Job Aptitude Test (5)
Lower Area Temporary Shelter Cafeteria.
"What the hell is this?"
Shouts brimming with outrage echoed through the hall. Rows of long tables and chairs stretched across the vast dining area. The menu laid out on them was anything but ordinary: barley rice, a bowl of plain water, and a plate with three pickle slices.
"Is this supposed to be food for humans?"
"We slaved away out there just to get served this crap?"
A barrage of curses erupted in various languages, turning the place into a full-blown profanity exhibition. Even the women who didn't speak foreign tongues could clearly make out "Piece of shit!"
"Quiet down! All of you, sit!"
"Back to your seats!"
The women in security uniforms bellowed to regain control, and the noise died down for a moment.
Screeech!
A security lieutenant with insignia on her shoulders dragged a chair in front of her and stepped up onto it.
"Shut the fuck up—all of you!"
All eyes turned to her. Her tall frame atop the chair commanded real presence.
"If you don't wanna eat, grab your tray and fuck off. If you do, shut your mouths and chow down."
Her voice boomed to every corner of the cafeteria. Faces twisted with resentment, but no one dared challenge her directly. After glaring around for a good ten seconds to confirm no rebels, the lieutenant stepped down.
The situation seemed to settle... until—
"So what's this shit in the soup bowl?"
A jeer came from behind the lieutenant as she headed back to her spot. She whipped around to face a woman in a white tank top. Her name was Bella. Towering over every other woman there, at least 180 cm tall. South American blood gave her a thick-boned frame and muscles that could outmatch most men. She'd seized the third-floor warden's office in the Offshore Prison, only to get tossed out by the robot guards. Her ironclad physique had kept even the prison bullies at bay.
"This is just fucking tap water. You expect us to mix our rice in this?"
Bella shoved the bowl forward.
"Sit down, Bella."
The lieutenant stepped closer, her voice ice-cold. They were now less than five paces apart.
"We used to share prison slop not long ago, and now you put on that uniform and turn into a whole different person? Guess the badge suits you."
Tick.
The lieutenant drew her riot baton from her belt.
"I said shut it. It's shitty, sure, but better than starving, right?"
"Serve something edible, and I'll sit."
The surrounding women cheered Bella on.
"Negative. We can handle it."
The lieutenant replied. If Rose's armed Shelter forces showed up, it'd be over in seconds—but calling for backup on every little thing would just tank their evaluations.
"Look at you talking all polite. The girl I knew wasn't the type."
Bella sounded genuinely surprised.
"Not saying it again. Back to your seat."
They were close enough now to feel each other's breath.
"You think we're rioting over food?"
The women around them roared in agreement, louder now.
"We're all criminals here, same as you! But just 'cause you aced one test, some of us sweat our asses off on labor duty while you sit pretty in uniforms, barking orders. Fair?"
Bella jabbed a finger at the security women all around.
"I heard you get private rooms—one per person. And beer cans overflowing from your barracks trash? Fucking hell, discriminating over one test?"
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Fists pounded tables in unison. Bella had voiced every woman's pent-up rage.
The clamor swelled uncontrollably. Some climbed onto tables, spewing double curses.
Thwack!
The riot baton sank into Bella's solar plexus.
"Guhk!"
Bella crumpled, clutching her gut. Silence fell instantly.
"Anyone else wanna get beat? Speak up."
The lieutenant scanned the room. Murmurs rippled. Bella groaned. Security women tensed.
"You fucking bitches!"
A voice from the crowd targeted the security team.
"Who said that? Who the fuck spoke?!"
The lieutenant glared around, but no one answered. The murmurs built again.
"Kill those cunts!"
Another shout pierced the din.
"I asked who?! Which one of you—"
The lieutenant's words cut off. Bella, from the floor, grabbed her ankle and yanked. Caught off-guard, the lieutenant crashed headfirst, stunned.
Bella pounced like a feral cat, pummeling her face into a bloody mess in seconds.
That sparked the riot. Security drew batons, swinging at charging women—but they were outnumbered. Half the crowd just watched; only the hardcore troublemakers rushed in, but numbers overwhelmed.
Some security clustered back-to-wall, holding longer, but violence of the mob crushed them. One by one, they hit the floor, stomped and kicked mercilessly.
"Kyaaah!"
One had her limbs pinned, pants yanked off.
"N-no, stop!"
"Hurrgh~"
Resistance was futile; her lower half stripped bare in moments.
"Kahk, ptoo!"
The woman spat blood-mixed saliva after a slap. She gripped the baton that had struck her.
"Gonna make your lower mouth bleed fair and square, you bitch."
A cruel grin split her bloody lips, unleashing terrified screams.
