"Hello, world. This is Dr. Eden Rustle."
"Recently, I've taken an interest in writing, literature... and as it seems fun, I thought of sharing my world with you all."
Collins sat frozen, the soft glow of the heat-revealed ink dancing under the lamplight. For a man whose every word had been hidden behind the veil of science, Eden's tone was disarmingly human.
He turned to the next page, and the heat coaxed more of Eden's thoughts to life.
"My mother always used to say, 'Eden, you are a curious boy.' Most people take that as a compliment. But in my case... I never quite did. Because 'curious' was always what came right before 'crazy.'"
"Oh—what am I even saying? Sorry for the tangent. I do this often. My thoughts wander. Some people call it distracted. I prefer... 'a traveler of ideas.' It helps."
"I imagine myself quite differently from others, you know? I live more in potential than in the present."
"Oh dear, there I go again."
Collins blinked at the page. The flow was chaotic, like a stream-of-consciousness monologue. It wasn't traditional writing—it felt like Eden was talking aloud to the diary as he wrote.
"Oh boy, oh boy. What a waste of good paper. Right, let's try again."
"Hello, world. This is Dr. Eden Rustle. Head researcher—and perhaps the only researcher—of this project."
Collins narrowed his eyes. "What project? Where's the name?"
He flipped the page.
"Oh right. I can't write the name. If anyone finds this, I'd be in more danger than I already am. Right... right. Great danger. That's a good save, Eden."
Collins frowned, running a hand through his hair. "Is he seriously narrating his own redactions? Who is this guy? Is he genuinely a scientist or a failed poet with a clearance badge?"
He turned another page.
"Okay, okay. Let's really start from the beginning..."
Collins groaned, dragging his palm down his face.
"Oh, come on," he muttered, barely resisting the urge to slam the diary shut. "I swear to God, I'm going to punch something."
But deep down, even through the frustration, he was hooked.
Because behind all the rambling and awkward charm... Eden was hiding something.
Something worth the chaos.
________________________________________________________________
"Hello, world. I am Eden Rustle."
"I write this not for science, nor for protocol. I write this as a sign of my consciousness—proof that I existed, that a man named Eden once drew breath in this world."
We humans are strange, aren't we? Someone once told me that my constant urge to leave behind 'signs'—to mark my presence—was the most human thing about me. That it proved I wasn't just a mind buried in equations or algorithms, but a creature of blood and soul like everyone else.
They said humans are territorial not only in space but in time. Obsessed with carving names into bark, building monuments, etching initials into wet concrete. Leaving behind echoes.
At the time, I dismissed it. It sounded too romantic, too drenched in nostalgia. Like something your grandfather would mutter while staring at the ruins of some ancient temple.
But lately, I've been thinking about it again. And maybe—just maybe—there was something true in it.
Because perhaps it's not death that truly haunts mankind.
Perhaps what terrifies us most… is being forgotten.
To slip into obscurity like a whisper in the wind. To become a statistic. A ghost without a grave.
Compared to that, death itself feels almost juvenile—like a toddler learning to walk, clumsy and innocent.
Ah, forgive me. My mind wanders. I imagine some of you reading this might be thinking, "What the hell is he rambling about?"
Let me make it clearer.
I am beginning to feel quarantined—not medically, but existentially. Forgotten. Abandoned by the world I once contributed to. Left alone in this hollow structure of steel and silence.
So I've decided to leave behind something of myself. A voice. A thought. A thread in the fabric of time.
This diary shall be my companion. My confessional. My mirror.
I will write in it when I can, especially when there's something worthwhile to share. Observations. Discoveries. Maybe even hopes—though those are getting harder to come by.
Of course, I can't risk anyone finding actual recordings. That would be too obvious, too traceable. So I've chosen to write in real time, in the way I speak. Raw. Unpolished. Honest.
And yes—coffee ink.
Because why not?
If science can give me the tools to preserve myself, even in a whisper, I will use it.
To exist is to be remembered.
Let this be my monument.
Collins, too deeply drawn into Eden's strange rhythm of thought, silently turned to the next page. The heat from the lamp coaxed out a fresh set of words—another voice, another day.
"New voice. Two days after the first."
