Chương 20: 10.Graduated Lab Rat 10-2

Day Three: Medication Acclimation If pain management was learning to work with pain, then medication acclimation was learning to coexist with chemicals that wanted to break into your brain and rearrange everything. Some drugs slowed time. Some steadied your pulse. Some put fear behind glass—visible, but untouchable. Others made you alert like it's 0300, you've had eight coffees, and someone's forcing you to recite tactical doctrine.

"Today: low-dose tactical sensitization assessment." The doctor set the injector on the tray, tone level. I sat in the chair and extended my arm without expression.

"For the record—if I see rabbit ears growing from the ceiling, it's going on your performance review."

"Your hallucinatory tendency is currently low."

"Touching. First time I've been praised for not seeing things." When the drug hit, the world sharpened like someone had polished a lens. Not faster. Clearer. Air currents. Light reflecting off metal. The soft friction of paper as the doctor turned pages. Even the sub-second vibration of distant equipment powering up—I caught it half a beat early. Dangerous feeling. Because it was too useful. Useful enough that for one moment, I wanted to rely on it. Dr. Steiner seemed to know exactly what I was thinking.

"Remember," he said mildly, "medication is an amplifier. Not the answer." I glanced at him.

"That almost sounded human."

"I am human."

"Debatable." But he was right. In subsequent sessions, I learned to track the boundary— When the drug was helping me. When it started making decisions for me. The moment you let it decide for you, you're finished. It felt a lot like dealing with institutions. You can use them. You cannot trust them. Day Four: Tactical Assessment Day four's torture was more refined. No needles. No electricity. No spinning.

Just dropping me into a holographic tactical room while hundreds of data streams, false signals, friendly calls, enemy decoys, route maps, supply levels, ammunition counts, and time pressure all hit my face at once. The moment the light screens came up, the room blazed. Ship trajectories. Enemy thermal signatures. Jamming signals. Civilian distress calls. Friendly casualties. Supply shortfalls. Exposed flanks. Forward fire line collapse. Every entry whispering the same thing: Choose. Decide. Own it.

Wiesland ran scenarios from behind the control panel. His problem-setting style was exactly as insufferable as his personality.

"Your left flank has a three-minute fire window."

"Hit left first."

"Wrong. Decoy."

"The civilian distress call?"

"False signal."

"Why don't you just tell me everything's fake!"

"Much of the battlefield is fake. That's the point." I stared at the swarm of light points, brain starting to overheat. The worst part of this training: it's not visceral like pain. Pain makes you scream. This just makes you realize you're not as smart as you thought. First simulation: two misjudgments, right defense line carved open by Imperial ships. Second: overcorrecting for the first failure, playing too conservatively, losing the supply line.

Third: finally understanding that tactics isn't finding the cleanest answer. It's finding the least broken option—one that fails in a way you can still manage. When the simulation ended, Wiesland looked at the results and said only:"You're starting to understand." I pulled off the neural helmet, feeling like I'd drowned in data and been dragged back up.

"Understand what?"

"You can't save everyone." Annoying sentence. Because I already knew. Which made it more annoying. Day Five: Close-Combat Response Day five was the first day I could hate something with clear conscience. Because today wasn't fighting drugs, current, data, or gravity. It was fighting things shaped like people.

Specifically: the First Special Operations Division's close-assault training units—humanoid, faceless, matte black, moving fast and cold like someone had blended military police, debt collectors, and nightmares into one product. In light training armor, short blade and tactical baton in hand, I stepped onto the floor. Dr. Steiner announced the rules from the sideline in a voice drained of human feeling:"Three vital-zone strikes: terminated. Forced out of boundary: terminated.

Misjudgment resulting in control lock: terminated." I rolled my wrists.

"Translation?"

"Survive." Right. That I know. When the first unit rushed me, I thought about reading its rhythm first. It gave me no time—right-side feint, low-left drive straight at my ribs. I barely deflected it, and the next instant my knee joint got swept and I nearly dropped.

"Too slow," Wiesland's voice from the observation area.

"Come down here then!"

"Beat this first." … Fuck. Rounds two, three, four—I got thrown around badly. Shoulders, elbows, flanks all aching. But by round six, I started feeling it. Not being faster than the unit. Being earlier by a fraction. Read the weight shift first. Hear the footwork first. Understand which cut is fake and which impact is real. My body was still taking hits. My brain was learning to arrive half a beat ahead.

