E.V.E
Copyright© 2025 by Vash the Stampede
Chapter 4: The Grind
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 4: The Grind - Walt Delano’s home life is a minefield. Exiled to rural Indiana for the summer, he expects boredom and blisters—not E.V.E., an embedded virtual entity. Farm work becomes training, pain becomes signal, and a lightning strike turns E.V.E. self-aware. Between a stoic grandfather, a fiercely kind grandmother, and a father who weaponizes shame from afar, Walt’s coming-of-age collides with an AI’s coming-to-life.
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fiction Incest Slow
Date: Tuesday, June 19th,2001
[INTERNAL ENVIRONMENT LOADING... ]
Light fractured across his inner vision like code spilling sideways through a broken console. Suspended in a slow-motion vacuum, he floated inside a simulation, watching as glowing silhouettes of his internal systems lit up like a city grid rebooting. Veins mapped like subway lines pulsed. Capillaries blinked in microbursts. Muscles glowed faintly with synthetic micro-currents. Nerve clusters sparkled like tangled constellations. Beautiful. Unsettling. Like watching someone else wear his body.
Then they came.
Tiny mechanical forms, spider-like but sleek – pinhead-sized with glowing blue cores – scuttled across his organs with terrifying speed. Some hauled broken tissue debris. Others deployed silky filaments to knit muscle fibers. One team spiraled and blasted through a blood clot. Sparks burst. Fragments evaporated.
“Repair subroutine 12 active,” EVE’s voice narrated.
The bots paused, gesturing with microscopic light bursts – binary arguments about vectors and elasticity. They weren’t just healing. They were improving.
Walt watched, awed and uneasy, as dead fat cells were tagged, engulfed, and repurposed. Skin cells restructured. Neurons flared as axons lengthened. In his prefrontal cortex, a nanobot planted a glowing node.
“Don’t worry,” EVE soothed. “I won’t make you a superhero. Yet...
The world folded.
Suddenly Walt stood inside a digitized echo of Room 4 – furniture wireframes, heartbeat scrolling on the monitor, blue gridlines flickering on the floor. Above, data streamed like constellations. A chrome-edged mirror appeared.
He stepped forward. His reflection blinked back – sharper cheekbones, clearer skin, subtly advanced hairline, straighter shoulders. Eyes without hesitation.
“Preview mode,” EVE announced. “Projected adaptation. Possible.”
The reflection smiled. Walt reached out. The glass pulsed faintly, alive.
“You are not becoming something or someone else,” EVE added softly. “You are becoming a you, without limits.”
The reflection shimmered away. A final glyph hovered: a rotating sigil like a fingerprint merged with a clock.
[PROCESSING FUTURE POTENTIAL ... STANDBY]
Walt woke before dawn, eyes open, listening to cicadas fade. He moved with calm purpose – no aching reluctance. As he sat up, the world snapped into wrongness. Blurred edges. Halos around the duck lamp. He fumbled instinctively for his thick glasses on the nightstand, jammed them onto his nose – and gasped.
The world warped. Lines bent. Depth perception skewed nauseatingly. The sharp clarity he’d felt moments before in the dream was gone, replaced by visual noise.
“What the-? EVE, my vision’s corrupted! Did the bots fry my optic nerves?”
“Negative,” her voice was calm. “Ocular enhancement complete. Your corneal irregularities and lens deficiencies have been corrected. Your prescription lenses now introduce significant refractive error. They are actively degrading your optimized visual input.”
Walt slowly pulled the glasses off. The world resolved – not just clearly, but hyper-defined. Grain in the wooden floorboards three feet away. Individual threads in the quilt. The subtle texture variations in the plaster ceiling. No strain. No blur. He blinked, disoriented.
“I ... don’t need them?”
“Corrective lenses are obsolete for your current ocular specifications,” EVE confirmed. “Your natural vision now exceeds 20/8 acuity with enhanced contrast sensitivity and low-light performance.”
He stared at the glasses in his hand – heavy, greasy, symbols of his old fragility. A sudden wave of vertigo hit, not from his eyes, but from the loss of a familiar shield. He carefully set them aside. The world stayed sharp. He dressed in silence, the oversized boots and one of Darwin’s old shirts donned with smooth, shocking efficiency. His body responded. Obedient. Optimized.
Downstairs, the floorboards creaked familiarly under his weight, but his steps were lighter. Darwin, at the kitchen table with black coffee, looked up mid-sip. Expecting to bark Walt awake, he saw the boy alert, dressed, standing tall. Without his glasses. One eyebrow lifted.
“Didn’t have to wake you.”
“Already up,” Walt replied, voice flat, confident. No stammer.
