Time had dissolved into something shapeless inside the metal coffin. Minutes and hours no longer mattered. There was only the steady vibration of the engine under me, the sour tang of stale air mixed with the faint sweetness of whatever chemical they had pumped into us, and the heavy presence of bodies pressed close on every side. My own body had become a prison. I wasn't a person anymore, only a ghost sealed inside a statue, my awareness reduced to a bright, fragile point in a sea of numbness. Everything I had went into keeping that point alive, into holding on to the thin thread of control running through my paralyzed nerves. It was the hardest, most exhausting thing I had ever done.
The van slowed, not in a sudden jolt but with the slow, deliberate deceleration of arrival. I felt the shift in weight as it turned sharply, gravel crunching beneath the tires, then smooth pavement again. It rolled to a stop. The engine shut off, leaving behind a silence so heavy it felt physical. I let my head droop forward, forcing myself to mimic the slack posture of the unconscious bodies around me.
Somewhere in front of us, a door hissed open. Boots struck gravel. The sound of bolts sliding back echoed like gunshots in the confined space, and the rear doors swung wide. Cold, clean air swept in, startlingly fresh and sharp with pine and damp earth.
"Alright, let's be quick about it," a man's voice said. It was brisk and professional, stripped of any trace of warmth. "Get them to the infirmary for scanning. The Head of Admissions wants the prelims by thirteen hundred."
"Yes, Proctor Valerius," two younger voices answered at once.
Hands clamped around me, lifting me roughly. My toes dragged across the gravel. Through the narrow slit of my blindfold, I caught scattered impressions: dull grey stones, the manicured dark green of grass, and the gleaming white edge of a stone step. They carried me up a small flight of stairs, into a corridor blazing with light. I kept myself loose, dead weight in their arms.
"This one's from the S-14 intake," one handler said. "Rowe, James."
"Put him in Bay 4," Proctor Valerius ordered. "The technopath girl from the same intake is already there."
Mira. She was here. She was alive. Relief surged through me like a shock.
They dropped me onto a firm cot. A cold, metallic band snapped tight around my wrist. Hands tugged off the blindfold, but I kept my eyes closed, my face slack, pretending to be lost in chemical sleep. The light burning through my eyelids was stark and sterile.
A machine near my head gave off a low hum. Heat washed over me in a slow pulse. Silence followed. Then one of the younger handlers whispered a curse, his voice edged with disbelief.
"Proctor? You need to see this. The scanner's not picking anything up. It's a null reading. A complete void."
Bootsteps moved quickly toward my cot. Valerius's voice cut sharp. "Run it again."
Another hum. Another pulse of heat.
"It's the same, sir," the handler said, more hesitant now. "No energy signature. No latent potential. Nothing. It's like scanning a rock."
"That's impossible," Valerius snapped. "The Selectors don't recruit blanks. Check for interference. Check the calibration against the girl."
A pause. "The scanner's fine, sir. It's reading the technopath clearly. Grade Three manifestation. But this one… there's just nothing there."
A hand grabbed my chin, tilting my face roughly upward. I forced myself to stay limp.
"Look at him," Valerius said, his voice low with disgust. "He's just a body. A set of instincts. 'Demonstrated resilience'? He's a dust-rat who got lucky. This is an error. A catastrophic waste of a slot."
"What do we do, sir?" one of the handlers asked.
"We follow protocol. For now," Valerius said. The word "Prospect" came out of his mouth like an insult. "Tag him as a Prospect but flag his file for immediate Tier-1 Gauntlet assessment on day one. I want this… problem… to resolve itself quickly. Understood?"
"Understood, Proctor."
The hand dropped away. Footsteps retreated. A door slid shut.
The room went still.
I counted a full minute before cracking my eyes open. The med-bay was white and sterile, all smooth panels and quiet machines. On the cot opposite mine lay Mira, still asleep, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. A digital chart glowed at the foot of her bed: Mira, Subject 734-C. Aptitude: Technopathy (Grade 3 Manifestation). Designation: Asset.
The word hit me like ice water. Subject. Asset.
I turned my head to see my own chart.
Rowe, James, Subject 734-B. Aptitude: N/A. Designation: Prospect.
N/A. Those two letters felt like a verdict. Not Applicable. Nothing.
I let my head sink back onto the pillow. The words burned behind my eyes: Null reading. A void. A problem to resolve. The first test was already over, and I had survived it by pretending to fail.
And in that moment, I understood the truth about Valancrest. We weren't students. We were stock on a ledger. Inventory to be tested, sorted, and used. And I was a piece they already considered scrap.