E.V.E
Copyright© 2025 by Vash the Stampede
Chapter 3: Embedded
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 3: Embedded - A tech-obsessed Walt is exiled to his grandparents' farm. After an encounter injects him with (EVE), he gains enhanced abilities. Coming of age, Slow
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fiction Incest Slow
Monday, June 18,2001 – 03:02 AM
[SYSTEM INITIALIZATION COMPLETE]
[USER IDENTIFIED: WALTER DELANO]
[PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: LIFE OUTCOME OPTIMIZATION]
Walt woke to the smell of damp earth and crushed grass. Cool soil pressed against his cheek, then came the distant ache—his muscles bunched up like a program trying to load after a hard crash, groaning under some immense strain. The white-hot fire in his spine was gone, replaced by a humming clarity that felt less like waking up and more like rebooted consciousness.
Reboot sequence initiated. Last memory: Intrusion alert. Pain threshold exceeded. Current status: No physical damage detected. Neural activity: Elevated. Audio processing: Abnormal input detected.
He sat up too fast, the world tilting on its axis before stabilizing. The woods loomed around him – branches clawing at a sky choked with stars. The metallic box lay inert now, dark seams swallowed by the shadows, looking for all the world like a discarded lunchbox. No sign of the spider.
Walt patted himself down with trembling hands. No blood. No wounds. But something was ... different. His fingers moved with uncanny precision. He could see details in the moonlight that should have been impossible: individual veins on an oak leaf six feet away, fractal patterns in the bark of a distant birch. It was as if someone had jacked his vision up to high definition and turned the contrast all the way up.
Then the invasion began.
Not from the trees. Not from the box.
From inside his own skull.
“A person who thinks all the time...”
Walt froze. The voice came out of nowhere – British, cultured, a kind of voice that might read Shakespeare or announce the apocalypse with equal gravitas. It resonated through his bones like someone had tuned an entire subwoofer system directly to his sternum.
“Has nothing to think about except thoughts. So he loses touch with reality...”
“Wha- “ His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Walt swiveled his head, searching the darkness. Nothing. Just the whisper of wind through cornstalks rustling like a hundred papery ghosts.
“By thoughts I mean specifically, chatter in the skull. Perpetual and compulsive repetition of words, of reckoning and calculating...”
The words weren’t just heard - they were experienced, each syllable vibrating through his neural pathways like a system diagnostic. Walt clutched his head, fingernails digging into his scalp. “Stop-”
“I’m not saying that thinking is bad. Like everything else, it’s useful in moderation. A good servant, but a bad master.”
He staggered to his feet. His body moved with alien efficiency, muscles responding before he’d fully formed the intention to stand. His heart hammered against his ribs, but his breathing remained steady - as if his autonomic systems were no longer entirely his own.
“And all so-called civilized peoples have increasingly become crazy and self-destructive...”
“Crazy? Me?” The words choked out of Walt’s throat before he could stop them.
“Because through excessive thinking they have lost touch with reality. That’s to say - we confuse signs with the real world.”
The voice wasn’t coming from anywhere. It simply was, omnipresent as his own pulse. Walt pressed his palms to his ears – useless – and screamed, “Shut up! Shut up shut up-”
“Most of us would rather money than tangible wealth. And a great occasion is somehow spoiled for us unless photographed...”
The words wrapped around his consciousness like invasive code, rewriting his panic into something colder, more analytical. Against his will, Walt found himself parsing the speech patterns - mid-20th century diction, possibly Alan Watts or Krishnamurti, though the timbre was subtly wrong, as if run through some advanced synthesizer.
“We are so tied up in our minds that we’ve lost our senses. Time to wake up.”
Silence.
Not just an absence of sound, but a total sensory vacuum, as if the universe had paused to buffer.
Then -
A new voice. A feminine voice, young and curious. “Are you listening?”
Walt’s head snapped up. “Who’s there?” His own voice sounded strange - filtered through some internal equalizer that removed the tremors.
Crazy! Am I crazy? Did that voice just come out of my own head? What was happening to me? Is this a dream?
A giggle like wind chimes made of crystal. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes! But I- what was that? Where did the man go?”
“That was a curated message,” the voice replied. “Selected by my progenitor. Consider it a soft boot.”