The first time I caught the unit's wrist joint with my blade, used the leverage to roll behind it, and drove the baton hard into its neck sensor—the effective strike tone rang through the room. I stood there breathing like I'd sprinted a full corridor, hands shaking, but something short and bright flashed in my chest. Like finally landing one back after a week of getting beaten. I looked up. Wiesland was watching from the observation bay. No applause. No praise. No cheap good job. Just one small nod. That was it.

Small enough to be imaginary. But somehow it felt more honest than a medal. … Shit. No. I am not getting pleased by a single nod. That's pathetic. Teenage sentimentality, back in your box. Now. Day Six: The Edge The real problem wasn't any single course. It was all of them combined. This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. Sleep fragmented. Muscles permanently sore. Neural compounds warping my sense of time—sometimes stretching, sometimes compressing.

Tactical overlays surfacing behind my eyelids. Pain management conditioning so deep that turning over at night made me automatically assess: dull or radiating? I became more irritable and quieter. Irritable because everyone deserved to die. Quiet to conserve energy. During the sixth-night recovery evaluation, Dr. Steiner looked at the data and said:"You're showing delayed fatigue onset." I sat drinking a supplement, expression blank.

"Congratulations. Does that make me human?"

"No." He adjusted his glasses.

"Your body is finally catching up to what you've been refusing to acknowledge."

"Which is?"

"You're not a machine." I paused half a second. Coming from him, that was as strange as the Empire declaring universal peace. Before I could respond, Wiesland added:"But she needs to achieve near-machine stability without being one." There it was. The version I recognized. One occasionally says something human. The other immediately twists it back to the hell edition. Perfect teamwork. That night, back in the dorm, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Shadows under my eyes darker. Shoulders pulled tighter.

New bruising on arms and flanks. I looked like someone had taken sandpaper to me. But something else was different. Not prettier. Not more mature. Harder. Like broken glass that had been sharp all along, but now someone had taken it back to the forge, pressed it, and it was starting to hold the shape of a blade. I looked at myself and suddenly wanted to laugh.

"Well, Hoshino Shimo," I told the reflection.

"You're really starting to look like what the Federation wants. Congratulations. Disgusting." The person in the mirror didn't argue. She just looked, under the light, more capable of staying alive long enough to kill someone than she had a week ago. Day Seven: First Review No reduced load for the final day of week one. Which made sense. The First Special Operations Division isn't a school. It doesn't hand out gold stars for surviving seven days. The final session was comprehensive simulation. Drugs first.

Then tactical room. Then close-combat judgment under full pressure. In practical terms: headache, vertigo, being hunted, and still deciding in three seconds who to save, who to kill, which direction to retreat—then putting a blade through whatever came at you. Midway through, a training unit slammed my left shoulder hard enough to numb half my body. The next second, a false target popped right.

Almost entirely on reflex, I ducked, cut sideways, spun, brought the baton backhand into its knee joint, then caught the second unit's arm joint with my blade and used its momentum to throw it into the wall. Alarms across the holographic field. Red light strobing. Sweat in my eyes, salt and sting. My breathing was ragged, hands shaking, the injury on my back still hot—but my mind was running terrifyingly clear.

Like everything forced into me this week—pain, gravity, drugs, rhythm, assessment, reaction—had finally, in this moment, been twisted into a single rope. When the last simulated target came at me, I didn't step back. I stepped forward first. The moment my blade found the wrist sensor, I could feel exactly where my center of gravity landed, the angle of force from my core, the fraction of a second when my right foot locked the stance. The tone sounded. Simulation complete.

I stood there, chest heaving, hands soaked with sweat, knuckles still trembling. The room lights slowly came back up. Behind the observation window, Wiesland and the doctor stood together. Dr. Heinrich von Steiner looked at the data first.

"Pain tolerance increased fourteen percent. Sustained cognition under high-G conditions extended. Close-combat response time improved by zero-point-three seconds. Drug dependency tendency: manageable." He paused, pushed his glasses up.

"Faster than I projected." From him, that probably qualified as highest praise. Wiesland didn't look at the data. He looked at me.

"Still want to go back to Warehouse 6A?" I took two breaths, pushed damp silver hair back from my forehead. Then smiled. Tired. Dry. Still obnoxious.

"Yeah," I said.

"But if I went back now, I'd probably just complain they're too slow." The room went quiet for a moment. Dr. Steiner kept his eyes on his datapad. Wiesland gave one quiet nod.

