Chương 18: 09.Biting the Bullet in Simulator 09-2

After that lab rat treatment, I was thoroughly rotten. Not physically. Physical is manageable—hurt a bit, shake a bit, push through. Anyone who's been blown up on a battlefield stops finding "what's hurting today" particularly novel. What actually pissed me off was dignity. Dying at the enemy's hands? Fine. At least that counts as KIA, and your name goes on a list that looks respectable.

But dying in a place like this—dying at the hands of some Imperial-flavored old lunatic in a wool waistcoat, cause of death "terminated during allergy testing due to irreversible shock"—I'd be embarrassed even as a ghost. I mentally lined up the entire Federation from the President down to the janitors, shot them all once, then swiped my dorm access card. The door slid open and I froze. Not because there was some bizarre roommate inside. Not a chain-smoking veteran who smelled like a sentient ashtray.

Not a female soldier who looked like she sharpened knives at midnight. Not the kind of idiot whose first words make you want to stuff a slipper in his mouth. It was— Empty. The entire room was as quiet as a showroom display. I stood in the doorway with my hand still on the card reader, brain momentarily stalling. … What? I took two steps inside. This wasn't any "military dormitory" I recognized. The room was immaculate. Floor clean enough to shoot memorial photos on.

Along the walls: a sofa, low table, storage cabinets. Warm yellow lighting that didn't stab your eyes. There was even a proper living area. On the left: an open kitchenette leading into actual cooking equipment. I stood there for two seconds, then slowly turned toward the thing that had absolutely no business existing in a Federation military dorm.

"… A refrigerator." Not a palm-sized unit that barely holds two nutrient packs and half a carton of expired milk. A real, household-sized refrigerator. Double-door. I stared at it for two seconds, then walked over with something approaching religious reverence and pulled it open. Cold air hit my face and I almost wanted to cry. Inside: rows of bottled water lined up in perfect formation. Lower shelves held canned goods, instant meal packs, several chilled high-protein rations labeled as supplements.

And most absurdly—the entire right side, two full shelves, packed with two dozen cans of cherry cola. I stood in front of that open refrigerator for five seconds of silence. Then, with absolutely no dignity, whispered:"… Long live the Federation." No. I swallowed those words immediately. This isn't patriotism. This is just a low-level biological response to massive quantities of cherry cola. I took a can. The cold aluminum against my palm made a tiny sound that could probably treat PTSD.

I pulled the tab—crack—and it rang clearer than any military commendation. I took a sip. Sweet. Cold. Carbonated. Fuck. This is civilization. Twelve Skyshields, white nano-skyscrapers, the last lighthouse of human civilization—none of it is half as convincing as one ice-cold can of cherry cola. Holding the can, I kept looking around. Two bedrooms, one living room. A small sitting area. A functional kitchen. One clearly designated master bedroom. Another smaller room, half-study, half-spare quarters.

Plus a private bathroom. When I pushed open the bathroom door, I went quiet again. Sink. Mirror. Separate wet and dry zones. And—"… A bathtub?" I stared at the thing—white as sanctity, perfectly round, deep enough to dissolve your entire life in—and felt a wave of indescribable sadness. Back in Warehouse 6A, I had to personally negotiate shower ceasefires just to preserve the last scraps of human dignity in the communal bath.

Here in the First Special Operations Division, they just hand me a private bathroom with a tub. The Federation doesn't lack resources. It just decides case by case whether you count as human. I leaned against the doorframe, looking at the whole dorm, and arrived at one very bad conclusion. This wasn't standard enlisted accommodation. This was officer-grade. No—possibly higher. Which meant I wasn't being housed here to rest. I was being placed in a nicer cage.

Ten minutes later, I was on the sofa with my second can of cherry cola, staring at the ceiling. The Warehouse 6A crowd was probably still arguing right now. Who stole whose rations. Who left socks under whose bunk. Who hogged the showers. Who snored. Who was yelling "cover, cover" in their sleep last night. And I was sitting in a room so quiet I could hear the refrigerator compressor, ice-cold soda in hand, clean floor beneath my feet, a bathtub waiting next door. Strange feeling.

