Job Aptitude Test (1)
After wrapping up an operation and making it back, I always get the best sleep of my life. The moment I hit the bed, my nerves—taut enough to slice through skin—go on strike all at once. My eyes and ears shut down, and even the soft embrace of the blanket fades into a blur. No distractions, no nothing. My consciousness just sinks into the abyss.
That was the morning after successfully raiding the research institute.
"Nngh!"
Stretching out on the wide, plush bed, blood rushed through my stiff muscles. Not woken by an alarm clock or a full bladder—this was the refreshing wake-up of a completely depleted sleep gauge. I wanted to laze around for days, but no such luck. Today marked the start of aptitude tests for the residents.
We couldn't just let them play and eat forever.
The tests broke down into four main categories, plus one extra.
First: records analysis. A comprehensive review based on data from the offshore prison and their behavior since joining the Shelter. Past jobs and skills from society. Crimes committed. Prison records. Performance in Shelter life. Results from pre-apocalypse personality and psych tests. Sure, those old societal standards didn't perfectly fit our unique situation, but they were handy for flagging deal-breakers. Take a woman with a fraud rap—even if she was talented or a model inmate, no key positions for her. Someone who'd stabbed you in the back once could do it twice.
Second: written exam. A custom test we'd developed to efficiently manage residents in the eternal underground life post-lockdown. It'd been heavily revised for our bizarre circumstances.
Third: practical exam. To verify real skills and knowledge in useful areas. It included programs with advanced lie-detection tech to sniff out potential threats.
Fourth: physical fitness test. Physical capability was the foundation of any job aptitude, so it was mandatory. Top scorers got priority for cushy spots like security detail—no need to explain that.
The +1 bonus: VR tests for select roles like security.
Firing up my PDA, I saw a line of women queued up outside the temporary testing hall in the prison. Zooming in, their faces showed a mix of emotions: anxiety, hope, confidence, regret, and more. Felt like watching raw recruits before assignment.
A message pinged from Artemis.
VIP homes had privacy restrictions on AI interference, so unless it was urgent, she left notes via messenger while I was home.
"Receive."
"Got it."
I closed the PDA and rolled out of bed.
While Jinsu checked his mail at home, a colorful crowd of women with all sorts of hopes and worries gathered outside the holding area in the lower residential zone.
They'd already gotten the public announcement detailing the job aptitude tests. Do your best—better scores meant easier gigs, obviously. So they were all lined up straight, not a single one breaking formation, even if it was just to pad their discipline scores.
But their mouths never stopped flapping.
"Please, anything but the laundry! Please!"
"You're still on about that?"
A woman shot her praying neighbor a look of disbelief.
"Pilates... they won't assign that as a job, right."
The former Pilates instructor, boss to over sixty new disciples, muttered glumly.
"Unni, you never know. Chin up!"
"Yeah, yeah!"
Her students cheered, but everyone knew it was a pipe dream. No prison worldwide assigned Pilates classes to inmates as labor. This wasn't a reform facility anyway—just pure survival. Plus, unbeknownst to her, she was on the C-level watchlist the moment her "disciples" ballooned into dozens.
Some had their paths set. Like the muscled crew huddled on a bench in the yard corner—ex-fighters and athletes.
"Unni, we can be guards, right?"
A tanned girl asked Nina nervously.
"Not guards—security team."
Her neighbor, an ex-rhythmic gymnast, corrected.
"Guard, security—same shit."
"Straight up, no one's here better at cracking skulls than us."
Give 'em guard uniforms and riot batons, and they'd control the inmates no problem. Hell, they didn't even need the batons—bare fists would do.
No way they wanted filthy gloves in the workshops, slaving on factory lines, cooking for 2,500, or scrubbing those grease pits. Compared to that, dressing sharp, yelling occasionally, and overseeing folks? Piece of cake. You know those kids in elementary school who played "supervisor" during cleanup, bossing everyone while doing jack shit?
"Unni, you actually talked to that manager guy, right? Spill—anything good?"
One woman kneaded Nina's shoulders as she sat on the bench. The motion tugged her sleeveless tee, nipples poking through—no bras issued yet.
"Gotta see how it shakes out."
Like the others, Nina preferred security over grimy factory or cleaning drudgery. They said selection was merit-based, regardless of inmate or guard background, so athletic types had an edge. And yeah, consistent training counted as self-control points.
Most crucially, Nina was already pre-approved for security.
'I figure I'll make it.'
She had a hunch, but couldn't brag about special treatment here.
Some were dead certain. Mostly specialists from their old lives.
"Went to the slammer fighting a farm gig, and now it's farming again."
A freckled woman with healthy brown skin grumbled. Her vibrant, wholesome look was rustic but not ugly—like a well-grown cabbage, praiseworthy if not floral.
Born on a farm, helping since childhood, ag college grad—her assignment was obvious.
"Farming's better than factory for me."
A tenth-year dropout factory vet sighed.
"No joke? Farming's a joke? Up at dawn rubbing sleepies, slaving till dusk. Blazing sun, sweat pouring, bugs biting, weeds poisoning, rashes everywhere—kills ya."
Chronic back pain included. The factory vet eyed her pitifully.
"Think we're grinding outdoors like old society? It's automated as fuck here. Plus look."
She waved a hand around.
"Steady temps all day? No cold, no heat, no bugs or beasts. Fresher air with the plants. Grow fruit, score some perks."
She didn't know about hydroponics, but her logic nailed it. Smart cookie.
"M-maybe?"
The would-be farmer scratched her head as the factory girl sighed.
"Just no hazmat suits, please. Line work's dogshit if I'm unlucky, fuck."
Cigarette cravings hit hard in forced no-smoking, so she just smacked her lips.
Among the pros, nurses formed a big clique.
"Where you from?"
"Ward block. You?"
"New wing."
Mostly aides, but the rare four-year RNs wielded real clout. Normal prisons ran on seniority, but here? Medical staff was scarce. Trained nurses would cozy up to the elite. Aides had to suck it up.
Thus, countless women—hopes high, anxieties churning—filed into the test hall one by one.
But the written exam? Way more systematic and technical than they expected.
And... kinda fucked up, too.