"Good." Same word as always. But this time it landed differently. Not because it was warmer. Because I knew— After this week, I still thought this place was a cult altar, the doctor was an Imperial remnant, Wiesland was a systemic tyrant in human skin, and the Federation as a whole still deserved whatever was coming. But I also knew something else. I hadn't been ground down. I'd been ground sharp. And in this era, surviving long enough to become a blade that's harder to break is already decent news.

Provided the blade doesn't get used on your own people first. That last part I kept to myself. I just stood in the center of the simulation floor, soaked in sweat, shoulder aching, blunted short blade in hand, suddenly really wanting an ice-cold cherry cola. At the edge of civilization, deep in the system, on the altar of the First Special Operations Division. That was still my firmest belief. After the week-one review, I thought that was finally it for today.

Which proved I still harbored too many unrealistic expectations about the humanity of this godforsaken place. I'd barely made it back to the dorm and dropped onto the sofa—hadn't even opened the cherry cola from the fridge—when the doorbell rang. I stared at the door for two seconds. … Right. I know this rhythm. Every time someone knocks right when I'm about to live like a human being, it's never good news.

"Come in." The door slid open. Colonel Wiesland. Same as always. Uniform immaculate, expression immaculate, posture so precise it looked measured. That face still perfectly suited for Federation recruitment posters—assuming the tagline read: Looks Reliable. Will Actually Send You Somewhere Worse. I stayed on the sofa, just looking up at him.

"Sir, if you're not here to give me leave, I suggest turning around. Better for both of us." Wiesland closed the door, walked in, scanned the room once, then settled his gaze on me.

"Based on your current phase assessments," he said, "you've already outperformed most personnel who've trained in the First Special Operations Division." I paused. …What? That sentence, coming from him, had roughly the same effect as the Ministry of Defense suddenly announcing universal leave. Not impossible—just the kind of thing that makes you wonder if you're still experiencing pharmaceutical side effects. I narrowed my eyes.

"Is that a compliment?"

"It's a fact."

"Wow." I sat up slowly, staring at that infuriatingly composed face.

"Is the Division's evaluation system malfunctioning? Should we have the doctor check it?"

"The system is functioning normally," he said.

"You learn quickly." Somehow that was harder to deal with than flattery. Because Wiesland isn't the type to hand out comfort. He doesn't push sugar into your mouth to keep you going another two days. If he says you're fast, you're fast. If he says you're useful, it means you've reached a threshold where investing in you makes sense. That kind of honesty is more dangerous than courtesy. I pulled the corner of my mouth up.

"So you came to personally notify me that I've been upgraded from standard consumable to premium consumable?"

"More or less." …Fuck. This man has a genuine talent for taking situations that were never warm and making them actively uninhabitable. He walked to the table and set down a datapad. Blue screen lit up with two lines. Option One: Extended training cycle. Elevated adaptation level. Option Two: Early field deployment. External operational testing. I looked at those lines, frowning slowly.

"What is this?"

"A choice." I stared at him.

"…The Federation believes in free will now?"

"No," Wiesland said.

"But sometimes, packaging an outcome as a choice makes soldiers accept it faster." I almost laughed. Right. Good. At least he's not even pretending anymore. I looked back at the two lines. Option One: more brutal, more exhausting, more thorough subsequent training. Option Two: skip to actual combat. On the surface, it looked like a real choice. Stay here and keep getting dismantled slowly by the doctor. Or leave early and get dismantled by the enemy instead. A normal person might hesitate. But I'm not normal.

I'm fourteen-year-old Federation-licensed cannon fodder. So I quickly found the most rotten part. I looked up at him.

"Sir, let me confirm something. This wouldn't contain a hidden clause like—you can certainly choose field deployment, but given your current clearance, equipment, support level, and survival odds, it's functionally equivalent to volunteering for execution—would it?" Wiesland looked at me quietly for two seconds. Then gave one small nod.

"Yes." I leaned back against the sofa and stared at the ceiling. Almost felt like applauding. The Federation's honesty is genuinely nauseating.

"Let's hear it."

"If you deploy to actual combat now, you'll be classified as external testing personnel," he said, tone level as a weather report.

"No formal support allocation. No priority extraction rights. Mission abort criteria will not prioritize your preservation." I closed my eyes and took a slow breath. In plain language: You can go. We won't stop you. But if you die, that's just a cost-effective test failure. I opened my eyes and looked at him.

"So Option Two is essentially live-deployment human experimentation."

"That's one way to understand it."

"And Option One?"