Like someone fished you out of a trash heap, brushed you off, disinfected you, then placed you in a glass display case. Better treatment. No more freedom. I set the empty can on the table with a soft clink. Then I stood up and decided to eat. Because no matter how existential your crisis gets, you still have to eat. Contemplating systemic oppression on an empty stomach just gives you gastritis. The senior officers' mess was more high-end than I'd expected.

Not gilded ostentation—the deliberately understated but obviously expensive kind of high-end. Dark wood-grain floors, soft lighting, table spacing wide enough to be offensive, cutlery arranged like someone was about to photograph it. The air smelled of butter, black pepper, roast meat, and hot soup—a completely different universe from military canteens where slopping nutritional paste onto a tray counts as mission accomplished. When I swiped my card at the entrance, the duty orderly looked at the card, then at me.

Then looked again. I was too tired to comment. Everyone who'd seen my credentials today wore the same has-the-system-crashed expression. A Private First Class had no business here. But the card was real. The access was real. So he just handed me a tray with visible stiffness.

"… Please enter, Private." I took it, feeling as serene as someone who'd just legally acquired a money-printing machine. The entire mess was almost all officers. Polished shoulder boards. Gleaming collar tabs. Confident gaits. Voices that, when you hear them, you know they've sent people to die. And me—Hoshino Shimo, Private First Class, fourteen years old, freshly used as a pharmaceutical test subject—walking in with my tray like a stray grenade at a society function. The murmurs started immediately. Not loud.

But loud enough.

"She's the one who—""First Special Operations Division?"

"Isn't she too young…"

"I heard about that bridge on Pullis Star—""Can't be, she's only—" I ignored them. Once you've been personally targeted by artillery, restaurant gossip doesn't register as a threat. Besides, the main course here was braised beef, roasted potatoes, and cream soup. I picked the most central, most visible table—exactly where everyone would see me the moment they looked up. Yes. Deliberately. You're all going to stare anyway. Might as well give you a clear shot. I cut a piece of beef and put it in my mouth. … Fuck.

It was good. Not wartime-ration edible. Actually good. Tender, juicy, perfectly salted. The black pepper had more integrity than some people's entire moral framework. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. I immediately lowered my head and took two more bites. The whispers continued around me. I had exactly one thought. No wonder these high-grade bastards are so hard to overthrow. Eating this well every day, I wouldn't want to step down either.

By the third bite, I was already entertaining the spineless thought: if the price of the First Special Operations Division is being Dr. Steiner's lab rat, but dinner stays at this standard—the deal is unconscionable, but maybe not entirely non-negotiable. … No. I slapped myself mentally. Absolutely not. You don't sell your soul for two dozen cherry colas and a plate of braised beef. At least not this fast. Basic moral standards must be maintained. So I took another spoonful of soup to steady myself.

Back in the dorm, the first thing I did was shower. Not for cleanliness. Because that old lunatic had touched me too many times today—needles, sensor cables, the whole production. I felt like a layer of mad science residue had bonded to my skin and needed scrubbing off. When the hot water filled the tub, white steam slowly rose. I stood watching the water, feeling something complicated. Moved. Sad. Empty. And a slight awareness of: shit, am I being high-spec domesticated?

The moment I sank in, I almost made a very undignified sound. Too comfortable. Hot water crept over my shoulders, slowly pressing down the day's accumulated aches—the needle sites, the residual discomfort, and that homicidal urge to take an axe to the Federation's entire upper command. I closed my eyes and leaned back.

If the Warehouse 6A crowd knew I was soaking alone right now—no one peeking, no one rushing me, no one knocking, no one yelling how much longer—they'd probably curse systemic injustice first, then try to defect to the First Special Operations Division en masse. Assuming they survived Dr. Steiner first. That thought opened my eyes again and cooled my mood. This place was too quiet. So quiet even the water sounded hollow. Warehouse 6A was terrible. Cramped, reeking, loud.

