Chương 19: 10.Graduated Lab Rat 10-1

When I woke up, the ceiling was white. Not the half-smoke-blackened, flickering white of a warship bridge. Not the over-sterilized, soul-bleaching white of a medical pod either. It was the ceiling of my high-end single dormitory. I stared at it for about three seconds. My brain felt like a pot of thick soup left on the stove overnight—viscous, swollen, carrying a hell of an aftertaste. The back of my neck ached. Deep in my back, phantom pain lingered like someone had scrubbed my nerves with a wire brush.

When I moved my fingers, even the joints registered complaints. I lay there without moving. First thought: I'm still alive. Second thought: Fuck, what a waste. Not that I wanted to die. It's that if I'd actually died on that metal platform yesterday, I could at least righteously haunt the entrance of the First Special Operations Division—standing at Dr. Heinrich von Steiner's bedside every night at 0300, syringe in hand, asking in perfect Federation Standard:"Doctor, any drug allergies today?" Unfortunately, no.

I just survived, very ordinarily. With a headache like all twelve of Dunan's Skyshields had taken turns rolling over my skull. I sat up slowly. As the blanket slid away, I realized I'd been changed into clean dark-grey sleepwear. Small medical patches covered the needle sites on my arms. Faint red marks traced where sensor pads had been peeled from my back. … Wonderful. Not only did I pass out, but those bastards processed me like lab equipment—shipped me back to the dorm and tidied me up while they were at it.

Terrible feeling. Like getting hit by a car, waking up to find the driver not only took you home but thoughtfully tucked you in, with a note on the nightstand reading: Recovery satisfactory. Impact resuming tomorrow. I pushed the blanket aside and got out of bed. The moment my feet hit the floor, my knees gave a small wobble. Not weakness. I refuse to call that weakness. That was simply my lower body expressing formal objections to Federation medical education methodology.

On the low table beside the bed sat a printed document. Not a datapad. Not a light-screen notification. Actual paper. In an era where human lives can be compressed into data fields, things left on paper tend to fall into one of two categories: Unusually formal. Or unusually deranged. I picked it up. The heading was clean.

First Special Operations Division / Baseline Adaptive Assessment Report (Provisional) Below it, a column of entries cold as a morgue intake form: Subject: Hoshino Shimo, Private First Class Age: 14 Assessment Categories: Drug Tolerance / Pain Response / Neural Stress Adaptation Neural stimulants: viable Metabolic stabilizers: partial allergy, Type-3 compound contraindicated Stress-response inhibitors: low-dosage compatible Pain tolerance: above average Neural collapse threshold: delayed-onset Post-stimulation recovery: excellent Emotional expression: aggression stable Sense of shame: retained Recommendation: eligible for Phase One conditioning Addendum: Subject displays pronounced verbal resistance tendency, but maintains capacity for observation, analysis, and counterargument under high-stress and pain conditions.

Demonstrates considerable operational plasticity. — Heinrich von Steiner I stared at Sense of shame: retained for three seconds. Set the paper down. Picked it up again. Read it again.

"… What gives this old bastard the right to put something like that in an official report?" And what exactly is counterargument capacity supposed to be? What kind of military terminology is that? I flipped it over. The back had handwritten notes, penmanship so precise it bordered on pathological. Supplementary observation: Subject exhibits strong self-preservation instinct regarding composure—unwilling to visibly deteriorate in front of observers.

If properly leveraged, this can be converted into a long-term stress-resistance advantage. If mishandled, it will produce unnecessary overexertion and delayed collapse. — H. v. S. I was quiet for two seconds. Then addressed the paper with complete sincerity:"You're not just sick in the head—your handwriting is beautiful, and that's genuinely annoying." The doorbell rang exactly then. Not a system prompt. An actual doorbell. I reflexively slapped the report face-down on the table and looked toward the door.

"Come in." The door slid open. Colonel Wiesland. He wasn't wearing yesterday's full black uniform jacket—just a shirt and tactical vest, sleeves rolled up once. It stripped away some of that premium display knife quality and replaced it with something closer to person who actually has work to do today. …Damn. This type of person could roll up one sleeve and still look like recruitment poster material. I stomped that thought dead immediately. His gaze swept the report on the table first, then settled on me.

"You're awake."

"Unfortunately." I leaned against the table edge and crossed my arms.

"I imagine you were all hoping I'd wake up as a vegetable. Much quieter to train."

"No." He closed the door, tone even.

"We were hoping you'd wake up and still be able to say things like that. It means yesterday's intensity wasn't wasted." The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. …Right. This man really does belong in hell alongside the doctor. I lifted the report.