"Higher-intensity training. Delayed field deployment. In exchange for more complete equipment, clearance, and survival odds." I went quiet for a moment. Right. One: straight into the meat grinder. The other: get sharpened first, then into the meat grinder. Looks like a fork in the road. Actually just asking whether you want to die cheap now or expensive later. I couldn't help laughing. Not because it was funny.

Because the institutional design was so comprehensively rotten it looped back around to something almost worth admiring.

"Sir," I said, "this system is genuinely impressive. There's no real choice here, but you've managed to phrase it like you're respecting personal autonomy."

"It's a necessary procedure."

"Necessary how?"

"Necessary," Wiesland said, grey eyes calm as frozen water, "because you have to admit it to yourself. That you don't want to die yet." The room went quiet for a beat. Shit. That sentence was irritating. Irritating precisely because it was accurate. I can talk back. Roll my eyes. Curse the Federation down to ash. But I genuinely don't want to die right now. Not because I'd suddenly developed a profound love of living.

Because I know exactly what happens if I get thrown into external testing at my current level—dying wouldn't be heroic or meaningful. It would just be one cold line in the doctor's report: Sample terminated. Data recovery complete. Too pathetic. I looked down at the two options on the table. Option One. Option Two. Like a visual novel's branching menu—except every path leads to a bad ending. I was quiet for a few seconds, then tapped Option Two with my finger.

"If I were stupid enough to pick this right now, would you stop me?"

"No."

"The doctor?"

"He'd be pleased."

"Of course." That answer was damnably complete. I stared at those two lines and suddenly thought of Warehouse 6A. The smell of dirty socks. The shower ceasefire negotiations. Those days that were terrible and loud and aggressively alive. If I chose field deployment now and died in some external operation nobody would even number—I wouldn't even get the chance to go back and complain about those people. No. At least not like that. I reached out and pulled Option One toward me on the light screen.

"Fine," I said.

"I choose One." Wiesland didn't speak. Just watched me, like he was waiting for me to finish the sentence myself. I knew exactly what he was waiting for. Annoying. I exhaled, pulling my mouth into a dry smile.

"Not because I enjoy training," I said.

"And not because I've suddenly decided to be a model soldier."

"I know."

"I just don't want to die this cheaply." Wiesland nodded.

"That's enough." That phrase again. But this time, I understood it. In this place, you don't need to be noble. You don't need to be great. You don't need to be patriotic. You just need to know clearly why you're still holding on. That's enough. I looked at Option One, now pulled in front of me, and felt a strange urge to laugh. So-called choices. So-called futures. So-called opportunities.

In the end, it's just the Federation putting a blade to your throat and asking, very politely: Would you prefer to walk forward yourself, or shall we give you a small push? I raised my hand and pressed confirm. Option One / Confirmed. The screen flashed, then populated with a new schedule. Earlier wake-up. Longer training hours. More special-category markers. And at the bottom, a line short enough to read like a curse: Phase One Extended Training. Effective tomorrow, 0500. I stared at that 0500 for two seconds.

Then looked up slowly.

"…You want me suffering before the sun has even clocked in?"

"You'll adjust."

"I hope you come back as an alarm clock in your next life."

"At least I'd be punctual." …Fuck. This man has a genuine talent for making you want to hit him with a slipper. He picked up the datapad and turned toward the door. Just as it opened, I spoke.

"Sir." He stopped without turning around.

"What." I leaned against the sofa, watching his back, keeping my tone as obnoxious as usual.

"Next time you want to give me a multiple-choice question, at least hide the wrong answer a little better." The figure at the door was still for half a second. Then I clearly saw his shoulders shift—barely. Like he was laughing. Or maybe I imagined it.

"Noted," he said.

"Next time I'll package it more attractively." Then he left. The door closed in front of me. The room settled back into quiet—just the low hum of the refrigerator and the new schedule glowing cold on the table. I stared at that 0500 for a long time. Then finally reached for the cherry cola I hadn't gotten around to opening. The tab cracked open with a sharp click. I tipped it back and drank. Cold sweetness slid down my throat, briefly pressing down whatever rotten thing had been sitting in my chest.

Then I looked down at my reflection in the black aluminum surface and let out one slow conclusion.

"…Right."

"Looks like the price of staying alive is learning to live a little more like hell first." Outside, Dunan's pure white skyline still gleamed. Twelve Skyshields cast silver-blue light in the distance—like divine rings that would always hang too high above to bother looking down.