"Oh man. Now that I'm into it, I really feel it—writing is fun. It's liberating. But writing the truth? That's another matter entirely."
"Truth is dull. Disappointing. A stiff suit that never quite fits. It cages your words because it must remain loyal to what happened. And you can't change what happened, can you?"
"But you can tell it in your own language. Dress it up. Make it dance. Of course, it's frowned upon to twist the truth just to make it 'engaging'—immoral, even."
"But really, who cares? No one's chasing the truth anymore. They want stories—good old stories to numb them from the terrifying clarity of truth."
"So let me give you a story. My first story. The story of a thinking ant."
"Ants are some of the most misunderstood creatures in the world. We underestimate them. But if you look closely—really look—you'll see it."
"They communicate. They farm. They build homes. They respect their dead. They even wage wars to protect their colonies."
"Sounds familiar, doesn't it? Sounds like us."
"This is the story of one such ant. It never had a name, because ants don't give names. But let's call it 'One.'"
"From the moment One was born, it was told its purpose was to serve the Queen. To live for the colony. But it was also told it was free—free to choose."
"Choose. What a beautiful word, right? But what is a choice?"
"So One asked, 'What is a choice?'"
"The elders said, 'A choice is what makes you you. It's based on your values, your thoughts, your psychology.'"
"To which One replied, 'So... it's predetermined then. Isn't it?'"
"They laughed. 'No, no. Choice is freedom. You can choose whatever you want. That's what makes you unique.'"
"But One sat in silence for a while and said, 'You misunderstand. The predetermination doesn't begin after my birth—it began before it. I am an ant. That's my truth. Even if I chose to be a bird, I couldn't be one. Because I was never meant to be a bird.'"
"And if I chose to wander away from the nest—to live freely—you'd call me a traitor. An outcast. Not because you chose to, but because that's the law of the colony. The reality of ants."
*"The nest was silent. They had seen ants who thinks before. But never one who has thoughts . Never one who reflects."
"And you know what follows reflection? Difference. And difference, my dear reader, is the birthplace of jealousy."
Some of the ants, slowly simmering in jealousy toward One—jealousy of his growing wisdom, his uniqueness, and his quiet rise in the Queen's favor—began to plot against him. After all, ants may not speak as humans do, but they think. And sometimes, thought is enough to destroy.
They came to him in the guise of friends. With soft gestures and feigned curiosity, they said, "Share your thoughts with us. We admire the way your mind dances."
Flattered and trusting, One opened up. He shared fragments of his philosophy, the corners of his reflections—little pieces of his soul.
And then, with precision sharper than mandibles, they turned it all against him.
They went to the elders, reciting his ideas word for word, not as students of wisdom, but as thieves of it. They took credit, dressed in stolen thoughts, and the colony praised them. Elevating them. Glorifying them.
One, startled by the sudden turn, tried to explain. Tried to reclaim his thoughts, his voice.
But before he could, they silenced him. Brutally.
A group dragged him away from the others, under the veil of duty. And there, in the shadows of the nest, they tore him apart—limb by limb.
Not because they feared his strength, but because they feared his difference.
And when his body lay broken, barely alive, they tossed him into the colony's grave pit—a place reserved for the forgotten.
Because if they could not take his thoughts, they could take his reality.
The end.
"You see, the story was about ants."
"But was there anything in it that humans wouldn't do?"
"They envy. They ridicule. They mimic, mock, manipulate. And when threatened—when confronted with something truly different—they betray."
"Ah, my dear humans… let your inner ant think. Reflect. But never forget your reality."
"Because while your thoughts may rise above the soil, your nature still walks among it."
"What in the philosophical fuck was that?" Collins muttered, pacing angrily around the tent.
He slammed the diary onto the table with a sharp thud. His face twisted in confusion and frustration.
"Is he a bloody researcher or Socrates babbling nonsense?" he growled, throwing his hands up. "And for god's sake, write it all in broken grammar like a bloody dumbass."
He glared at the diary as if it had personally insulted him. After a moment of silent fuming, he grabbed his comm device and clicked into the private channel.
"Meesha, meet me in the research tent. Now," he barked into the mic.
