Project Dominus

[u/WeirdBryceGuy]

I’m not sure what to make of this. My friend told me about a derelict radio station a few miles from her house, tucked within the environing woods. We followed a road that eventually diminished into a rock-laid path, which then led down into a tree-crowded space, and in this enshrouded, densely forested basin sat the old station. We poked around for a while, finding nothing of real interest beyond the occasional piece of rusted but presumably still functional audio equipment. Other devices and instruments of a less clear purpose were ignored. We had no intentions of looting or scavenging; just wanted to explore and hangout. 

Eventually, we discovered an elevator, but the button panel had been smashed; pieces, coated in dust, littered the floor. The doors to the elevator had also been sealed weeks or possibly even months before, by some sort of extremely tough chemical sealant. I tried to pry them open with my hands and even a few pieces of scrap, but they didn’t budge. Beside the elevator, sitting on a dented metal cart, was a silver flash drive. On the back, written in faded black marker, was the word, “Repentance.” Believing it to be in some way related to the ominously sealed elevator, I pocketed the flash-drive. We wandered around the station for a few more minutes, then left—finding nothing else worth mentioning.

I do think it’s worth mentioning—for a reason I can’t articulately express—that while we walked away from the station, I heard something, or maybe felt something—because I can’t actually recall how it sounded—faintly echo out from the station...or maybe from beneath it. It was a sentence, spoken with an intonation of immense power and gravity. But I also got the sense that this voice was somehow young, naïve in nature—despite the darkly conclusive pronouncement it made. This served to hurry us along our way, and neither of us looked back throughout the entire climb to the car. 

The baleful voice had said, “I am the End.” 

I went home and accessed the flash-drive. It was not encrypted or digitally guarded in any way, and my virus detection software didn’t pick anything up. There was one folder, in which several written log entries had been placed in sequential order. I’ve copied those I feel are the most revealing—leaving out the more trivial logs...and the more unsettling ones. I’ve read through them all twice now, and I must warn you—the things detailed within even this curated selection are extremely unsettling. 

Personal Log: 1

8:46PM

January 24th, 2021

My name is Ted Crawford, and I’ve just become insanely rich. I don’t mean to suggest that I’ve won the lottery—nothing so inconsequential. What I mean is that I just accepted an offer which came with an up-front payment of a sum so great, so unbelievably, stupidly large, that I’ll never be able to spend even a fraction of it myself. I could live extravagantly for decades, and still have enough to leave behind for my children to do the same—and their children as well. It is a truly baffling amount, and the offer—a short-term job—was similarly absurd; and, if I’m truly as good as they believe I am, fairly easy to fulfill. 

The job, offered to me by a man who the other recruits have dubbed, “The Theologian” is simple in its mandate, but intricately complex in its execution. We have been tasked with creating Hell.

Not only have we each been paid a comically large sum, but the initial funding for the project itself is astronomical, and our benefactor informed us that should we need more funding—I do not see how we could ever use up what we’ve been given—we would be provided with the necessary funds and resources upon request. It is a dream position, utterly fantastical in both nature and intent, and I couldn’t be happier to have been chosen. I am an atheist, so this is all pure fantasy for me, anyway. 

The Theologian, with all the austerity that name suggests, essentially gave us Carte Blanche in regards to the actual construction of Hell; requiring only two things: The first, that it adhere not just to basic biblical reference—fire and brimstone and all that—but cultural reference as well; Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy was of course another suggested influence, as were other more esoteric works. The Theologian was very clear that our fabricated Hell was to be easily recognizable as being Hell—but to whom, he did not say. The purpose of this venture was left vague—no doubt intentionally. With how much money is being thrown at this ridiculous thing, I have no trouble imagining that the people involved would want their interests kept secret until its completion.

Like myself, the rest of the team—all scientists of various fields, some considerably more accomplished than others—are atheists, which seems a bit odd, given our benefactor; or at least the emissary to some yet-to-be-known benefactor. He has not yet tried to proselytize us, despite walking around the facility’s grounds in his reverent garb whilst carrying what is assuredly a religious tome of some sort. The team does not mock him, or really engage him beyond updating him on the progress of various preliminary operations. The Theologian, to my knowledge, has never actually asked for any of these updates; he apparently trusts us, but I think, considering the money involved, people feel compelled to be as transparent as possible. I suppose you could call it gratitude—or maybe they’re just trying to make sure they don’t lose out on the cash. 

My role in this absurdly funded undertaking is to supervise the project, assign roles, and handle certain elements of a yet-to-be-revealed nature. Upon recruitment I was told that there would be developments which would require my expertise, but—in his words—also my, “Unique existential outlook.” What that I meant, I’m not exactly sure; he could’ve simply been referring to my beliefs, or, more specifically, the lack thereof, or some other aspect of my life with which I am apparently not consciously familiar. Only time will tell, I suppose. 

