Chương 17: 09.Biting the Bullet in Simulator 09-1

After Colonel Wiesland said "Welcome to the real Zone B," he turned and led me through the inner doors of the First Special Operations Division. Honestly, before the doors opened, I figured it would just be a slightly higher-end, slightly more classified, slightly more efficient at turning people into consumables office area. I was wrong. This place looked less like a military unit and more like some kind of evil scientific altar. The moment the doors slid open, a completely different atmosphere hit me.

Not the mix of engine oil, ozone, and disinfectant from the military port, and not the filing-cabinet chill of Command either. This place smelled like metal, chemical reagents, old paper—and something else, something indescribable, like the scorched residue left when you've cooked rationality past the point of no return. The room was enormous, carved into several distinct functional zones.

The left side: floor-to-ceiling storage cabinets packed behind transparent doors with neatly numbered pill cases, reagents, neural interface modules, and equipment I decided on sight I didn't want to know the purpose of. The right side: a semi-open training area—restraint frames, sensor pods, mechanical arms hanging slack from ceiling cables like giant metal spiders sleeping.

The farthest section had its lighting deliberately dimmed, leaving only a long table, a projector, and a metal chair sitting dead center that looked nothing like any ordinary seat. One look was enough. Fuck. This wasn't an office. This was the kind of place where, in a novel, the protagonist gets dragged in and discovers the Federation is actually better at human modification than the Empire. And the person in charge didn't disappoint.

Colonel Wiesland brought me to a stop at the long table, introducing him with the measured composure of someone presenting a distinguished academic.

"Private Hoshino, this is Dr. Heinrich von Steiner. He oversees operations and adaptive training for the First Special Operations Division." … Hold on. Heinrich von Steiner. That name doesn't belong to someone who files his Federation taxes on time. It belongs on page seven of an Imperial war crimes tribunal list, bottom right corner, with a note reading whereabouts unknown. The doctor was standing in front of an expanded tactical projection.

When he heard us, he didn't fully turn—just slowly tilted his head, glancing at me through pale blue eyes behind gold wire-rimmed glasses. I disliked him immediately. Not because he was ugly. The opposite. The man was so clean, precise, and old-world he looked like a ghost that had stepped out of an elite military academy portrait. Mid-fifties, silver hair combed straight back without a strand out of place, deep nasolabial folds carved into his face like they'd been put there with a blade.

His white lab coat wasn't thrown on carelessly—it was buttoned all the way up. Underneath: a white shirt pressed to pathological perfection, over that a fitted charcoal wool waistcoat with a silver pocket watch chain hanging cold enough to strangle someone with. None of that was the worst part. The worst part was how he looked at me. Not like a person. Like a precision specimen that had just been delivered to his lab bench, and he was calculating where to cut first to avoid wasting material.

"Ah... Obergefreiter Hoshino. I haf auf you ge-vaited." (Ah... Private First Class Hoshino. I haf been vaiting for you.) His voice was low and clear, his Imperial diction beautiful enough to make my scalp crawl. I took two steps back immediately.

"He's Imperial military," I said under my breath, turning to Wiesland.

"This guy is straight-up Imperial."

"The doctor completed political realignment three years ago and is currently officially employed by the Federation," Wiesland said without expression.

"Loyalty assessment: satisfactory." …Wow. So as long as the paperwork is filled out correctly, you can bleach the Imperial right out. Federation whitewashing technology really is advanced. Dr. Steiner finally turned fully toward me and gave a small nod.

"The Federation always feels compelled to apologize for a person's origins before making use of them." His Federation Standard carried a faint Imperial accent but was unexpectedly fluent.

"There is no need for tension, Fräulein (Miss). If I still served the Empire, you would not currently be in a standing position." I stared at him, jaw twitching. That sentence was not reassuring. Wiesland seemed entirely accustomed to the doctor's ability to drop the room temperature five degrees every time he opened his mouth. He didn't even raise an eyebrow—just pulled a black keycard and a silver-grey meal card from his pocket and handed them to me.

