March 9, 1977
Project DeepHaven – Sub-Level 3, Observation Deck A
Day 241.
I watched them again today. The lights in Habitat Sector 4 flickered just once during the simulated sunrise, and still, not a single subject reacted. They’ve begun to trust the light. That’s good. It means the brain is accepting the rhythm. Believing in day and night. The old instincts are malleable after all.
Subject #12 (Markus, 28, electrician) has begun leading small morning exercises. He says it helps him “feel awake.” Subject #7 (Elena, 34, botanist) has turned the hydroponic bay into something that almost resembles a garden. She plays recordings of birds when she works. Her tomatoes are thriving. I admit I’ve begun eating one with my lunch. I record this violation only because I promised myself this journal would be my conscience.
I am deeply conflicted today.
A new shipment of “participants” arrived last week. Six of them. Recruited from various corners of the country with government incentives and a promise of contributing to the “future of humanity.” They signed waivers. I read them. I also read between the lines. Some didn’t really know what they were getting into. One of them cried the first night. Not from fear. From the silence. No traffic. No birds. No hum of wind or life. Just recycled air and LED skies.
We are told these are “necessary tests.” That in the face of nuclear threat, societal collapse, or global contagion, we must be ready. I believe that. I want to believe that. I want this place to be the ark that floats above disaster. Or beneath it, I suppose. But is it right to keep people here for years at a time? To isolate them in artificial comfort and call it safety?
The ethics committee is a formality now. I haven’t seen anyone from Washington in four months. We are too far down. Too far removed.
Still… there is something inspiring in the way they adapt.
They've started celebrating birthdays. Carving them into the cement walls with little painted numbers. They hold group dinners. One of them, Davis (Subject #4), built a clock that ticks, just to break up the silence. I caught him staring at it for hours, smiling. “Reminds me of my grandfather’s mantle,” he said. Memory still matters, I thought. Even here.
The isolation hasn’t broken them. Not yet. If anything, they’re learning to live differently. Maybe even better.
Still, when I lay in my bunk and stare at the ceiling. A ceiling that pretends to be sky. I can’t help but wonder what we’re building. A sanctuary? Or a gilded prison?
But today… today I saw a child smile down here. One of the participants’ kids, born just two weeks ago. The first baby born underground. She reached toward the ceiling panels as they faded from orange to soft blue, the sunrise simulation. And she laughed. Not from confusion, but from joy.
Maybe that's enough hope for today.
- Dr. M. Ellery
Project DeepHaven - Lead Behavioral Analyst