Smarter security secured the exits and serving counters. There, three could focus-fire on incoming stragglers. Worst case, bolt for the back door. Prison golden rule: never face inmates without escape.
Most security were ex-inmates themselves—hotheads who'd plotted revenge on guards. They knew it well.
"Can't hold! Everyone, fall back!"
As the last holdouts broke for escape—
Boom!
The cafeteria doors burst open. Black-painted resident suppression robots stormed in. Most packed shotguns; the rear two assault rifles with live rounds.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
They blasted women beating fallen guards. Salt rounds riddled bellies, chests, thighs—screams as they dropped.
Riot gear-clad strike team followed: shields, batons. All human women.
"Nobody move!"
"Everyone down!"
The straightforward barkers were likely ex-wardens.
"On your knees, you sluts!"
Others, ex-inmates with tribal hate fired up.
"Drop the batons now!"
"Jaaat! Geunishi!!!"
Like the food complainers, foreign tongues mixed into the Korean shouts.
"Stooopp!! Nobody move!!!"
A Hispanic ex-prostitute-turned-smuggler mimicked her U.S. prison guards, swinging wildly. Turns out suppression fit her better than smuggling—endorphins raged in her brain.
The strike team battered mercilessly, quelling the riot.
Warning. Level 2 riot in C Block cafeteria. Strike team deployed. All security personnel: cease operations and stand by at Level 2 readiness.
All residents present in C Block cafeteria: 2-day food ration suspension. 1-week luxury goods suspension.
At Rose's decree, even the bystanders grumbled like it was their problem.
Bang!
A guard robot fired immediately.
"I said shut it!"
A security woman with a long facial slash from a cell roared, silencing them.
Silence and inaction are complicity by another name. No efforts detected to restrain peers during the disturbance.
With Rose's calm voice fading, the instigators were slammed to the cold floor by security. Riot over.
The world went white.
Beeeep—!
Harsh alarms blared as women on VR machines snapped awake.
All subjects: grab the vomit bag on your tray and wait 10 seconds. No motion sickness? You're free to exit. Vomiting in the machine incurs severe penalties.
The Manual's voice replayed—one of the shelter's only two male voices: Jinsu or Manual.
Security, fire, and disaster response exams used special VR programs. Artemis had refined them from expedition data.
"Move along, everyone. Long line waiting."
Regret etched on their faces, the applicants disembarked. Many had given their all but sensed poor scores. Especially the woman who'd aced practicals and PT, strutting in with her lieutenant bars—only to flame out early. She couldn't even lift her head.
Descending naked as newborns. These VR rigs simulated cold, heat, touch perfectly for realism. Pain dulled to pressure. Nude entry required for full effect.
* * *
"Aigoo."
Watching the women exit the VR machines on the screen tugged at my heartstrings. Honestly, their control and crisis response disappointed—worse than expected. But seeing them dejectedly gather clothes and shoes by the machines melted my urge to scold.
"Poor things. The scenario's rigged impossible from the start. They know they flunked security."
You're really feeling sorry for them?
"Yeah."
I crunched popcorn, queuing other applicants' footage. Seyoung's topped my list. Input her number: thumbnail popped up with play button. Hers showed her sprinting full-tilt, hand blade raised—face priceless. Behind, a horde of inmates filled the screen. Zombie flick or infamous AV cover?
Hit play—but an alarm flashed top-screen.
Artemis's tone grave.
"Where?"
My excitement plummeted.
"B Chamber, VR Machine 5."
Artemis displayed the feed. I switched panels to the chamber cam: a naked woman, face beet-red, trembling head-down.
"Contaminant: water, urea, inorganic salts."
"Just pissed herself. Scared me."
I pinched my nose bridge.
You're joking.
"Prepped for puke, not piss."
I replayed Machine 5's final log.
Kieeeek—!
Screen filled with an Infected face: black, tumor-riddled, 3 cm fangs lunging.
Kyaaaaah!
The woman's shriek coincided with her wetting herself. Machine auto-terminated on heart rate/spike.
"Internal infection scenario."
Last of four VR tests for security. Even top scorers on 1-3 crumbled here—not full war, just early outbreak, one or two foes.
First to piss herself, though. She scrubbed her mess with cleaning tools, face a mix of resignation and shame.
Switched cams. Elsewhere: women extinguishing a building fire with foamers—primary suppression.
I hated war sims, but disaster drills? Undeniable value. Watching Artemis's scenarios taught me plenty. And entertaining: VR fire-watching, fights, horror reactions. Like top viral clips compiled—who wouldn't love it?
Anyway, VR wrapped aptitude testing. Time to dismantle the camp.