"Your dormitory access card and cafeteria authorization. For the foreseeable future, Dr. Steiner will be arranging a preliminary curriculum for you." He paused half a beat, voice steady enough to be threatening.

"The objective is simple: to make your subsequent field training more efficiently painful." I held the cards and said nothing for two seconds.

"Sir, are you aware that your approach to reassurance is functionally identical to stuffing a grenade in my mouth?"

"Reassurance isn't my responsibility," Wiesland said.

"Keeping you alive longer is." He gave the doctor a brief nod, glanced at me once more—the meaning transparent: delivered as requested, you're on your own—and left. The door slid shut behind him without a sound. The entire First Special Operations Division was suddenly just me, the doctor, and all the equipment around us that looked extremely capable of taking people apart. One thought surfaced immediately. Great. Now there's no one left worth yelling at. Dr.

Steiner raised a hand, pointing to the metal chair in the center of the room.

"Please sit, Private Hoshino."

"Can I choose to die standing?"

"No."

"Very democratic." I kept talking shit as I walked over slowly. Up close, the chair was worse than it had looked. Less a chair than the bastard child of a medical pod and a torture device. Sensor pads embedded in the inner armrests, neural interface cables in the backrest, adjustable restraints flanking the headrest. The metal surface was polished immaculate—clean enough to make you want to run. The moment I sat down, the seat gave slightly, conforming to my back like something alive.

Every alarm in my head went off.

"Wait, this thing—" Click. Click-click. Three sharp metallic sounds fired off simultaneously. Restraint clasps snapped out from both armrests, the waist, and the ankles, locking me completely to the chair. My pupils contracted. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

"You son of a—""Oh, do not be afraid, dear Fräulein (Miss)." Dr. Steiner walked toward me, his tone almost gentle.

"I will not harm you. Today we conduct only a very small Experiment (experiment). Do you verstanden (understand)?"

"I understood perfectly, and now I want to punch you even more!" He seemed to hear none of my threats, smoothly pulling a mobile instrument unit alongside. When it unfolded, it revealed a row of slender injectors, several color-coded reagent cartridges, and a monitoring screen already scrolling data at speed. I stared at those needles, my throat going dry. No. Can't panic. I crawled out of a bridge explosion. I am not going to act like a grade-schooler being dragged to vaccination clinic because of a few needles.

That would be humiliating.

"First," the doctor said, pulling on gloves, his tone as level as if we were discussing soup versus bread with dinner, "we conduct a baseline assessment to confirm whether you have allergic reactions to neural stimulants, metabolic stabilizers, and stress-response inhibitors." I stared at the thin needle in his hand.

"How are you testing that?"

"Quite simply." He raised the injector slightly.

"We eliminate them one by one."

"…Translate that."

"Sequential injection." I was quiet for one second. Then I screamed with absolutely no dignity.

"No—!" Unfortunately, the Federation never adjusts its procedures to accommodate a soldier's personal preferences. When the first needle went in, my entire left arm tensed. Not exactly painful—compared to battlefield shrapnel, a needle this fine barely qualifies as a mosquito with a penknife. The problem was it didn't stop at one puncture. Once the compound entered my bloodstream, cold crawled up my arm, followed by something like crushed ice being packed into my chest, and my heart rate jumped half a beat.

The monitoring screen immediately populated with numbers. Dr. Steiner leaned in to observe, recording with complete composure.

"Heart rate increase: nine percent. Pupils normal. No rash." I looked at him through clenched teeth.

"Do you know you look exactly like the kind of villain schoolkids write essays about killing?"

"That suggests Federation education retains some capacity for imagination," he said, then pushed the second needle forward.

"Wait, I haven't—" Jab. The second one brought heat. Not fever heat—more like someone striking a match at the base of my spine and letting it burn up every nerve. I sucked in a breath instinctively, tried to move my shoulders, and found the restraints held me flat.

"Temperature elevation: zero point six degrees," the doctor read.

"Mild tremor. Acceptable."

"By what standard," I ground out, "does the Federation define 'acceptable'?"