But that terrible place at least had the body heat of living people. This didn't. This was a premium coffin. I looked down at the water surface and pushed the floating silver hair back from my face. And suddenly, I thought of David a little. Not in any dramatic, manga-style way. More like the gap you notice after a shower when you expect someone to make a sarcastic comment outside the door, and instead there's only the refrigerator humming. … Fuck. No. I shoved that thought back down immediately.

This wasn't the time to miss people. This was the time to figure out exactly what this place intended to turn me into. I dunked my face underwater for two seconds, surfaced, and decided to sleep. Survive day one first. Everything else could be cursed at tomorrow. That night, I slept surprisingly well. Not because I was relaxed. Because I was exhausted. Body full of drugs, nervous system scraped raw, stomach packed with food several grades above standard rations.

After the hot bath, I basically collapsed into bed and went under immediately. The last thing I was conscious of: soft mattress, clean sheets, and one deeply unreasonable thought. Fuck. If the Federation had given us housing like this from the start, maybe everyone's patriotism would be marginally higher. Only marginally. Still nowhere near willing to die for them territory. The next morning. 0630. I woke to the doorbell. Not an alarm. The doorbell.

I opened my eyes, stared at the ceiling for two seconds, still half-dead. A system prompt sounded outside. Reminder: First Special Operations Division curriculum commencing. Please report within ten minutes. I lay there expressionless. Wonderful. Even wake-up calls sound like execution notices. I dragged myself up, washed my face, changed, grabbed a bottle of cold water, skipped breakfast entirely, and walked back to the First Special Operations Division on a stomach full of morning rage.

The door opened and I knew immediately today was going to be hell. Because the chair in the center was still there. And beside it sat several pieces of equipment that hadn't been there yesterday. Metal restraint frames. Muscle electro-stimulation modules. Neural feedback coils. And a standing display screen glowing with four clean, beautiful characters that promised zero happiness: Pain Management Curriculum I stood in the doorway for two seconds.

"Is it too late to go back to my room and play dead?"

"No." The answer didn't come from the doctor. It came from Colonel Wiesland. I turned. He was standing in the observation area, datapad in hand, uniform immaculate, expression cool and distant—like he'd dropped by to review a damage report on an investment portfolio. …Shit. He's here too. That makes it worse. Dr. Steiner stood by the equipment, lab coat spotless, gold-rimmed glasses catching cold light. He looked like he'd never slept, or like his version of sleep involved powering down for two hours and rebooting.

"Good morning, Private Hoshino," the doctor said.

"I hope you rested well."

"If dreaming about being turned into your teaching specimen counts as resting well, then absolutely."

"Good. Humor response intact," he nodded.

"Mental state stable." I wanted to rip his glasses off and stomp them. Wiesland spoke from the back, tone unhurried:"Today is basic pain adaptation and control. The objective isn't endurance—it's interpretation." I looked at him.

"Sir, does the Federation have a policy of renaming torture with more academic terminology?"

"If renaming it makes you more cooperative, I'm happy to call it morning wellness exercises." …Fuck. When this man chooses to answer my sarcasm, it's genuinely infuriating. Dr. Steiner raised a hand, gesturing toward a metal platform beside the chair.

"No head restraints today. We begin with localized zones. Arms, back, lateral abdomen—sequential assessment." I stopped.

"What does sequential assessment mean?" He pushed his glasses up.

"It means you will learn to identify pain source, intensity, transmission direction, and maintain cognitive function throughout." My jaw twitched.

"…Isn't the normal human approach to try avoiding pain first?"

"That is civilian thinking," the doctor said.

