Date: 6/22/2001 – 11:27 PM
Location: The White Room – Assessment Floor
Perspective: Kaiser Everhart
Director Vance stood before me, his presence a heavy, suffocating shroud. With a flick of his wrist, a holographic interface materialized between us, shimmering in the sterile light.
My test results hung in the air, glowing with clinical indifference.
"I have been reviewing the answers from your assessment," Vance said, his voice flat. He swiped a finger through the air, isolating my final score.
"Designation 000001 was the only student to achieve a perfect 100. The rest of the top tier ranged from 95% to 99%. You, however, managed to land exactly at the bottom of that threshold."
He looked at me through his silver-rimmed glasses.
"Why did you hold back, Designation 981?"
I blinked, widening my eyes slightly to mimic the confused innocence of a child caught in a misunderstanding. "I... I didn't hold back, Director. The exam was quite difficult. My head was hurting by the end of the third question."
Vance didn't flinch.
He swiped the display again, bringing Question 5 into sharp focus. "Then explain this. Question 5 is a Level 4 spatial equation."
"Statistically, only you and Designation 1 provided the correct synchronization. You achieved a 20/20 on the most difficult problem in the Foundation's current database."
I looked at the glowing numbers and shrugged my small shoulders. "What a coincidence. I suppose I just got lucky with the variables."
"Lucky?" Vance's voice dropped cold. He pulled up the results for Question 1.
"You left the first question—a basic mana-density derivation—half-finished. You provided the correct logic but stopped before the final sum. It resulted in a massive point deduction. You are the only student who failed the easiest question yet perfected the hardest."
"I... I must have forgotten the time," I murmured, staring at my feet. "I saw the clock and panicked. I moved to the end of the test because the big numbers looked more interesting. I didn't think I'd actually get them right."
Vance stepped closer. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. He began to read Question 5 aloud, his voice echoing with a terrifying clarity.
Question 5: A Level 4 Teleportation Portal requires a stabilized event horizon to prevent molecular shearing. Given a radius R, calculate the exact mana-density required to maintain the circumference of the portal's aperture during a 500-mile transit.
Note: The value of the circular constant is required for the final synchronization.
"This was your answer," Vance said.
He tapped the holographic screen, and my handwriting sprawled across the air. It looked simple at a glance—deceptively so. I hadn't just used the standard 3.14… or even the common 50-digit approximation of pi.
I had written out 1,517 digits of pi by memory, weaving them into a formula that accounted for things the instructors hadn't even asked for.
I had mapped the destination coordinates with a precision that included the altitude of the exit point and the atmospheric density of the 500-mile mark. I had calculated the moisture content in the air to prevent fog-clouding upon arrival. I had even adjusted the mana-flow to account for the day/night cycle and the specific vibration of the grass at the target location so the portal wouldn't disturb the local flora.
It was a perfect simulation of a reality that didn't exist yet.
Vance turned back to me, his silver eyes piercing. "Designation 1 solved this using the standard Foundation advanced-sync method. His answer was perfect."
"But your answer... your answer accounted for the moisture in the air and the gravitational pull of the moon."
He leaned down until he was at eye level with me. "How did you manage to write an answer greater than Designation 1 while claiming to be 'lucky'?"
I maintained my mask. My heart rate remained at a steady 65 beats per minute.
"I just... I like circles, Director. When I thought about the portal, I could see the destination. I thought it would be sad if the grass got burnt when I arrived. So I added some numbers to make sure it stayed green."
He knows. But he cannot prove the extent of the "Aporetic Reasoning" without breaking me open.
This is the moment where I become his most valuable, and most dangerous, asset.
Vance straightened his back, his shadow looming over me once more. "You are either a fool pretending godhood, or you are the greatest liar this facility has ever produced."
I let a small smirk settle on my face, a breach of the blank-slate protocol that governed the lower-tier designations.
Vance's silver eyes sharpened behind his spectacles. "You are expressing human emotions," he observed, his voice devoid of surprise.
"Spontaneous facial mimicry and ego-driven expressions are not scheduled for teaching until the Year 2 Emotional Understanding curriculum. You are ahead of the timeline."
"Or perhaps I am a bit too emotional, Director," I replied.
He ignored the comment and swiped the holographic display to a new data set.
"You have been staying late after the simulation cycles conclude. Specifically with Designation 000829. Your physical proximity and frequency of dialogue suggest a social bond. Tell me... why are you taking the route of friendship in a facility designed for survival of the fittest?"
"You misunderstood my motives, Director Vance," I said, my tone flattening into a rehearsed innocence.
"I am currently the lowest-ranked student in this tier. I am simply trying to survive by securing a high-value ally. It is a pragmatic use of—"
"Enough," Vance cut me off. He swiped again, bringing up Question 3.
Question 3: Find the eigenvalues of a 12th-dimensional mana-matrix where every odd-numbered row is a derivative of the Void-Constant. Express the result in Abyssal integers.
He pointed at my work. The display filled with a dense, chaotic web of symbols that mirrored a complex Smith Chart.
"The Foundation has not yet introduced the Abyssal Calculus. Nor have we taught the use of integral variables for 12th-dimensional mapping," Vance stated.
"Yet, you provided a solution that uses 9 distinct variables to calculate the intersection of space, time, and the void."
