Celisar Kael
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Chapter 10 | The Divided Process
🕑 Added 2025-08-04 12:10:01 +0000 UTCLeon stepped through a pair of imposing archways, each carved to resemble swords crossing overhead. The main administration processing area expanded before him, so vast he lost his bearings. Towering holographic columns stretched from floor to ceiling, each displaying scenes of Imperial military victories rendered in stunning detail.
A fleet of Imperial vessels cut through enemy defenses, Blade Captains leading charges across impossible terrain, and Domain Archons standing triumphant on conquered lands. In each scene, enemies crumbled to glittering dust that scattered on invisible winds, their defeat rendered beautiful rather than brutal.
The display directly above Leon showed the famed Kaelus jungle campaign; the holographic foliage so detailed he could count individual leaves, Imperial soldiers advanced in perfect formation through the undergrowth, and their armor gleaming despite the simulated mud and rain. The battle's conclusion played in dramatic slow motion, mana beasts dissolving into particles of light as victorious Imperial forces raised their mana-enhanced weapons.
"Pretty, isn't it?"
Leon turned to find the thin young man who had spoken standing just behind him, eyes fixed on the battle recreation. His posture bore the distinctive slight hunch of someone who had spent his life in spaces with low ceilings.
"They never show what happens after," the man continued, voice barely above a whisper. "The casualty camps and the resource extractions."
“Proceed to the processing lines.” A sharp tone cut through the air before Leon could respond.
The vast processing hall buzzed with activity; clerks at terminals, candidates shuffling through designated paths, and officers moving about.
Despite the hundreds of people, the space maintained the precise order typical of Imperial facilities. Not a queue out of place, not a form misfiled.
Dividing it all, a waist-high rail of polished metal that ran the entire length of the hall.
On the right; a sign that said "Fulgari and Ordari Recruitment" featured private consultation spaces with chairs that adjusted automatically to their occupants' postures. Elegant holographic interfaces floated at eye level, the displays tuned to individual preference. Even the lighting shifted to warm amber tones that promoted calm and focus.
On the left; "Standard Recruitment" consisted of rigid lines marked in harsh blue on the floor, each numbered with illuminated digits that pulsed with mechanical urgency. candidates shuffled forward one space at a time.
Warning displays flashed at regular intervals as reminders of required documentation and consequences for procedural violations.
"Line forms there," the clerk stated, pointing Leon toward the standard section without looking up from her terminal.
Leon took his place, the blue outline around his feet activating with a harsh buzz the moment he stepped into it. A display panel directly in his line of sight cycled through preparatory information of basic requirements. The text scrolled too quickly to read, clearly designed to be a legal formality rather than actual information delivery.
A commotion near the dividing rail drew Leon's attention. A young Fulgari man approached the division point, his walk carrying the confidence of someone who had never questioned his place in the world. He wore clothes of remarkable quality, the fabric responding to his movements like a living thing.
Three officers appeared simultaneously, their posture and expressions shifting to something Leon could only describe as reverent attentiveness. The center officer stepped forward, bowing his head.
"Welcome Candidate Thorne," he greeted, voice warm with genuine pleasure.
"I have heard of your great-grandfather's distinction in the Kaelus campaign. His leadership during the Western Ridge assault remains a tactical case study at the academy."
The young man, Thorne, inclined his head with modesty. "My family is honored by the Imperial memory." A response, neither too proud nor too humble.
"We've prepared a specialized track based on your augmentation profile and familial aptitudes," the officer continued, gesturing toward a private consultation area. "Your neural interface is already synchronized with our systems. You'll find your great-grandfather's service record has been included in your welcome package. A tradition of excellence."
As they moved away, Leon caught fragments of their continuing conversation; mentions of placement options, command track considerations, unit recommendations, and family connections. The officer's body language communicated absolute respect, maintaining a precise distance that acknowledged status without creating awkward formality.
"NEXT!"
The harsh command jerked Leon's attention back to his own line, which had advanced three spots during his distraction. He shuffled forward, following the blue illuminated arrows on the floor.
"Line two, advance seven positions."
The automated voice echoed through the standard section, followed by the synchronized movement of bodies. Unlike in the Fulgari section where recruiters and candidates spoke in calm, purposeful tones; here, the process ran on rigid numerical commands.