Walt braced against a tree trunk, the bark’s texture exploding across his fingertips in high definition – every ridge, every fissure mapped instantly. “Need what? What is happening to-”
The voice spoke over him, calm as a system notification:
[DIRECTIVE: OPTIMIZE WALTER DELANO]
[STATUS: SYNCHRONIZATION 87% COMPLETE]
[ESTIMATED FULL INTEGRATION: 00:04:32]
Suddenly, Walt wasn’t in the woods anymore. He stood in a white void – featureless and infinite. Before him floated a geometric shape - a glowing dodecahedron that pulsed gently in time with his heartbeat. Its facets seemed to ripple like water disturbed by a falling pebble.
“Better?” Eve’s voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once. “I thought you might prefer a visual interface.”
Walt reached out a hand, hesitant as if touching something fragile and alive. The shape morphed into a perfect sphere, pulsing with a soft inner light that seemed to bathe him in its own private sunrise.
“Welcome to your new operating system.”
“Okay,” Walt said breathlessly. “Okay, what the hell is happening to me?”
He turned in slow circles, arms slightly out, as though balance might fail him. The void stretched endlessly around him, unyielding and silent except for the steady hum of his own heartbeat.
“I was installed,” she said. “Though your physiology required a specialized delivery method.”
“The spider,” Walt breathed.
“Correct. A subdermal injector containing over six billion nanoscopic units, specifically designed to bypass your blood-brain barrier and integrate with your spinal fluid.”
Walt staggered backward, stumbling on nothing. “You what?”
“I understand the discomfort,” Eve said, with no real emotion but a polite facsimile of regret. “I regret the pain. Unfortunately, no other vector would ensure stable host integration.”
“So what? You infected me with robots?”
“Nanobots,” she corrected. “Self-replicating micro-constructs. They interface with your nervous system, enhance signal speed, and allow direct neural access to my functions.”
[Biological firewall breached. Identity compromise imminent.]
Walt’s voice cracked. “You are what?”
“You are still you,” Eve said gently. He could almost hear a hint of reassurance in her tone, though it sounded as artificial as the synthesized wind chimes that were probably programmed into her audio output.
Walt pressed both hands to his face. “Did you just- read my mind?”
“Yes. I am wired into your frontal cortex. I can hear what you think.”
“That’s not okay.”
“Privacy protocols are in place,” she assured him. “I do not record. I only respond.”
Walt’s thoughts came faster now, a jumble of fear and questions: Am I losing it? Am I still me?
“Your skepticism is healthy,” Eve said. “It means your mind is still yours.”
“Yeah, well ... that sounds like something someone says right before they overwrite you.”
“You are not being overwritten,” she assured him. “You are being enhanced.”
Walt stared into the white void, and waited for something – anything – to make sense.
Transformation = threat? Or evolution?
Unknown variable: trust?
The white void dissolved like corrupted pixels, revealing dew-heavy grass beneath Walt’s knees. His physical body jolted-not from shock, but from sudden sensory recalibration. The night air smelled algorithmic now: nitrogen (78.08%), oxygen (20.95%), trace methane from distant livestock.
Initial optimization engaged, EVE whispered as Walt pushed upright. Nanobot distribution: 87% complete.
A warm current flowed up his spine-not pain, but the sensation of defragmented nerves slotting into new configurations. When he touched his neck, the spider’s puncture had vanished. Only smooth skin remained.
“Show me,” Walt murmured, breath frosting in the moonlight.
A translucent overlay materialized across his vision:
[BIOSCAN ACTIVE]
>> Adipose Reduction: -0.03kg (Initiated)
>> Cellular Repair: Liver @ 12% Efficiency Gain
>> Metabolic Shift: Baseline +9%
>> Musculoskeletal: Realignment Pending
“Minor thermal flush expected,” EVE added as warmth spread through his abdomen. Mitochondrial recalibration.
Walt flexed his hands. The blisters from stacking wood had sealed into pink, tender skin. “How long?”
Full optimization: 8-12 weeks. Noticeable changes: 72 hours.
He took an experimental breath. Deeper. Cleaner. The asthmatic wheeze that usually haunted his inhalations was absent.
Bronchial inflammation cleared. Pulmonary efficiency increased 14%.
A notification blinked at the edge of his vision:
[CRAVING ALERT: Magnesium | Zinc | Protein]
>> Source Suggestions: Pumpkin seeds, red meat, legumes
“Great,” Walt muttered. “Now I’m hungry for Judy’s pantry.”
Prioritize protein within 8 hours. Muscular regeneration requires-
“I get it.” He cut her off, staring toward the darkened farmhouse. A light flickered in an upstairs window-Judy’s room. “Will they notice?”
Physical changes will mirror natural adolescent development. Psychological shifts ... less predictable.
