Chapter 16 TInterview
The silence in the office stretched thin, broken only by the hum of the air conditioning and the rhythmic tapping of the administrator's fingers on his tablet. Finally, the "Four-Eye Nerd" looked up, his glasses reflecting the sterile overhead lights.
Four Eye Nerd: "What is your ID number, slum rat? You are exceptionally stinky. Hurry up; unlike you, I actually have a home to go to."
Fighter: "F*** you. What is with the 180? Do you have a personality disorder, or is being a prick part of the job description?"
The man didn't flinch. Instead, he forced a thin, artificial smile that didn't reach his eyes—eyes that still radiated pure condescension.
Four Eye Nerd: "Young man, I do not possess a mental disability. However, given your ghostly appearance and the fact that you smell like a mountain of rotting limbs, I am quite worried about your cognitive health. Please, give me your ID number so I can finish this tragic chore."
Fighter grit his teeth. He realized the man was playing a game—using the "polite" language required by UCA protocol while lacing every sentence with poison.
Fighter: "ID: N70018. Name: Fighter. Origin: RN Slum."
Fighter didn't lie. In the Human Unified Territory, slum dwellers weren't treated as citizens; they were treated like livestock. Every "farm animal" in the slums was tagged with an ID so the government could track the labor force. If a "cattle" went missing, an investigation followed—not because they cared about the person, but because they hated losing property.
If Fighter wanted to avoid being executed as a spy or a "Rejected" monster, he had to lean into his identity as a registered piece of slum trash.
Four Eye Nerd: "Ho! You actually have a name? Who gave it to you? Your missing father or your dead mother?"
Fighter's vision blurred red for a second. His hands shook, the plastic armrests of the chair creaking under his grip. This motherf*er is begging for a trip to the hospital.
Fighter: "Is insulting my parents part of the registration, or do you just enjoy the taste of your own sh*t? This interview is going nowhere, you fatherless desk-jockey."
Four Eye Nerd: "Yes, you are indeed right. This is going nowhere. Let's move to the only part of you that matters." He leaned forward, his professional veneer dropping for a split second. "What is the name of your Book?"
Fighter: "Spawn of Scrap."
The administrator paused. He tapped the name into his console, his brow furrowed. He searched the local database, then the national archives. Nothing. Even in the novel Fighter had read, [Spawn of Scrap] was non exist.
Four Eye Nerd: "A unique entry. Interesting. Let me pull up your System Interface for a deep sync. Open your status window."
Fighter scratched the back of his head, offering a jagged, mirthless smile.
Fighter: "I don't have a System."
Four Eye Nerd: "What? What are you, an Elf? A glitch?" He slammed a hand on the desk, looking genuinely annoyed for the first time. "Fine. If the digital path is closed, we do it the old way. Give me your blood."
Fighter: "What?! Again? How much blood do you people need? What is this, a school or a vampire coven?"
Fighter had already been drained of a significant amount at the Gate Station for "biological screening."
Four Eye Nerd: "The Gate blood was for the police. This blood is for the Story. Let me check for the razor..." He rummaged through a drawer, pulling out a needle-thin silver device. "No System, a nameless Book, and no bloodline... Your journey is going to be short and painful, 'Fighter.' You're walking the Path of Stories with broken legs. It's a pity, really."
He reached across the desk with the silver needle, his eyes glinting with a dark, professional curiosity.