"Soldiers need to function while in pain." I was quiet for two seconds. Then answered honestly:"You really are sick." He didn't argue. Wiesland didn't argue either. The worst kind of silence—when no one disagrees, because everyone in the room has already accepted it as fact. Once training started, I quickly realized yesterday's drug trials were just the appetizer. Today was the main course. Three sensor pads went onto my right forearm. Dr. Steiner adjusted the stimulation module output.

A white line appeared on the display, with a one-to-ten scale below.

"Subjective pain scale," the doctor said.

"One is mild discomfort. Ten is functional limit."

"You people even grade pain?"

"How else would we manage it?"

"…The Federation really can turn anything into a spreadsheet." The first stimulation hit and my fingers just twitched. Like a nasty static shock, nothing catastrophic.

"Three," I said.

"Too fast." He stopped it.

"Again. Identify: skin, muscle, or superficial nerve response." I stared at him.

"Normal teachers don't ask students for pain analysis reports, you know."

"You're not a student," he said.

"You're operational personnel." The second pulse went deeper. This time the pain didn't flash and fade—it drove into my forearm muscle like a thin hot wire being inserted and slowly twisted along the grain. My shoulder locked; my jaw clenched.

"…Four. Muscle layer. Localized contraction, radiating toward inner elbow."

"Good." Third round, he bumped the power up two levels. I didn't even get to swear before he triggered it. My entire arm nearly jerked off the platform, fingers curling involuntarily as searing electric pain detonated from forearm to shoulder socket—like someone hammering charged nails in one by one, then adding extra hits for good measure. I sucked in a sharp breath, barely kept the profanity down.

"Seven—fuck—that's seven—""Profanity is not assessment," the doctor noted calmly.

"Then you try it!"

"I am quite familiar with it." Fuck. What has this old lunatic done to himself? Wiesland stayed back throughout, not intervening—just occasional glances at the data, then at me. That look was intolerable. Not concern. Not entertainment. More like cold evaluation: will this weapon hold together for the next phase? I hated being seen like that. So when the fourth round started, I deliberately straightened my back, lifted my chin, and arranged my face into a perfect nothing's wrong mask. Then Dr.

Steiner switched to lateral abdomen stimulation. When the pads first attached, I thought: fine, just a different location. Then he triggered it— I nearly launched off the platform.

"Ngh—!" That wasn't ordinary pain. The lateral abdomen is where dignity goes to die—dense nerves, thin muscle, directly tied to breathing. When the current bit in, it felt like someone reaching under my ribs and wringing my organs sideways. I curled instinctively, hit the restraints, and could only shake in place.

"Eight," the doctor recorded serenely. My vision flashed white.

"You—fuck—that's eight?"

"You completed a full sentence. Therefore not ten." That answer was so clinically delivered I wanted to vomit blood. After the fifth round, sweat beaded my forehead. Not from heat. From my body's automatic surrender mechanism recognizing hostile conditioning. But my brain is more stubborn than my body, so the moment that reflex surfaced, I kicked it back down myself. Don't break. Especially not in front of Wiesland and the doctor. I focused on the white line on the screen, forcing my attention onto numbers.

Identify. Location. Direction. Depth. Like the doctor said—not endurance. Interpretation. … Even if I still think the entire framework is fundamentally deranged.

"Good," the doctor said, watching data.

"She's finding rhythm." Wiesland finally spoke.

"She's forcing it." My head snapped toward him.

"I'm not." He didn't look at me, just kept his eyes on the datapad.

"Breathing pattern's irregular. Excessive shoulder and neck compensation. Ocular focus starting to drift. She's holding posture through willpower, which degrades cognitive function faster." I had a very strong urge to grab that datapad and break it across his face. The most infuriating thing about this man isn't that he sees through you—it's that he narrates it. The doctor nodded.

"Agreed. Next phase, then." Every alarm I had went off.