"So what is this—my enrollment transcript?" Wiesland glanced at it.

"Initial assessment.""'Sense of shame: retained' is part of the assessment?"

"For the doctor, yes."

"Then he can go to hell."

"I'm unable to authorize that at this time." I stared at him. He actually let the corner of his mouth move—barely. Not a smile, more like a hairline fracture in ice. That made me angrier. Because it meant he was choosing to banter.

"Why are you here?" I asked.

"Don't tell me you came to check on the victim."

"You weren't a victim yesterday," Wiesland said.

"You were a subject."

"That sounds worse." He didn't disagree—just set a datapad on the table.

"I'm here because yesterday wasn't a real conversation." I looked at him and said nothing. He didn't continue immediately either. He looked around the room first. Living area. Kitchenette. Sofa. Refrigerator. And the bathtub that had nearly extracted one second of genuine Federation gratitude from me last night.

"Settling in?" he asked. I kept my expression flat.

"If by that you mean 'considerably nicer than Warehouse 6A, considerably quieter, and considerably more resembling a licensed containment facility'—then yes, quite settled."

"Sleeping better?" I frowned slightly. That was a normal question. Normal enough to be suspicious.

"Does the First Special Operations Division also offer pastoral care?"

"No," he said.

"I need to know whether you're getting comfortable enough to go soft." …Fuck. There it is. That's the Colonel Wiesland I recognize. If he's not backing someone toward a cliff edge, he apparently can't sleep at night.

"Relax, sir." I gave a cold smile.

"I'm very aware that the cola, the bathtub, and the beef aren't complimentary. There's no such thing as a free dinner—especially not a Federation one."

"Good," he said.

"That means the environment hasn't bought you." I couldn't help rolling my eyes.

"It almost did." Wiesland actually nodded.

"That's also normal. Being able to recognize temptation is better than not feeling it at all." …That sentence somehow managed to sound like a criticism and a compliment at the same time. The worst kind—ambiguous, but annoyingly coherent when you think it through. He moved to the window and looked out at Dunan's white skyline for a few seconds before speaking.

"Do you know why it's a single room?"

"Because you're afraid I'll strangle a roommate in the middle of the night?"

"No." He turned back.

"Because from the moment you were assigned to the First Special Operations Division, you stopped being suitable to house with standard soldiers." I went still for a moment. That wasn't a difficult sentence to understand. Almost too easy. Not suitable. Not a promotion. Not a reward. Isolation. He held my gaze and continued.

"The training here, the medications, the schedule, the operational patterns—all of it is different from regular units. What you'll be exposed to going forward isn't appropriate to bring back to a standard barracks, and isn't appropriate for ordinary personnel to observe."

"So I'm classified assets now?"

"If you prefer the flattering version—yes."

"And the unflattering version?" Wiesland paused half a beat.

"Special-grade consumable." I held his gaze for two seconds. Then laughed. Actually laughed.

"…Shit. I actually prefer that one." Because at least it was honest. Honesty is rarer than kindness. Especially in a place like Dunan. I looked down at the doctor's report, tapping the paper lightly with my fingers.

"You said yesterday this place needs people who can carve out a path when the rules tear open." I looked up.

"So what now? What are you trying to carve me into?" Wiesland didn't answer immediately. His gaze settled on me with a quiet that was genuinely uncomfortable. Not a lull in conversation. Evaluation. The kind where someone has already taken you apart in their head, reassembled you, and is now considering whether to swap out two more components.

"I'm not trying to make you into anything specific," he finally said.

"I'm trying to determine whether you can hold together long enough to become something genuinely useful."

"That sounds terrible."

"I'm not here to sound appealing."

"I could tell." He didn't acknowledge that, just pushed the datapad closer. On it: a seven-day training schedule. Wall to wall, morning to night. PAIN MANAGEMENT. G-FORCE TOLERANCE. MEDICATION STABILIZATION. TACTICAL ASSESSMENT. CLOSE-COMBAT RESPONSE. SHORT-CYCLE SLEEP CONTROL. STRESS LOGGING. RECOVERY EVALUATION. I stared at it and felt my soul begin a slow, deliberate exit from my body.

"You call this a schedule?"

"I call it week one."

"Did you people just cancel being a person?"

"Here, you learn to hold together first. Being a person comes after." I was quiet for a few seconds, then asked only one thing.

"What if I can't hold together?" The room went quiet. Outside, Dunan was still as white and unconvincing as ever. The refrigerator hummed steadily. The living area sat silent as a room no one had ever actually lived in. Wiesland looked at me. His grey eyes held no comfort, no encouragement, none of that cheap, stirring resolve. Just clean, brutal fact.

