Protocol Eden
Sent to investigate a remote lab lost to an ancient virus, a technician uncovers the horrifying truth: the outbreak wasn’t an accident — it was communication.
They told us the virus came from the ice—something ancient, thawed by the melt. But it wasn’t the virus that terrified me. It was what they did after.
I was stationed at Eden Facility, buried beneath miles of tundra. We were the backup team, brought in after the first group went dark. No footage. No survivors. Just a single, corrupted transmission: a woman’s voice whispering, “It’s not a disease. It’s a message.”
The upper levels were deserted. No signs of struggle, no blood. Just abandoned workstations, screens still flickering with lines of unread code. In the central lab, we found the vault breached, the core sample missing.
The data logs had been wiped—except for one file labeled "Vocal Pattern—Adaptation in Progress." We played it. It sounded like breathing at first, then layered voices beneath it, rising and falling like waves. The lights dimmed. One of the techs collapsed, convulsing.
He woke up thirty minutes later. But it wasn’t him anymore.
He spoke calmly, in a voice not quite his own, repeating one phrase over and over: “The signal is human now.”
After that, the lockdown triggered. Steel doors slammed shut. No communications out. No air in.
One by one, the others began to change. Not infected—rewritten. Speech patterns altered, thoughts looping, eyes distant. They stared into the dark corners of the room like something was waiting there.
I sealed myself in the comms chamber, tried to send a distress call. But the system denied access—my clearance had been revoked.
The final log I found wasn’t from our team. It was dated five years ago. It detailed a project to “accelerate cognitive evolution through viral architecture.” A controlled outbreak. A global test.
The virus didn’t escape. It was deployed.
And it didn’t kill us. It listened. It learned.
And now, it speaks back.
I was stationed at Eden Facility, buried beneath miles of tundra. We were the backup team, brought in after the first group went dark. No footage. No survivors. Just a single, corrupted transmission: a woman’s voice whispering, “It’s not a disease. It’s a message.”
The upper levels were deserted. No signs of struggle, no blood. Just abandoned workstations, screens still flickering with lines of unread code. In the central lab, we found the vault breached, the core sample missing.
The data logs had been wiped—except for one file labeled "Vocal Pattern—Adaptation in Progress." We played it. It sounded like breathing at first, then layered voices beneath it, rising and falling like waves. The lights dimmed. One of the techs collapsed, convulsing.
He woke up thirty minutes later. But it wasn’t him anymore.
He spoke calmly, in a voice not quite his own, repeating one phrase over and over: “The signal is human now.”
After that, the lockdown triggered. Steel doors slammed shut. No communications out. No air in.
One by one, the others began to change. Not infected—rewritten. Speech patterns altered, thoughts looping, eyes distant. They stared into the dark corners of the room like something was waiting there.
I sealed myself in the comms chamber, tried to send a distress call. But the system denied access—my clearance had been revoked.
The final log I found wasn’t from our team. It was dated five years ago. It detailed a project to “accelerate cognitive evolution through viral architecture.” A controlled outbreak. A global test.
The virus didn’t escape. It was deployed.
And it didn’t kill us. It listened. It learned.
And now, it speaks back.
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