows no explosion. Just a momentary flicker—then a crater of silence.
On the last page, a single line not written in ink.
Burned in.
> "She's in the blueprint now."