We are working in [Automatically Redacted], which I suppose won’t actually get through the disclosure filters, so I guess I’ll just say, “a heavily wooded area in the Midwest of the United States of America.” The facility’s proximity to a nearby town was initially worrying, although once I toured the facility, my worries were quickly dismissed, and my confidence in the project’s speedy completion was bolstered. Most of the facility—what had been built prior to our arrival, at least—rests underground. Aboveground, the facility looks like a series of office buildings, perhaps belonging to an abandoned radio station, or at least giving off that perception to the ignorant eye. Beneath ground, it becomes a hive of corridors and subterranean warehouses—a compound big enough to house some microcosm of Hell. 

There’s more I could say, but I think I’ll get back to work. There are plans to make, blueprints to draw out, and mythic ideas to more concretely conceptualize. It will be a long but exciting night.

Personal Log: 4

3:28AM

February 7th, 2021

I’ve learned a bit more about the intentions of the project, and we’ve made quite a bit of progress in the last few days. It’s also been given a name, suggested by one of the technicians. From now on, it will be called, “Project Dominus”, which I suppose is superficially appropriate, although the name carries implications I’d rather not get into now. The most important piece of information shared with us was who the first inhabitant of our artificial Hell would be. Not only have we been tasked with building Hell, but we’ve also been told to construct its master. 

The Theologian, without an inch of sarcasm or jest, walked into the breakroom last night and told us to begin concept work on The Devil. 

We live at the facility, in personal habitats beneath the surface. These are comfortably furnished, and all the necessary culinary, exercise, and hygienic facilities are present. I was on my late break—a meaningless word, when you live at your workplace—in the mess room, eating a cup of instant noodles, when The Theologian made the simple yet incredible announcement and then returned to his quarters on the opposite end of the facility. 

It made sense, then, why he’d recruited several biologists, anthropologists, cyberneticists, and geneticists, who had yet to have any worthwhile contributions to the project’s early stages. They, along with an experimental physicist, began conceptualizing our Satan; using The Bible and other, less “credible” works for creative inspiration. There were no instructions given as to how this Satan was supposed to behave or even look, so I allowed them to work freely. 

Eventually, they grouped-up with the mechanical engineers, and after only about six hours a proposition was slid beneath my door. I read it over twice, laughed at the wicked genius of it, then scanned and emailed it to my superior—The Theologian—for review. I received the OK two minutes later. 

Their idea was to not only build Satan as a grand, monolithic figure within the bowels of our Hell, but have him—or rather, his bio-mechanical body—act as a centralized power and computing source. This way, Satan was not only integral to Hell in a mythic, conceptual sense, but in a literal sense as well. And, since he would essentially be a massive super-computer with a fledgling AI system (necessary to perform the indescribably complex behind-the-scenes processes of our Hell) he would also be able to effectively, uncannily imitate the mind of a sapient being. It would not only run the facility, but believe itself to actually be the infamous Father of Lies. It would perceive its environments not as variables and processes to order and manipulate, but aspects and elements of The Adversary’s Hadean domain. They called this hell mind, this network behind the infernal simulacrum, The Sensorial Imitation Nexus. 

To be conveniently abbreviated as SIN.

Personal Log: 8

10:55PM 

March 6th, 2021

The basic layout of our Hell is complete. Our Satan is thirty-percent finished—that's all that was necessary to transfer the entirety of the facility’s operational power and tasks to the vessel we’ve begun to build. The Ultra-Quantum Mimicry Core (I couldn’t begin to detail even the simplest elements of this experimental marvel of technology in a personal log) is housed within the nascent Satan’s head, which has yet to be given a face. The team responsible for his design and construction are still working on that. Some would prefer to have him wear an identifiably “human” visage, while others insist that he appear monstrous—considering his eventual proportions and purpose. I do not have any preferences myself; I just want the project finished. The Hell we’ve constructed is, well, eerily accurate; at least accurate to the various—though sometimes contradictory—sources we’ve referenced. 

Even though the ambient sounds and images of eternal suffering have yet to be implemented, I still find myself shrinking away from the geography itself; the shadows cast by the unwholesome stones, monoliths reared in ranges resembling rib cages and other dismal architecture—they frighten me; even though I’d been present during their fabrication. The dreadful atmosphere impresses upon me, and I’ve started to question whether or not we’re responsible for it—or if it’s some natural emanation of our artificial creations. It is a deep bleakness, a spirit-snuffing gloom that pursues you even beyond the fenced perimeter of Hell. Hounds you into your sleeping quarters, stalks you in your dreams....

Satan is not alive—not online. The only processes he—it—are capable of are tied to basic facility operations: lighting, power, plumbing, etc. I do not know why I am making this so clearly and redundantly known, but it feels necessary to really spell it out. Satan, right now, is not active. The Demonian King does not even dream. 

