By the time they reached the third checkpoint, Lachlan understood the pattern.
The first station had been about measurement.
The second had been about exposure.
This one was about placement.
They were ushered into a long, low building that had once been part of the base's administrative wing. The walls were still concrete, but they had been painted a neutral beige that tried very hard to feel calming. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and the air smelled faintly of disinfectant and old paper.
There were desks arranged in rows instead of lines, each one staffed by a uniformed clerk and backed by two armed guards who were pretending not to be listening to every word.
There were more people in this room than there were for the medical, and in most cases, the people moved forward in small groups.
Names were called.
Assignments were issued.
And most importantly, no a single person argued.