Minutes later, inside the dimly lit tent, Collins shoved the diary across the table toward Meesha, who caught it, startled.
"It's encrypted, in a way," Collins said, breathing heavily. "Hidden writing — needs heat to reveal. And it's all... this philosophical, metaphorical crap."
He raked a hand through his hair, still fuming. "I need you to find out who this 'Eden' fellow really was."
Meesha flipped the diary open carefully, reading a few lines under the lamp's glow.
"A researcher and a philosopher..." she murmured under her breath.
"What?" Collins caught her tone immediately. He narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"
Meesha hesitated, her fingers lingering on the page. Then she muttered so softly it was almost a whisper,
"...He can't be him."
Collins' ears perked up. He leaned in.
"Who can't he be, Meesha?" he demanded, voice low but sharp.
Meesha sighed, setting the diary down with deliberate care.
"There was someone I knew... or rather, knew of," she said slowly.
"Back in college."
Collins crossed his arms, impatient. "Spit it out."
She nodded. "His name was Eden too. Eden Rustle. He was in his final year when I was just a freshman. I never met him personally — he graduated before I could."
"Then how the hell do you remember him so clearly?" Collins pressed.
Meesha smiled faintly — a sad, distant sort of smile.
"Because there were... stories about him."
"Stories?" Collins repeated. "What kind of stories?"
"Not stories in the way you'd think," she corrected. "More like whispered legends. Embellished rumors that sounded like stories."
She sat down across from Collins, her expression darkening.
"Eden was a poor student. Dirt poor. Only got into the institute because of scholarships and sheer brilliance. His mother died from fever one winter — no money for medicine or even a proper blanket. His father..."
She hesitated.
"His father was accused of being a foreign spy. He disappeared one night. No trial. No explanation. Just gone."
Collins frowned, absorbing the weight of her words.
"But Eden," Meesha continued, "he was a prodigy. A real one. Top of every class. People said he didn't just learn fast — he thought differently. Completely differently."
She exhaled sharply.
"Still, poverty crushed him. He started doing other students' assignments for money — desperate to survive."
"And his research?" Collins asked, intrigued despite himself.
Meesha nodded grimly.
"DNA research. Advanced stuff, even by today's standards. They say he was working on ideas so ahead of his time that most professors didn't even understand what he was trying to do."
Collins leaned forward. "And then?"
"And then..." Meesha's voice softened to almost a whisper,
"...he was caught."
"Caught doing what?"
"Plagiarizing," she said, her voice hollow. "Stealing others' work. Or at least... that's what they claimed."
"They expelled him?" Collins guessed.
Meesha nodded once.
"Suspended immediately. His reputation was destroyed overnight. One day, he was at the top of the world; the next, he was just... gone. No graduation. No forwarding address. No public records after that."
Collins sat back, digesting the information. He muttered under his breath,
"Genius... poor... different... accused... exiled..."
His mind raced, connecting dots faster than he could process.
"Ant," he said suddenly.
Meesha frowned. "What?"
Collins shook his head slightly. "Nothing. Just thinking."
He leaned back in his chair and studied her carefully.
"Are you sure all of this is true?" he asked.
Meesha offered a helpless shrug.
"I don't know. They were just... stories," she said. "College rumors. Nobody ever knew the whole truth."
Collins tapped the table thoughtfully, staring down at the diary.
"Poor prodigy. Exiled genius. Builder of cages and wings."
He didn't know whether Eden Rustle was a villain, a visionary, or just another broken soul crushed by a system that feared anything different.
But he knew one thing for sure:
This was no ordinary researcher.
Suddenly, the tent's intercom crackled to life, requesting Dr. Collins to report to the central meeting area.
The voice was unmistakable—it was Captain Elliot himself.
Collins let out a frustrated sigh. "Damn it, what does he want now?" he muttered under his breath.
Meesha, who had been quietly organizing a pile of weathered documents, turned sharply. Her expression was tense.
"You don't think… he's found out, do you?" she asked, her voice low and uneasy.
Collins shook his head, though uncertainty flickered in his eyes.
"I doubt it," he replied. "But just in case, let me handle this. I'll see what he's after. In the meantime, start digitizing the diary pages—everything we've recovered so far. We need backups."