"Anything short of death, generally." … Right. Very Federal answer. After the third needle, my fingertips went numb. The fourth brought white light creeping at the edges of my vision. By the fifth, a faint humming started in my ears, like a warship alarm muffled under blankets, leaving only blurred aftershocks. I kept breathing, fighting to keep my expression from looking too destroyed. A girl has her pride.

Especially in front of someone who looks like an Imperial holdover and dresses more neatly than my entire life plan.

"You tolerate pain well," the doctor observed while adjusting doses.

"Thanks," I said coldly.

"The organization I've had the most experience with, when it comes to causing suffering, isn't the Empire. It's the Federation." His hands didn't pause. He just glanced up briefly.

"Good. You can speak. Consciousness intact."

"What am I to you, a medical textbook?"

"More precisely, a high-value combat specimen." I rolled my eyes. Of course. Even the compliments in this place sound like component appraisals. After the sixth needle, the first real problem arrived. The skin on my left forearm prickled, then flushed into a small red patch. Not horror-movie bad—more like cheap detergent rash—but the timing was awful. I stared at the reddening skin, and something more primal than fear wailed inside me. Shit. A rash. No. Not the face—and preferably not the arms either.

I was born with certain natural advantages—ahem, what I mean is, I've managed to maintain some semblance of human appearance, and I refuse to let the Federation turn me into an allergy case.

"There's the reaction." His tone carried a rare note of satisfaction.

"Very good. Excellent."

"What's good about it? I'm breaking out!"

"It means the data is developing meaningful differentiation."

"Are you insane?" He actually smiled slightly. Not a normal human smile—more like the faint neural pleasure response when a long-held theory gets proven for the first time.

"Yes," he said.

"Many people say so." …Fuck. He admitted it. The most dangerous thing about people who openly admit they're unwell is that they usually genuinely are. He pressed several points on the sensor pad beside my arm. A mechanical arm swung over immediately, misting a cool transparent spray over the area. The itching subsided quickly, leaving only a thin red mark.

"Record," he told the system.

"Type-three metabolic accelerator complex, mild contact allergy. Add to contraindicated list." I exhaled.

"So we're done?"

"No. That was only the first round." I went rigid.

"There are rounds? Is this pharmaceutical testing or a tasting menu?"

"The next rounds will be faster," he said.

"I have a reasonable baseline for your neural response range now."

"That sentence is not reassuring." The second round was worse. This time it wasn't just allergy screening—it was testing neural tolerance and recovery speed. After each injection, two sensor cables extended from the chair back and attached to my neck and temples. Dense waveforms populated the screen, and I arrived at one thought. So I wasn't here to report for duty today. I was here to be disassembled. After one particular dose, the world slowed down. Not metaphorically. Literally.

The doctor's movements, the blinking indicator lights, the rotation of a distant sensor—everything moved as if wrapped in clear syrup. Sluggish, delayed, yet unnervingly sharp. I could even see light catch on his glasses lens and slowly slide away.

"Temporal perception dilation," his voice came from very far away.

"Good." I opened my mouth and found my own voice lagging half a second.

"…Do you people…really enjoy…breaking things down just to rebuild them…" He looked down at me, pale eyes cold as lab lighting.

"Incorrect," he said.

"The Federation military is not that extravagant. What we prefer is making things that were already breaking break more usefully." Even half-medicated, that sentence made me want to spit blood on his wool waistcoat. I didn't. I just laughed once instead. Light, dry, mean.

"Doctor," I said, "if you appeared in a romance novel, you'd be the type who locks the heroine in a tower and takes her blood pressure every day." He frowned slightly.

"I do not read romance novels."

"I can tell," I panted.

"Otherwise you'd know that chaining a girl to a chair on first meeting generally doesn't make a good impression." He was silent for two seconds, then actually logged it.

"Annotation: subject maintains verbal counterattack tendency under duress and mild pharmacological distortion. Social aggression: elevated. Sense of shame: retained." My eyes widened.

"What does that last part mean!"

"It means you still care about making a good impression," he said calmly.

"That's called basic decency!"

"Here, decency is not a required asset."