He began to list the variables I had injected into the matrix:
Temporal Displacement
Spatial Curvature Index
Void-Leakage Coefficient
Mana Viscosity
Abyssal Pressure
Entropic Decay Rate
Molecular Resonance
Atomic Vibration Threshold
Celestial Inversion
"Your result wasn't just a number," Vance said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "It was a blueprint. You used these variables to describe a timed explosive curse. A detonator that triggers the moment the target attempts to use a sacred or heavenly spell. It soaks into the subject's blood, neutralizing healing magic instantly. No counter-measures. No survival."
He stepped into my personal space, his shadow completely eclipsing me. "You did not include these variables in Question 5, where they would have increased your accuracy. Instead, you wasted them on Question 3 to create a weapon that confused the instructors. They have never seen a curse designed to counter celestial magic with such intensity."
Vance gripped the edge of the holographic podium. "You are an oddity, Designation 981. Are you trying to prove a point? Are you trying to demonstrate that you are, in fact, not a defect?"
I maintained my smile. It was a mask of polite curiosity, hiding the gears of the factory turning within. I looked up at him, my blue eyes reflecting the cold silver of his glasses.
"Director Vance," I said softly, "if you don't mind, I'd like to pose an interesting question of my own."
"What is fairness?" I asked.
"People like to think it's simple. A concept upheld by rules and principles. But perhaps fairness is just a word—dragged across mouths to justify convenience. A multi-faced mirror. Everyone sees a different reflection and calls it 'just.'"
Vance didn't answer. He watched me with the stillness of a statue.
"Some say fairness means the same treatment for all," I continued, stepping slightly to the side to catch the light.
"But does that mean a fish and a bird must climb the same tree? Others argue for fairness in results—give more to those who need more. But who decides the weight of need?"
"Then there's fairness by opportunity: let everyone run the same race. Ignore who was born with a leg disability."
"Is talent fair? Is beauty fair? Is being born clever or being born broken fair?" I paused, letting the silence answer.
"No. Are human beings fair? Of course not. And yet… we build systems, label them with justice, with merit, with equality—and hope it holds. Hope it doesn't tilt too hard toward the gifted."
"Hope the ones below don't notice the cracks."
Vance adjusted his glasses. The silver frames caught the glare of the overhead lights. "And your point, Designation 981?"
"Imagination can often be far more cruel than reality," I said, my gaze narrowing on him. "These children—they are brilliant. Gifted. Destined. But somewhere along the line, that gift stopped being a blessing."
"Here, it is nothing more than a survival tool. And survival tools break. Giftedness isn't a guarantee of success. It's a potential for it. That's the part people like to forget."
"The adults here… they don't see children. They see weapons."
I took a breath, my tone steady and quietly confident. "They don't raise you. They test you. They don't nurture your potential. They see if it can carry itself. If you can't wield your own gift, then it consumes you. Until you kill yourself using it."
"I have no special talent."
Vance let out a dry, low chuckle. "You have no talent? Don't make me laugh. You've grown exponentially in the past week since the self-studies began. That rate of data integration can only correlate with Designation 1."
"You, 981, are an Adaptability Genius."
"May you like to test your hypothesis?" I asked.
"That is my purpose for being here," Vance replied, his voice regaining its clinical edge.
"A reassessment of your hidden talent which we've missed. Judging from your test scores, it's evident. Nobody else was even close to getting the 5th question right. Only by being adaptable could you break the material down and understand it so thoroughly, much like we've seen from Designation 1."
He reached into his coat and produced a handheld scanner. It emitted a thin, blue light that swept over my forehead, mapping the neural pathways and searching for the unique mana-signature that signaled an innate "talent." I waited patiently. I felt the cool hum of the device as it probed my biological architecture.
BEEP.
The scanner buzzed a sharp, discordant red.
The notification was clear: No Talents Detected.
Vance stared at the device, his brows furrowing. The logic he had built—the evidence of my test scores—had just collided with the physical reality of the scan.
"This... this is impossible," he muttered. "The data shows growth that matches the highest tier. How can the scanner be blank?"
"As I've said, Director Vance, I'm not talented," I stated coldly.
"Results happen over time, not overnight. I simply put in the work that the others consider beneath them."
"But how?" Vance's voice rose, a rare flicker of annoyance breaking through his composure.
"How can you be talentless yet survive this long and pass the assessment with those specific variables? It does not make sense! You solved a dimensional matrix using the Void-Constant!"
"Nothing ever really gets easier," I said, meeting his silver eyes with my own. "You just get better."
Vance looked genuinely annoyed now, his jaw tightening. "What are you saying now? That you deem yourself special? That your effort is somehow superior to the gifts of Heaven?"
"Nothing like that, Director," I replied. I didn't feel pride, only the cold clarity of my own reasoning.
"I don't possess the ego to see myself as anything, really. But as it stands, you should know... you have to be 'odd' to be number one."
I narrowed my eyes on him, pushing the conversation to its final point.
"The speech about talent and fate you spoke of earlier... Do you truly believe in that?"
"Clearly," Vance said, his voice hard with conviction. "And with all my worth. It is the foundation of our world."
"What you people commonly call fate and talent is mostly just their own stupidity putting others on a pedestal," I stated, my voice like ice.
"I see them as nothing more than people born with a headstart in life. A headstart can be overcome by someone who knows how to run the race correctly."
I took a step closer to him, my small stature irrelevant against the weight of my words.
"Your philosophy is wrong, Director Vance."