Chapter 30. Asset Registration

In front of my eyes loomed a heavy, monumental building made of gray concrete. Above the entrance, an American flag lazily fluttered in the morning breeze, and on the facade a concise inscription stood out: Washington State Induction Center. Looking at it from the outside, I caught myself thinking it was the most ordinary, painfully typical military facility, lost among civilian blocks. If there had not been a slip of paper with the exact address in my memory palace, I would never have guessed that behind these faceless walls the testing of the Awakened, the new elite of humanity, was taking place.

By the way, talking about what lies inside this concrete cube is strictly forbidden. Military secret. Breaking silence here is treated as treason, with all the consequences that follow.

I glanced at my wristwatch. Exactly eight o’clock. Perfect timing. My letter did not specify an exact appointment time, but my curator Danny, along with countless threads on army forums I had combed through over the past weeks, all said the same thing: come early. The army does not like people who leave important matters to the last minute.

I ran my hand over my head without thinking. The sensation felt unfamiliar. I had cut my hair almost down to nothing. There are no official hairstyle requirements for the Awakened, since the army is not yet ready to dictate terms to people who can incinerate a building with a snap of their fingers, but I decided to make my life easier. According to Danny, right after the medical examination we would be transferred to a training zone where they would push us harder than anything I had ever experienced. In that situation, long hair getting in my eyes and sticking to a sweaty forehead would only be an unnecessary distraction, so I got rid of it without regret.

A heavy bag hung from my shoulder. Danny assured me the US Army is far from poor and does not cut corners on valuable assets. They would provide everything, from high quality sportswear to toothbrushes. Still, I brought paper copies of all my certificates. Experience told me that in a bureaucratic machine it is better to have a physical document with a stamp in your hands. Waving a smartphone screen in front of a stern officer would not work here.

Bringing any electronics into areas connected to the Awakened is strictly prohibited. It is a harsh but effective measure against leaks. So I left my fancy smartphone at home and filled my bag with ordinary printed books to keep my mind occupied in the barracks before sleep. Choosing what to bring took time. Unlike a device, a book has no lock screen, and any passing sergeant can immediately see what you are reading. I set aside Harry Potter and other teenage fantasy right away. I did not want the army command to see me as an immature softie from day one. Instead, I picked a couple of serious works on tactics and history, just in case they contained useful insights for someone preparing to become a universal soldier.

I caught myself thinking with irony that for the past three months I had been preparing for the army as if I were about to enter a maximum security prison. I built muscle, learned combat skills, memorized rules, and brought only the permitted minimum. Considering that I was being dragged into this closed zone without the slightest hint of voluntary consent, the line between honorable service and imprisonment felt damn thin.

I pushed the heavy door and stepped inside. The interior greeted me with institutional cleanliness and the specific smell of old paint. A typical enlistment office, with ordinary soldiers in camouflage sitting behind desks.

“What is your business?” the duty officer at the counter raised an indifferent gaze at me without looking up from his stack of papers. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes, I am Thomas Ross,” I said, handing over my driver’s license.

The soldier checked the list on his computer, then picked up a service phone and spoke a couple of short phrases.

“Understood. Wait here. Someone will come for you shortly.”

Shortly really did not take long. Just a couple of minutes later, a solidly built man in uniform appeared in the hall and motioned for me to follow. He led me to a sterile changing room with lockers lined along the walls.

“Leave all personal belongings in a locker,” he said dryly, in a tone straight out of regulations, handing me a thin hospital gown. “You should have nothing on you except this. Remove everything, including your underwear. I will wait outside.”

So be it. I quickly placed my clothes and bag into a locker, turned the key, and pulled on the excuse for clothing. The gown, tied at the back, was uncomfortable to say the least. Cold air brushed unpleasantly against my skin, and my bare feet felt the chill of the tile floor. My escort solved that last issue in his own way. He was already waiting in the corridor with a wheelchair.

They started rolling me from one doctor’s office to another, and the whole thing felt surreal. I felt like some high ranking patient or a VIP. Memories of Vietnam veterans’ memoirs surfaced in my mind, another dark period in US history when people were sent to war against their will. They wrote that during medical examinations they were stripped down to their underwear and made to sit in huge crowds on narrow worn benches, waiting for hours while a doctor finished his endless smoke break. With the Awakened, the army behaved very differently. They treated us like expensive and highly unstable weapons.

The first stop was the therapist’s office. The doctor, dressed in an immaculate white coat, asked standard, rehearsed questions.

“Do you have any complaints about your health, Mr. Ross? Any past injuries we should know about? Are you taking any medications on a regular basis?”

“No,” I replied calmly. “I am completely healthy.”

Naturally, no one took my word for it. They sent me through the full circuit: blood drawn from a vein, X ray, ECG, and a whole pile of other tests whose purpose I could only guess. My escort silently and patiently wheeled me from room to room without saying a single unnecessary word.

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Danny once mentioned that Awakened are usually accompanied to medical examinations by their parents and personal curators. Most of them are teenagers with unstable psyches. They need moral support, a mother’s warm hand, and a reassuring whisper so they do not panic at the sight of a needle, enter resonance, and blow the entire building to hell.

I could have brought my mom and Danny too. But I dismissed that idea immediately. I am an adult man, and I do not need someone holding my hand while blood is being drawn. Let them stay at home, in peace and comfort, while I step into this new world.

The final note was a visit to the dentist. It turned out the US Army is willing to bring the teeth of its valuable assets into perfect condition completely free of charge. While the doctor worked inside my mouth, I felt a sharp pang of regret. If only I had received my superpowers back in childhood, along with Megan. Then my mom would not have had to spend a fortune on my braces. Still, better late than never.

All the tests were done, and now all that remained was to wait. An amazing feeling. No lines, no grumbling receptionists, no endless “the doctor is on rounds, please take a seat.” Everything worked like a clock, precise and silent. This must be how wealthy people feel in elite Swiss clinics. You are not a petitioner. You are a valuable asset whose time is too expensive to waste in corridors.

But it was too early to relax. Three final offices loomed ahead, and my fate was being decided there right now. What I said and how I behaved would determine whether I would serve in an elite unit or end up as second rate cannon fodder.

They wheeled me into the psychiatrist’s office.

An elderly man sat at the desk. His voice sounded so tired and his face so worn, as if every breath I took was stealing the last seconds of his life. He did not look at me, his gaze fixed on a tablet.