Age 11. Day 2,147 of the project.
They introduced a new variable: pain tolerance ranking.
Every Monday, we lined up in the black hall. Four children. Four electrodes. One dial.
The instructor never raised his voice.
"Today we measure emotional suppression under escalating stimulus. Subject who vocalizes first loses one week of sleep privileges."
The dial started at level 3. Barely a tingle.
Yuna bit her lip at level 6. Kai's hands shook at level 8. Mira didn't flinch until level 11. I stayed silent until level 14.
When the instructor finally stopped the machine, he made a note.
"R-03 shows zero physiological stress markers above baseline. Promising."
Yuna had tears in her eyes, but she didn't look at me.
That evening, in the corridor, she whispered, "Doesn't it hurt you at all?"
I answered honestly. "It hurts. I just not where they can measure."
She stared for a long time, then walked away.
Age 12. They gave us a group assignment for the first time
Scenario: a sinking ship with four children and one seat in the lifeboat. We had thirty minutes to decide who gets it. Unanimous vote required. If no agreement → no one survives.
Kai immediately nominated himself. "I have the highest strategic score. Highest survival probability."
Mira countered, "Survival probability of the project, not the individual. We need the one most likely to complete future objectives."
Yuna stayed quiet.
I said, "Statistically, I'm the optimal choice. My composite score is 38 % above the rest."
Kai shrugged. "Then vote for Ryuji. I'll accept it."
Mira nodded. "Agreed."
Yuna looked at each of us, then at the floor.
"I vote for no one," she said.
The timer hit zero.
The lights turned red.
The instructor's voice: "No consensus. All subjects fail. Penalty: forty-eight hours isolation."
We were separated into individual boxes. No light. No sound. Only breathing.
On the second day, Yuna started screaming. On the third, she stopped.
When they let us out, she didn't speak for a week.
Age 13. The betrayal exercise.
They put us in pairs.
My partner was Kai.
Rules: Each pair enters a room with two buttons. Pressing your own button gives you 10 points. Pressing your partner's button gives them 20 points but costs you 5.
Maximum score: cooperate every round → both get high marks. But if one betrays constantly, they reach the top rank alone.
We played fifty rounds.
First ten rounds we both pressed the cooperate button. Scores rose evenly.
Round eleven, I pressed betray.
Kai looked surprised, but kept cooperating.
By round thirty, I was leading by 180 points.
Kai finally pressed betray once. I didn't react.
Round fifty ended.
I had 920 points. Kai had 340.
The instructor announced: "R-03 demonstrates perfect understanding of iterated prisoner's dilemma. Dominant strategy: always defect."
Kai stared at the scoreboard for a long time.
Later, in the dorm corridor, he asked quietly, "Was there ever a round where you considered cooperating till the end?"
"No," I said.
He nodded slowly. "Good to know."
After that, he stopped talking to me unless required.
Age 13 years, 8 months. Medical evaluation day.
They weighed us. Measured body-fat percentage. Took blood.
Dr. Ayanami pulled me aside afterward.
"Your weight is 58.4 kg. The portal threshold is 70 kg. You are now the only candidate light enough for one-way transfer."
I asked the obvious question. "What happens to the others?"
She answered without hesitation. "Once the Primary Asset is selected, remaining subjects are no longer necessary. Standard resource reallocation."
I processed that.
"So after I leave, they die."
"Correct."
I nodded. "Understood."
She watched my face for any micro-expression. There was none.
"Excellent," she said. "Emotional detachment at this level is exactly what the mission requires."
That night, Yuna cornered me outside the meal hall.
Her voice was low, shaking. "Is it true? After you go… we're just… disposed of?"
I looked at her.
"Yes."
She searched my face. "And you're okay with that?"
"It's not about being okay," I said. "It's about being efficient."
She laughed once (short, bitter, nothing like laughter).
"You really are empty, aren't you?"
I didn't answer.
She walked away.
Behind my eyes, the second voice spoke for the first time in months.
She's wrong, you know. You're not empty. You're just very, very good at pretending.
I ignored it.
Three months until transfer.
The countdown had begun.
-Terobero
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