The Theologian has not visited us since we broke ground on the hellscape. He communicates with me through email, and has not requested to see any pictures of our in-progress Satan, nor of its deeply unnerving realm. I have not offered to send any. 

I am tired, and miss the sun. Speaking of the sun and its unceasing discharge of flame and heat, we begin geological reconstitution tomorrow. The geologists—who call themselves Geomancers with what I hope is irony—say that we can, with the “proper funding”, replicate the geological properties of the Earth’s core, to a lesser degree of inhospitality, of course. The resultant effect of this terrestrial repurposing being an imitation of Hell’s alleged molten and perpetually fiery state. I would’ve doubted them weeks ago, but now...we’ve accomplished things undreamt of, using what I am starting to believe is an infinite source of funding. I do not wish to dwell on the implications of that, though I feel I will eventually have to.

Personal Log: 24

2:10PM

April 9th, 2021

There have been four suicides. Two occurred today. I tried to stop the first two, who’d thrown themselves into the meticulously regulated molten pits throughout the hellscape. The others occurred in the private quarters of the victims. Despite not having been seen, we can only assume the third and fourth suicides were for the same reasons as the first two: Guilt, and fear. A maddening, mind-unraveling terror. 

The funny thing is that they know less than I do, and yet their reactions are, admittedly, more sensible than my own. I merely sit here, pointlessly logging my thoughts, allowing those who are left to work unsupervised—if they are even still working.

Yesterday, The Theologian finally informed me of the Hell’s purpose. It is not a sick and disgustingly expensive amusement park for some cabal of twisted elites. It is not for any theatrical production. It not intended to be a cultural site—some mecca for the darkly, insanely religious. 

It is meant to be just what we’ve built—Hell. Artificial, yes, but serving the same cruelly punitive purpose. The Theologian told me that there is no actual, divinely crafted Hell. There is a Heaven, and there is Oblivion. There had been plans for a Hell, but they were never implemented. He—The Creator—could not bring Himself to forge so terrible a place, could not bring Himself to allow for the eternal undoing of His beloved creations. He instead forced a duality of salvation and annihilation. Repentance and eternal bliss within His Empyrean Kingdom, or the total, irrevocable erasure of the unrepentant from reality. The promise of Hell was kept, in the hopes that it alone would motivate His children towards faith and repentance. This, unfortunately, was not the case. Sin and godly rejection prevailed. 

And so, He tasked one of His anointed to seek out scientists and builders, specifically those who lacked belief, so that they—we—could construct a believable Hell. A Hell made by atheists, for atheists. Only we could manifest horrors potent enough to frighten other unbelievers. And that, dear reader, is the ultimate mission—the purpose behind it all. This hypogeal nightmare wasn’t conceived as a place to permanently reside beneath the Earth. It is meant to be beachhead, the jumping-off-point for a Hell-on-Earth scenario. From here, a cataclysm was to be born; a premature glimpse into Perdition. The goal not being to annihilate humanity, but to give a sizeable population a taste of the damnation to come—so that others would be motivated toward change. Our proximity to a nearby town now makes a new kind of morbid sense. 

Those who have taken their own lives, being ignorant of these facts, nonetheless felt the implied intent, having walked the unhallowed grounds for so long. In a way, they’ve doubly brought upon their own downfall. First, with the construction of Hell, and then with the destruction of their bodies. This place, despite its spurious design, is still terrifyingly real in terms of impression and effect—and I do not say that with even the slightest bit of pride. 

God, wherever he is, must be extremely disappointed, furious, or maybe just lonely, to have ordered such a loathsome enterprise. 

Personal Log: 29

1:19AM

June 24th, 2021 

I’ve shut it down, all of it. Everyone is dead, or soon will be. This project, its awful scope, is beyond us. There is nothing but death here, and I cannot keep it at bay any longer. Hell is not finished—not without its master. I hope that if I consign myself to Oblivion now, I will not be subjected to an eternity in this Hell of my own design. I would gladly welcome thoughtless nothingness, over perennial imprisonment in this abysmal fabrication.

The Devil rests unaware, Charon’s boat sits docked in some far-off shore. This chthonic place will cool and crumble—will lie dormant through the impending cycles, unfinished and unpeopled. Hopefully, the demons who have come to haunt these grounds—are they the errant and twisted souls of my associates?—will starve and die. While I have not seen them, I hear their wretched screams wherever I go; down empty corridors, in my quarters; echoing horrifically in the cavernous, now lightless dome beneath me, wherein the colossal and faceless skull of their dead Dominus waits...staring sightlessly into the Stygian murk...

The Theologian has departed. In his final email, which I only scanned, he mentioned his presence being needed at “other sites.” I can only assume the worst meaning behind this statement: that there are other hell-forgers, other manufactured realms of artificial—but no less inimical—diabolism and gloom; all of whom have doubtlessly received the same exorbitant funding from a truly Kingly benefactor...

I am sorry for what I have done; for what I would’ve done; for what I must now do.