"Wait—what next phase—" He hit the switch. This time it wasn't localized. It was my entire back. For one instant, I felt like someone had driven white-hot light straight down my spine. No sound. No shape. Just pain stripped to its violent essence, detonating across every nerve in my back simultaneously. Like a red-hot cable dragged from neck to tailbone, then wrenched outward with both hands. My body arched involuntarily, a completely graceless sound tore from my throat, and my vision pitched hard.

"Pain is not the enemy," the doctor's voice came from very far away.

"The more you flee, the larger it becomes. Look at it. Dismantle it. Name it." Name it. Right now the only thing I want to name is your cause of death. But I couldn't even finish that sentence. The second wave hit immediately. Longer this time. Deeper. Like someone threading countless fine needles along every nerve in sequence, then gathering my entire back like fabric being pulled inward on a seam. Shoulder blades, spine, flanks—all of it igniting into a pain so sharp it flared bright.

Every breath dragged my chest with it; every attempt to straighten brought a blow to my lower back; every attempt to curl inward just drove the restraints deeper. I was pinned to an invisible board. Sweat ran down the side of my face. My lips went numb. My fingers trembled badly enough that I was starting to find them embarrassing.

"Nine," the doctor said.

"Bull…shit…" My voice came out hoarse enough that I barely recognized it.

"That's at least… twelve…" Wiesland added from somewhere nearby, completely unbothered:"She still has energy to argue. Not twelve." … You two motherfuckers. No wait— Whatever. Both bastards either way. I tried to laugh. The moment my mouth started to pull into a smirk, the third wave arrived. This time I actually saw white. Not metaphorically. Literally. A blinding flare detonated in the center of my vision like someone had set off a flare directly inside my skull.

Every sound collapsed under that instant—the doctor's voice, the instruments, the faint rustle of Wiesland turning pages—all of it receding until there was nothing left but my own blood slamming against my eardrums. Thud. Thud. Thud. Each one shaking my skull from the inside. I clenched my jaw until my back molars ached, but a small, humiliating sound still escaped my throat. My back muscles seized in full spasm, shoulders shaking, flanks pulled so tight they felt like the next second would snap them.

I knew exactly how I must look right now, and I no longer had enough left to manage my expression. No. Don't go down. Not this fast. I was the person who mentally declared war on the entire planet of Dunan just yesterday. Passing out in the first session would make me look like a cheap appliance—nice packaging, early failure. So I forced myself upright. Lifted my head. Dragged my eyes back to the front. And looked directly into Wiesland's.

He was standing in the observation area, watching me through a layer of cold light. Those grey eyes held no pity and no mockery—just a near-brutal calm. Like he was waiting. Waiting to see whether I'd learn control first, or break first. Teenage sentimentality isn't actually useful in a moment like this. It can't stop the pain. It can't reassemble my spine. But somehow, in that exact instant, a completely useless thought surfaced anyway. Fuck, my face right now must look like a cat that just got stepped on.

Historically ugly. The moment that thought appeared, I almost wanted to strangle myself for having it. You're in this condition and you're still thinking about your face? But that one second of distraction was all it took. The doctor layered the final pulse sequence on top. My entire body seized. That wasn't pain anymore. It was closer to penetration.

Like an invisible awl driven into the base of my skull, hammering down through my spine, striking every vertebra, every nerve, prying me open from the inside inch by inch. The edges of my vision darkened fast, my eyes rolled up without permission, and I felt my lips tremble—like I was trying to say something, but couldn't push out a single coherent syllable.

"… Shimo." I thought I heard someone say my name. Not loud. Very close. But I couldn't tell if it was Wiesland, or just the last flicker of my own mind inventing sounds. The next second, the world went out like someone had yanked the power cord. All the white light, the pain, the sound, the numbers—cut off at once. The last thing I felt was cold against my forehead, my lashes trembling, my jaw finally unclenching, my whole body going slack and tipping sideways like a puppet with its strings cut.

In the final instant before consciousness went under, I was dimly aware that my eyes had probably actually rolled back, and that I must have looked spectacularly terrible. … Fuck. The humiliation. And then I didn't know anything at all.