Dr. Eleanor Finch's Daily Record
Date: October 17, 2037
Location: Project Epsilon, Facility Depth 6
The morning check-in was brief, as usual. Only a small cluster of staff work down here on Depth 6, despite the need for constant vigilance. Every morning I descend two levels underground, leaving behind the mess hall chatter, natural light, and every sense of normalcy. The deeper I go, the quieter it becomes. Depth 6 is nearly silent, the weight of reinforced concrete and steel swallowing even our footsteps. Down here, we all speak in hushed voices, as if the walls themselves are listening.
Today was my shift to observe and record interactions in Cell 14 — the residence of Subject 14, whom we call "Harlan." As far as I know, Harlan has never said a word. None of us know if he can't, or if he simply chooses not to. Either way, we mark him as mute in his file, though the term feels inadequate. He has his own language — a way of communicating that speaks louder than words ever could.
Harlan is only nine years old, but he's different, even from the other children housed here. Physically, he's small, almost delicate, with an unassuming presence that lulls new observers into a false sense of ease. But when you look closer, you see an alertness, a profound intelligence, in his dark, steady eyes. The other children in the facility struggle to manage their own remarkable gifts — some manifest odd mutations, others emit energies that are difficult to control. Harlan, however, has never struggled. The control he exercises over his ability is startling, even unsettling at times.
Note: Subject 14's primary ability involves gravitational manipulation, to a degree previously undocumented.
It was quiet in the observation room as I began the routine tests. I set down my clipboard, watching Harlan through the reinforced glass. He sat cross-legged on his cot, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, lost in thought. It's odd to witness a child so young in such a state of contemplation, but Harlan isn't like other children. It's a well-known fact among us that he doesn't play or interact with the small set of toys they provided, nor does he speak to the other children. His solitude is self-imposed, an unbreakable ritual.
For today's session, I activated the ceiling emitter, a device designed to apply incremental gravitational shifts within his cell. I set it to the first level, increasing gravity by ten percent. Harlan's focus shifted as he sensed the change. I watched as he raised a hand, fingers splayed, and with a small, almost lazy gesture, he countered the increase effortlessly. His movements were fluid, instinctive. I could see the slight ripple as gravity bowed to his will, as if it were obeying an unseen command.
"Level two," I said softly into the microphone, and the control operator complied. A twenty-percent increase. The other children have struggled with this setting, often unable to bear the strain as the extra weight pressed down on them. But Harlan barely flinched. He shifted in his seat, lifting one hand into the air, and I watched, transfixed, as the force of gravity adjusted to his whim. Papers and pens on my desk began to float gently, a strange and surreal effect. I could feel the subtle change in the room even from behind the glass — a tingling, a slight tug. He was controlling not only his own gravitational field but expanding it, projecting his influence beyond his cell.
In any other circumstance, I would have called for an immediate cessation of the test, fearing for my safety. But I stayed still, watching him. The floating objects drifted back down as he lowered his hand, allowing gravity to normalize. I noted the ease with which he released his hold. None of it was difficult for him.
Observation: Subject 14 displayed precise gravitational manipulation under a 20% increase. Emotional and physiological stress indicators remain stable.
My pulse quickened as I recorded his response, my hand trembling slightly. Despite everything, despite my years of experience, the mystery that is Harlan never fails to unnerve me. There is a profound quiet to his power, as though he is perpetually listening to something we cannot hear. The other children show signs of strain when they attempt control. With Harlan, it's almost as if his power has simply accepted him, moving in sync with his thoughts.
After the tests concluded, I stepped into his cell. The staff discourages direct interaction, but there's something about Harlan that compels a person to breach protocol. He didn't look up, only continued to stare at the floor with that strange, contemplative gaze.
"Harlan," I said softly, more a question than a greeting.
He glanced up. Those dark eyes, heavy with understanding. I felt as though he could see beyond me, beyond the concrete walls and the buzzing lights. In that instant, I knew he understood everything I wasn't saying. That he knew the tests, the observations, were more than simple research. And that he didn't fear it. He wasn't waiting for an explanation or any form of sympathy.
"Do you understand why you're here?" I asked, knowing he wouldn't respond in words.
He held my gaze, his expression as unreadable as stone. Then, slowly, he raised one hand, palm open, and I felt the slightest, briefest shift beneath my feet. It was as if gravity itself had whispered to me, reminding me that the power he held could crush or uplift in equal measure. And then it was gone, leaving me feeling weightless, almost dizzy.
I left his cell feeling like I had just walked away from a conversation I couldn't remember but would never forget.
End of Record
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Personal Notes (Encrypted):
The deeper we go into these experiments, the more I question the ethics behind Project Epsilon. What are we doing to these children? I've seen cases where children lose their grasp on reality, their minds cracking under the pressure of being studied and probed. But not Harlan. He is enduring, perhaps even thriving in these conditions. And that terrifies me. There is an intelligence in him that is simply beyond his years, a quiet power that he seems to choose not to use against us. I suspect he knows exactly what this facility is for, who we are, and what he could do if he wished.
If he wanted to, he could tear this place apart, bring it all crashing down.
But he doesn't. And I can't tell if that makes him more or less dangerous.