"Then you get sent back," he said.

"Back where?"

"General assignment." He paused, then added: "Or a body bag." …Oh. Right. Somehow, that answer cleared the air. No dreams. No future. No grand reasons of the kind used to fool children. Just one simple rule. Hold together. Or go back and die. I pulled the seven-day schedule closer and looked it over. Then let out a quiet sigh.

"I'm starting to miss the dirty socks in Warehouse 6A." Wiesland stood there for a moment.

"Missing it is normal." I looked up.

"But you can't go back," he said. The words were flat. Flat as paper. And because they were so flat, they were infinitely more irritating. I hate that feeling—knowing something already, then having someone else say it out loud. Like someone pressing directly on an unhealed wound and calmly informing you: Yes, this is where it hurts. I pulled the corner of my mouth up, keeping my tone as obnoxious as possible.

"Fine, sir. Since you've invested so much premium feed in me, I'll at least try not to die too cheaply." Wiesland looked at me and finally nodded.

"That's enough." He turned to leave. At the door, he stopped without looking back—like something had just occurred to him.

"By the way."

"What."

"The doctor updated your evaluation this morning." My eyebrow twitched.

"What now?" Wiesland said, completely deadpan:"'Retained capacity for verbal abuse until moment of unconsciousness. High plasticity.'" I was silent for exactly three seconds. Then grabbed the report and hurled it at the door.

"Both of you can go straight to hell—!" The door had already closed. The report hit the panel and slid down. Good. First morning exercise: complete. Day One: Pain Management Pain management sounds like some premium psychology course. The actual content: Dr. Heinrich von Steiner using every method legal enough to be nauseating to teach you how to observe, count, assess, and talk back while in enough pain to reconsider last night's dinner. I passed out after the first session.

Before the second session, he set a cup of warm water in front of me, tone as calm as if nothing had happened.

"Today we differentiate between dull pain, sharp pain, burning pain, and radiating neuropathic pain." I held the cup and stared at him.

"Doctor, normal teachers don't knock their students unconscious on day one."

"It ensures the lesson is memorable."

"When you get to hell, the devils are going to recruit you straight into administration." He adjusted his glasses.

"If the compensation is reasonable, I'll consider it." … Fuck. The most infuriating kind of person is the one who can field your trash talk with academic sincerity. By the third stimulation, I could roughly distinguish surface pain from the kind that drills into bone. By the fifth, I'd learned to stop fleeing from it—to take that mass of pain and dismantle it like stripping a machine, forcing it hurts into location, direction, depth, rhythm. Disgusting. But useful.

Because once pain is dismantled, it still hurts—but it's no longer a solid wave drowning you. It becomes something you can number, name, and use to count time. The doctor was satisfied. My only comment:"The Federation really has a gift for turning trauma into curriculum." Day Two: G-Force Tolerance I'd assumed G-force training meant sitting in a centrifuge, spinning a few rounds, throwing up, done. The First Special Operations Division, naturally, was never going to be that merciful.

It wasn't a standard centrifuge. It was a metal coffin specifically designed to educate the human body on exactly how fragile it is. Strapped into the seat, the moment my head touched the rest, cabin lights shifted to dark red. As the system counted down, I still had enough pride to think: it's just spinning, how bad can it be? Thirty seconds later, I understood. Gravity doesn't press you down. It hammers you into the seat. My chest felt like a cargo freighter had parked on it. Breathing went short and rigid.

My arms turned to lead; even my eyelids gained weight. The edges of my vision grayed, then slowly blackened—like someone shading the corners of a page with charcoal. Dr. Steiner's calm voice came through the comm.

"Anti-G posture." I clenched my jaw, pressed my back into the seat, tightened my core, applied force exactly as instructed.

"Breathe." I did.

"Speak."

"Say…what…"

"Anything." I forced two labored breaths under high-G, then managed to squeeze out:"This… piece of junk… spins like… a budget amusement park…" Silence on the channel for a beat. Then Wiesland's voice cut in:"Still has energy to waste breath. Increase load." I wanted to bite someone through the hull. When I finally got out, I felt like I'd been juiced and poured back into myself—legs unsteady, hands numb, vision swimming, walking with the specific humiliation of a newborn deer.

But by the third session, I could hold my breathing rhythm before blackout hit. By the fifth, I could clearly call out three moving target IDs on a tactical overlay at over eighty percent load. The doctor called this progress. I called it being educated by gravity into slightly less breakable glass.