"Interesting," rasped Doctor Shrill, fingers tapping rhythmically along the desk as he sized up Vance. The feeling left the latter deeply unsettled. That gaze wasn't just penetrating—it was invasive, like it was peeling him apart on a level the human eye had no business reaching.
"How is he?" Balgur asked, his gruff voice cutting through the tension. He stood there expectantly, waiting for a verdict.
Shrill didn't answer immediately. He bobbed his head in thought, continuing his scan of Vance before straightening up.
"The kid's fine. Just a few anomalies happening around his body. Anyway, you can leave now. I'll take it from here and update you when I'm done." He waved them off without room for argument, already locked back onto Vance like a puzzle he couldn't wait to solve.
"Good. We'll be heading out then, Doc. Cecilia'll swing by to get the kid later," Balgur replied before walking out behind Ares, who looked desperate to escape the room.
The door hadn't even shut before Ares' voice drifted back:
"Take care, kid."
Vance gave a slight nod, eyes already drawn to the room's last occupant.
The whole situation screamed of powerlessness.
What was this "assessment" going to be? He had no idea—and no control. The moment he stepped through that gate, his fate had been decided. Shrugging inwardly, he turned to Shrill.
God, please let this be everything like a regular doctor's visit. He silently prayed to whatever omnipotent being existed.
"What's the general situation, Doc?" he asked.
"Not too bad for someone unascended," Shrill grinned, gesturing toward a chair. "But I've got a few questions before we get started."
Vance nodded, stepping toward the "patient" seat. It looked more decorative than functional—not something Shrill used often, if ever. Settling in, he braced himself. He had a rough idea of what to expect.
*********
He was wrong.
Shrill ducked under his desk and rummaged around before pausing mid-motion, eyes narrowing with intrigue.
"Are you even human?"
Then, tilting his head, he rephrased.
"No, wait. Better—what are you?"
Vance shrugged. "I don't know."
That answer made Shrill burst into laughter.
"Good, good." The doctor chuckled, shuffling through a stack of documents before handing one over. "You'll need to sign this. Standard procedure. Grants access to the military construct required for your appraisal, since you're not yet under official Militarium ownership."
Vance's stomach dropped.
This paper was about to be a complete mindfuck.
He glanced over it, wincing. It looked innocent enough, but the wording… ugh. He hated documents—especially ones full of clauses, fine print, and misdirects. The kind of thing that made your brain itch just reading it.
Shrill, ever the sadist, smirked as he watched Vance struggle.
"Nothing too harsh in there, don't worry," he said with a laugh. "You're not signing the Stellaris Contract, after all. You'll still have all the rights of a dreg. Just, y'know, might be executed or handed over to a Labrator if you spill anything to the non-ascended. Usual stuff."
Vance stiffened.
So… this tech was restricted. That meant access came only with a contract. And since he clearly wasn't a normal case, they were fast-tracking him through their weird military pipeline.
In other words: he had no choice.
Resisting wasn't an option. Escaping? Even less so. He was, as Balke would've said, was cooked. Whatever "revival" they believed had occurred—it wasn't real. Vance knew his recovery was tied to something far more bizarre: transmigration.
If that truth ever came out…
His sanity would be the least of his worries.
Grimacing, he reached for the white pen and skimmed through the alien-looking script. The letters looked like a cross between Chinese and Arabic, yet somehow, he could still understand them.
Pushing away the unease clawing at him, he signed his name and handed the form back.
"I'm done."
Shrill lit up. He didn't even glance at the paper.
"Splendid. Now, follow me."
He led Vance to a machine that looked disturbingly like a modern washing machine. Placing his palm on the wall beside it, Shrill triggered a shift. The wall parted like an elevator, releasing a sharp mix of herbs and chemicals that stabbed the senses. Cold air poured out.
Vance instinctively took a step back.
Then—he spun.
Nope. Not going in there.
But as he turned to bolt, a steel-like hand clamped down on his shoulder.
"Don't be a wuss, Vance. They're all alive… or most of them," Shrill muttered, chuckling dryly.
Vance paled. He really didn't want to go in there.
Still, his body refused to move under the doctor's grip. He exhaled slowly and turned to look at Shrill—his eyes now wide, laced with a barely hidden panic.
Shrill simply nodded and walked into the chamber.
Vance followed.
Each step echoed with dread. The further he went, the more the place began to feel like something out of a nightmare.
Frankenstein's lab, he thought grimly.
Then came the pods.
Dozens of them lined the room—glass cylinders filled with green liquid, bubbles streaming upward like something alive was breathing inside. Floating forms drifted in the liquid—misshapen beings, bodies dissected and reassembled with wires and metal.
But it wasn't the pods that unsettled him most. It was what lay between them: dismembered body parts suspended by cables, hearts beating on their own without lungs, limbs twitching, eyes blinking in jars.
Vance froze.
Was this his future?
He tensed. One wrong word from Shrill and he'd lash out. Weak or not, he wasn't harmless.
He wasn't prey.
Eventually, Shrill stopped before a pod identical to the rest—except this one was empty. No fluid. No body.
"This is it, kiddo," he said, stroking his chin with exaggerated thoughtfulness.
"Meet Pod 07. Your new home for the next few days." He gestured toward the capsule, then pointed to the next one—containing nothing but a single floating brain.
"And say hi to your neighbor—Emmy."
Shrill burst into cackling coughs, unable to contain his amusement.