Meesha nodded, biting her lip. "Be careful."
Collins didn't respond. He was already halfway to the entrance, striding quickly through the maze of tents and cables toward the large central pavilion designated as the meeting zone. When he entered, Captain Elliot was already waiting, standing near the long table where strategy maps had once covered every inch. Now, the surface was almost bare.
Elliot turned to face him, a carefully measured smile playing on his lips.
"Dr. Collins," he greeted, tone light, almost cheerful. "Still working hard, I see."
"It's what we came here to do, sir," Collins replied, keeping his posture straight.
"Yes, of course," Elliot said, nodding. But there was an edge to his voice—one Collins didn't miss. "And yet... still nothing conclusive to show for it."
Collins didn't take the bait. He remained silent, letting the remark hang in the air.
Elliot seemed to catch himself, waving a hand dismissively.
"Oh, what am I saying? That wasn't meant as criticism."
He gave a short, breathy chuckle. "I suppose I'm just frustrated. We all hoped for more from this expedition. But hey, this was only the first attempt—there will be others."
Collins raised an eyebrow. "Others? You mean future missions?"
Elliot hesitated a moment too long. "Well, that depends on Command. But as far as this mission is concerned… I've called you here to inform you that we're wrapping up. The retrieval operation is officially ending."
Collins blinked. "Ending?"
"Yes," Elliot confirmed. "We'll begin dismantling the forward camp tomorrow. In three days, we'll be returning home."
The words hit Collins like a punch to the gut. So close. We're right on the edge of the truth… and he's pulling the plug now?
Maintaining his composure, Collins gave a short nod. "Understood, sir. I'll have the final reports prepared by tomorrow evening."
"Excellent," Elliot said, giving a tight smile. As Collins turned to leave, the captain called out again.
"Oh, and Collins…"
The doctor stopped in the doorway.
"You should try to get some rest," Elliot said, his tone oddly gentle. "You've been pushing yourself hard."
Collins gave a faint smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Yes, sir. I'll see to it."
As he stepped outside, the cold air hit him, but it wasn't enough to cool the storm raging inside.
Rest? he thought bitterly. Not while we're this close. Not when the truth is just beneath our feet and he's walking away from it.
Collin hurriedly reached for Meesha just as he stepped through the door. His voice was urgent, the words tumbling out as he relayed everything Elliot had told him.
When he finished, Meesha stared at him for a moment, processing.
"So… what now?" she finally asked, her tone cautious but steady.
"We need to pick up the pace," Collin replied, already moving toward the equipment rack. "We have to reach the abyss of things as quickly as possible. No more delays."
He paused, turning back to her. "Did you finish scanning all the pages of the diary? I want a complete digital backup—nothing left behind."
Meesha nodded. "Yes, I've scanned every page. We've got the full copy in the archive now. And… there's something else—"
But Collin cut her off. "That's enough. The backup is all we need for now."
He walked toward the reinforced suit, the one labeled Version 5, resting inside its case like a relic from a forgotten war.
"I'm going to wear Version 5," he said quietly, almost to himself. "I'm going back into the abyss. One last time."
Meesha's voice suddenly sharpened. "Before you do that—you need to read the remaining entries in the diary."
Collin looked back at her, surprised by the weight in her tone. "Is it that important?"
She didn't hesitate. "More than important. It changes everything."
Without another word, Collin made his way to his camp, the wind outside rattling the thin metal walls as he sat down and pulled the old diary back into his lap. He flipped past the pages he had already read, stopping at the section Meesha had marked.
He muttered to himself as he opened the page. "So this is it… the part that explains everything."
The first words on the page were blunt, almost irritated in tone:
"The last story, I know, was frustrating. Too many tangled threads and not enough answers."
"So, dear reader, if you didn't appreciate the tone or language back there, I suggest you stop now. From here on out, things only become more dense, more abstract—words will mean more than they say."
"But if you're still with me… then thank you."
"Allow me to tell you another story. A personal one. A fable from my four-part novel."
The title stood out, strange and whimsical, almost out of place in the heavy silence of the camp:
"Fish, Tortoise, and Jellyfish."