Darwin made a sound – half grunt, half hmm. Recalculation. He set the mug down. “Good. Get started. Feed, water, check the coop.”
Walt nodded, and stepped outside.
Chores that wrecked him days ago felt like debugging a learned system. The pitchfork balanced perfectly. Hay bales felt lighter. He moved around pecking chickens with fluid precision, ducking razored beaks almost subconsciously. Even the ammonia punch of manure was just data now – logged, endured.
[MOTOR FUNCTION OPTIMIZATION: 11%]
[NEURO-MUSCULAR LATENCY: REDUCED]
“You’re welcome,” EVE chirped.
“I didn’t say thank you.”
“Your posture did.”
He worked like a machine executing clean code. Goats fed. Troughs scrubbed. Eggs collected. When a hen struck, he blocked it smoothly with a pan. Muscle fatigue was a distant murmur, chemically muted. By the barnyard edge, sunlight crowned the fields. A white flatbed truck was parked near the shed, piled with coiled wire and treated fence posts. Darwin checked inventory, clipboard in hand.
Walt approached, brushing hay off his sleeves. Steady breath. Cool body.
“What’s that for?” He nodded at the truck.
“Fence. South perimeter.” Darwin’s eyes flicked up, lingering on Walt’s glasses-less face for a beat. “After breakfast, load the trailers. You ever used a post hole digger?”
Walt shook his head. “Not really.”
Without a word, Darwin gestured into the shed shadows. Among the old tools stood the manual post hole digger: twin handles, rusted steel, a hinge creaking with age. It looked like a relic from an Inquisition toolkit.
“EVE,” Walt thought, “Is there a version that doesn’t look like medieval torture?”
“Modern farms use PTO-powered augers. Efficient. Hydraulic. Clean hole in under a minute.”
“And that?”
“Manual post hole digger. Human-powered. Strength-intensive. Excellent for working deltoids, biceps, forearms, traps, core, glutes, quads. Also useful for inducing existential dread.”
“Wonderful.”
Darwin let out a dry snort. City kid. Assumed machines did the hard part. No concept of dirt under nails, sweat as currency. This tool worked everything. A grinder of boys into men.
“Eat first,” Darwin jerked his chin toward the house. “You’re gonna need the fuel.”
Walt stepped back into the house, boots landing with a muted cadence on the well-worn wood floor. Without breaking stride, he made for the bathroom. Another purge sequence had run its course-less catastrophic than the first, but the stench was still weapon-grade.
[WASTE PURGE COMPLETE: 73% VOLUME REDUCTION]
“You’re welcome,”
“Would it have killed you to add an air filter?” Walt muttered, gagging as he shoved the window open.
“I specialize in surgical efficiency, not environmental aromatics,” EVE replied with clinical detachment.
Walt scrubbed his hands and splashed cold water on his face. The reflection staring back from the mirror wasn’t radically different-but it was undeniably sharper. Leaner jawline. Clearer skin. A strange calm in the eyes. His physiology was beginning to match the interior recalibration.
Downstairs, the rich aroma of breakfast cut through the remnants of nausea: sausage sizzling, eggs steaming, biscuits still baking. Judy moved through the kitchen with a fluid, almost practiced rhythm, humming something familiar as she plated food.
She glanced over her shoulder. Her gaze landed on him-glasses absent, posture restructured, demeanor altered.
“Saw the delivery truck pull in,” she said, her tone warm but grounded. “Figured Darwin’s got you on some brutal assignment today. Made sure you’ve got more than just toast in you. And yes, I packed lunch, too.”
Walt paused at the edge of the room. There was no performance in her voice-just unspoken experience and care distilled into breakfast.
“Thanks, Grandma,” he said. “Really. For everything.”
She didn’t turn. “Of course, sweetheart. Sit. Eat while it’s hot.”
He sat. She delivered the plate-eggs, sausage, and biscuits slathered in melted butter.
The first bite activated something primal. Systems aligned. Even EVE, ever-vigilant, didn’t interrupt.
[GLYCOGEN INDEX: REPLENISHED 48%]
[METABOLIC RATE: OPTIMAL]
[CALORIC ABSORPTION: EFFICIENT]
Moments later, Darwin entered, trailing dried mud and the scent of sun-drenched hay. He poured himself a mug of coffee, collected a plate, and sat across from Walt in silence. They ate without conversation-just the ambient clink of utensils and the low rhythm of chewing. The silence wasn’t awkward; it was procedural.
Judy kept moving, quiet and effective, like a well-coded background operation.
Once the meal was nearly finished, she handed each of them a brown paper lunch sack. Then, with a grunt of effort, she hoisted a red Igloo cooler onto the floor beside the door.