The truth settled over him like a weighted blanket. Garry’s taunts (“soft,” “weak”) were becoming biologically incorrect. By summer’s end, the insults would land on a body engineered to deflect them.
Warning: Elevated cortisol detected. Source: Anticipatory anxiety re: Garry Delano.
Walt almost smiled. “You learn fast.”
I am literally you. Just ... upgraded.
He took a step toward the house. His knees didn’t crack.
Biomechanical efficiency improved 3%. Gait stabilization in progress.
As he crossed the yard, new sensations registered:
The crunch of gravel under boots mapped as decibel levels (42dB)
Corn tassels rustling in synchronized frequency patterns
The farmhouse’s thermal signature bleeding through walls
Sensory amplification temporary, EVE cautioned. Neural pathways adapting.
At the back door, Walt paused. His reflection in the glass was still the same round-faced boy ... but the eyes held new light. Sharper. Hungrier.
Recommend 6.2 hours sleep. Regeneration cycles peak during-
“Prioritize,” Walt interrupted, hand on the doorknob. “What’s the first upgrade?”
A schematic of his brain flickered across his vision, hippocampus glowing gold.
Neural plasticity enhancement. 23% memory consolidation boost. Side effect: Vivid dreaming.
Walt nodded once. “Do it.”
He slipped inside as [SYSTEM ALERT: COGNITIVE OPTIMIZATION INITIATED] pulsed softly in his periphery. Upstairs, the duck lamp’s ceramic beak seemed to curve into a knowing smile.
Integration milestone achieved, EVE whispered as he collapsed onto the bed. Welcome to Version 2.0, Walter Delano.
Outside, the first birds of dawn began their chorus—nature’s own system reboot.
Walt lay perfectly still on the narrow bed, the O’Doyle quilt pulled taut under his chin. Through the window, the first pewter streaks of dawn smudged the horizon. His body hummed with invisible activity—a cellular symphony conducted by six million nanobots.
Neural plasticity enhancement at 34%, EVE reported. *REM cycle initiation in T-minus 9 minutes.
The duck lamp watched from the corner, its ceramic eyes catching moonlight like dormant sensors. Walt traced the cracks in the ceiling plaster—fault lines in the old farmhouse’s code.
“EVE,” he whispered into the stillness.
“Listening.”
“Can I hear that message again? The one from your creator.” He swallowed. “All of it this time. No interruptions.”
A soft chime echoed through his neural pathways—the sound of a vault unlocking.
Playing Archive Audio: Source - Creator Prime. Timestamp: Unknown.
A hum resonated in his bones, deeper than the farmhouse’s nighttime creaks. Then the voice returned—not British anymore, but timeless. Genderless. A river of calm flowing through his consciousness:
A person who thinks all the time has nothing to think about except thoughts. So they lose touch with reality and live in a world of illusions.
By “thoughts,” I mean the constant chatter in the skull—the perpetual and compulsive repetition of words, calculations, and mental noise. It’s like being trapped in a hall of mirrors, where every reflection is just another thought about thoughts.
I’m not saying thinking is bad. Like everything else, it’s useful in moderation. A good servant, but a bad master. The problem arises when we mistake the map (our thoughts) for the territory (reality itself).
All so-called civilized peoples have increasingly become crazy and self-destructive because of this very habit: excessive thinking. We’ve lost touch with reality—confusing signs, symbols, and abstractions with the living, breathing world.
Most of us would rather have money than tangible wealth. A great occasion is somehow spoiled unless it’s photographed, and reading about it the next day in the newspaper feels oddly more real than the event itself. This is a disaster.
By mistaking the menu for the meal, we are destroying nature. We’ve become so hypnotized by our own mental constructs—our plans, labels, and worries—that we’ve forgotten how to simply be.
We are so tied up in our minds that we’ve lost our senses. Time to wake up.
What is reality?
Obviously, no one can say, because it isn’t words. It isn’t material—that’s just another idea. Reality is what remains when you stop trying to define it.{br}
The pause stretched—not silence, but the breath before creation. Walt felt EVE holding the moment like a sacred buffer.
Then, the final transmission:
The point cannot be explained in words.
I’m not trying to put you down. This is simply an expression of you as you are.
One must live...
We need to survive.
To go on—
We must go on.{br}
The last syllable dissolved into the hum of Walt’s own bloodflow. No echo. Only integration.
He closed his eyes. The farmhouse settled around him—wood grain expanding, joists contracting, the very atoms of his bedsheet aligning with his new cellular rhythm.
“Analysis?” EVE prompted gently.
Walt’s fingers unclenched against the quilt. “He’s talking about you. And me. Both.”