"Then why don't you scrap your own personality first?" He ignored me, slotting the final reagent back and shutting down the injection module. The waveforms on the monitor gradually stabilized. Only then did I realize my back was soaked with sweat, my fingers trembling faintly—not from fear, but the kind of tremor that happens when your nervous system has been thoroughly stirred and your body finally remembers to protest. Dr. Steiner reviewed the results and nodded.

"Good. More stable than projected."

"Thanks," I said weakly.

"First time in my life someone's called me 'stable' right after I nearly passed out." He removed his gloves and set them aside.

"You did not nearly pass out," he corrected.

"That distinction is important."

"So?"

"So you are more durable than the previous one." The room went quiet. I blinked.

"…What did you say?" The doctor seemed entirely unaware he'd just said something that would make any sane person run, simply looking down to organize his datapad.

"Nothing. Old data." Fuck. Old data my ass. Someone else had clearly been here before. And judging by "the previous one," I had zero interest in knowing what happened to them. Finally, the restraint clasps released with a click. I almost stood immediately—but the moment my legs took weight, my knees buckled and I nearly pitched forward. The doctor reached out to steady me. I flinched back on reflex.

"Don't touch me."

"Relax," he said mildly.

"I have everything I need from today." That sentence was more infuriating than being touched. I gripped the chair back, steadied myself, took a deep breath, and glared at his unreasonably calm face.

"Test results?"

"Three contraindicated, five reduced-dosage, eleven viable, two optimal compatibility," he rattled off.

"Overall, your neural drug tolerance and stress adaptation are excellent. Pain threshold high, recovery speed fast. In other words—" He looked up, pale blue gaze landing on me with surgical precision.

"You are exceptionally well-suited for the upcoming curriculum." I was quiet for two seconds. Then managed only:"…Is it too late to return myself?" Dr. Steiner finally showed his first genuinely pleased expression of the evening. The smile was faint, but it gave me a worse premonition than any of the needles.

"Regrettably, Private Hoshino," he said, "from the moment you signed that transfer order, you ceased to be returnable merchandise." He turned and walked to the inner data console, uploading my entire reaction sequence into the main system. When the screen lit up, blue-white text scrolled past, cold as verdicts. I stood there with needle marks and faint red traces on my arm, arriving at one conclusion. I'd thought Warehouse 6A was bad enough to count as hell. Turns out that was just the waiting room.

This— This is where the Federation actually starts converting people into weapons. Dr. Steiner didn't look back, just gestured toward the side door.

"Dormitory at the end of the corridor, second door left. Meal card is active tonight. Return here at 0630 tomorrow for your first session." I frowned.

"First session of what?" He paused half a beat. Then, in a tone so calm it should have triggered emergency alerts, answered:"Pain management." … Fuck. Called it. I stared at his back and mentally dragged Colonel Wiesland, the First Special Operations Division, Joint Operations Command, and the entire planet of Dunan before an imaginary tribunal, sentencing them all to immediate execution. Unfortunately, my tribunal lacks enforcement power.

So I just rubbed my still-numb wrist, clenched my jaw, and turned toward the dormitory. At the doorway, I heard pages turning behind me, then his voice like an afterthought:"Ah. One more thing." I turned back. He pushed his glasses up, looking at me with the same mild expression.

"Private Hoshino."

"What."

"Don't drink coffee tonight. Your heart rate hasn't fully returned to baseline." I stared for a moment. Then got even angrier.

"You put me through all that and still have the nerve to police my coffee?"

"I'm not policing," he said.

"I'm ensuring sample quality for tomorrow." … Right. Very good. This old bastard can make even his final word of concern sound like equipment maintenance instructions. I gave him a distinctly impolite hand gesture with a straight face, then pushed the door open and left. The moment it shut behind me, I leaned against the cold corridor wall and let out a long breath. My hands were shaking. My legs were a little unsteady. My brain felt like someone had scraped it with a metal spoon.

But the worst part— I still wasn't dead. The Federation really is impressive. Even when torturing people, they prioritize sustainable utilization.