No names were called. No questions were asked.
The overhead speakers alternated announcements that hammered home the division between recruitment tracks, their tonal differences as stark as their content:
"Recruit Thorne, please report to Station Eight for advanced aptitude assessment. Your Neural Interface Assessment officer is ready to receive you." The voice was melodic and warm, almost musical in its delivery.
Then, thirty seconds later:
"Standard candidates are reminded that failure to disclose prior infractions results in financial penalties and extended service requirements." This announcement came in a harsh monotone, the words clipped and mechanical.
Leon's eyes tracked across the invisible boundary. Even the air smelled different. Subtle floral notes drifted from the Fulgari section, while the standard area carried the faint metallic tang he recognized from lower-level facilities.
"Positions 38 through 44, prepare documentation."
Leon placed his palm on the reader embedded in the railing. His position in line illuminated with a different shade of blue, acknowledging the completed action.
After sixty-seven more minutes, Leon reached the processing clerk, a woman with data-strain lines around her eyes and the blank expression of someone who had asked the same questions thousands of times.
"ID verification and birth sector?" she demanded without looking up from her screen that already displayed Leon's information.
"Leon Ezra, Lower East, Section 12-B," he replied.
She frowned. "Your records show Section 12-A initial registration."
"I was born in 12-B but registered in 12-A because the processing center in B was closed for maintenance," Leon explained, keeping his voice neutral.
"What was your primary education cycle?"
"3-8-12."
"And your secondary?"
"5-10-13."
The questions deliberately reversed standard documentation order, creating confusion for anyone attempting to falsify information. Leon recognized the tactic, having encountered similar verification methods during previous bureaucratic processing.
"Unit 419 or 491?" she asked rapidly, watching for hesitation.
"419," Leon answered with certainty, though his mouth had gone dry. He'd seen other candidates stumble through similar interrogations, watched the system flag them for extended verification that inevitably resulted in service penalties before they had even begun.
Ahead of him, the clerk's focus intensified when she detected confusion from another candidate, her questions becoming more rapid, more deliberately reversed.
The poor individual, a stocky young man with work-calloused hands, stumbled over dates and sector codes. Each error compounded his anxiety and lead to more mistakes.
Meanwhile, in the Fulgari section, recruiters nodded and smiled as candidates described their interests, preferences, and aspirations. No verification required. Their implants provided all the confirmation needed, broadcasting their identities with unquestionable authority.
"Eight years minimum service commitment for Nullari, five for Fulgari and Ordari," the clerk recited while inputting Leon's data. Her eyes never left her screen while her fingers continued to type. "Combat deployments are assigned based on unit needs, not personal preference. Standard candidates begin at non-specialized infantry designation regardless of prior skillsets unless assessment dictates otherwise. Debt cancellation procedures will begin immediately upon oath-taking. Processing fee of sixty credits will be deducted from your first military stipend."
Leon blinked.
"Processing fee? That wasn't mentioned in the—"
"Standard procedure," she interrupted, still not looking at him. "Section 22-A of the enlistment agreement."
A holographic contract materialized before Leon with dense text scrolling at a pace that made reading it almost impossible.
Key sections flashed in urgent red; commitment duration, penalties for desertion, death benefits (minimal), and debt cancellation terms. The document spanned over two hundred pages of legal terminology, yet the system allowed twelve seconds for review.
Leon hesitated before providing his thumbprint verification. The processing fee was another sixty credits he didn't have.
The clerk sighed with practiced impatience. "There are seventeen standard candidates behind you. Accept terms or exit processing."
Leon gulped and pressed his thumb to the scanner.
The contract flashed green briefly, then collapsed into a small confirmation notice:
Financial obligations transferred to Imperial Covenant.
Debt clearance: pending.
Recruit status: in-process.
A thin plastic processing number was clipped to his shirt by a mechanical arm that extended from the desk.
"Proceed to contract finalization, Station Two," the clerk stated, already looking past him to the next candidate in line.
As Leon moved toward the next station, a Fulgari recruit walked past, receiving a personal escort and specialized welcome package.
Overhead, the holographic battles continued their eternal cycle of glorious victory, enemies and beasts dissolving into beautiful particles of light rather than blood and bone.
The sanitized fantasy of war, engineered for those who would never experience its reality.