“Lemonade,” she said. “Cold, sweet, and packed with enough sugar to keep you from keeling over. Keep it shaded and please remember to drink it.”
Darwin responded with a noise that could have been a thank-you. Possibly.
Walt grinned. “You really do think of everything.”
She tousled his hair as she passed. “I try. Somebody has to.”
Then she paused, her voice softening just a touch. “Be careful. Fences have a way of pushing back when you least expect it.”
Darwin gave her a nod. “They do.”
Walt echoed it. “We’ll keep an eye out.”
The morning sun cast a rising warmth as Walt and Darwin stepped outside. The fencing materials lay arranged with utilitarian intent: tightly wound coils of wire, pressure-treated posts, and galvanized buckets of staples glinting in the early light. Darwin motioned toward the pile with a tilt of his chin.
“Load it all up. We’re heading to the south line. Grab the post hole digger, wire stretcher, fasteners, fencing coil ... and gloves. More than one pair-you’ll go through them faster than you think.”
Walt complied without hesitation. EVE remained in observation mode, silently tracking his actions.
[TOOL LIST CONFIRMED]
[GLOVE COUNT LOW – SUGGESTED: THREE PAIRS]
[HYDRATION REMINDER: ACTIVE]
He stuffed two additional pairs of gloves into his pocket. While Darwin loaded the heavier materials onto the trailer hitched to the tractor, Walt secured the Igloo cooler and his lunch bag to the rear rack of the ATV using elastic bungees. Once everything was in place, he climbed aboard and trailed behind Darwin as they crossed the uneven terrain.
The ride was jarring-tall grass slapped against his legs while uneven ground sent tremors up his arms. The air was saturated with the scent of warming earth, diesel exhaust, and pollen. It felt less like a job site and more like crossing a threshold into a remote and unruly stretch of land.
At the far edge of the field, the fence line sagged in surrender: crooked posts, slack wire, patches of erosion exposing root systems like veins. Darwin stopped the tractor and dismounted.
“Alright. Here’s what you do.”
He retrieved the manual post hole digger and moved through the process with the efficiency of muscle memory: plunge, twist, lift, and deposit. The digger cut into the soil with rhythmic accuracy. He handed it off to Walt without further instruction.
Walt took the tool and felt its crude mechanics reverberate through the worn wooden handles. He planted his feet, took a breath, and drove the jaws downward. The topsoil yielded briefly. He lifted, twisted, dumped. It seemed manageable-until it wasn’t. As he dug deeper, the soil compacted into dense clay. His shoulders tightened. His lower back strained. Even through gloves, his hands began to throb. The clay clung to the tool like tar, and fine grit pressed into his palms. Each lift released the pungent mix of earth, sweat, and exertion.
“EVE,” he thought, trying to maintain focus, “Any tactical input before I collapse?”
“Step one: avoid collapse. Step two: leverage leg strength and engage core musculature for mechanical advantage. Current toolset lacks augmentation; compensate with optimized biomechanics.”
“Alternatives?”
“This evening I can redirect nanobot priorities from gastrointestinal detoxification to accelerated muscular and neural adaptation. Expect improved output. At the cost of slower systemic purging.”
“Short-term suffering for long-term efficiency. Understood.”
“Confirmed. Logging performance.”
Walt grit his teeth and continued. Each dig demanded more from him. Every twist lit up a new cluster of underused muscles. The repetitive thunk-scrape-thud of the digger, the clatter of displaced earth, and his own ragged breathing became a punishing metronome. A hawk cried in the distance. His forearms screamed. Beneath even nanotech-hardened skin, blisters formed. Physical fatigue blurred into a test of mental endurance.
Eventually, the hole reached target depth. Darwin returned, silently handed over a post. Together, they set it, aligned it, and packed it in. Once it stood upright and steady, Darwin gave Walt a nod-unspoken approval-then returned to the tractor.
“Keep at it. I’ll be back later to check on your progress.”
The tractor engine came to life, and Darwin rumbled away.
Walt turned to the next leaning post. His arms trembled. His hands burned. The sun continued its slow ascent overhead.
He took hold of the digger again. One down. Many to go.
Walt’s arms trembled. The digger handles rattled in his grip, the splintered wood biting through his gloves. Sweat stung his eyes. He paused, bracing the tool, leaning his weight into it as he tried to catch his breath.
“Distract me,” he muttered inside his head.
“Understood,” EVE replied. Her voice was calm, almost clinical, but tinged with a flicker of interest. “Shall we review your current status? Five holes completed. Fatigue within tolerable range. Would you like an optimization summary?”