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Chapter 6 — Calibration
I was first.
Not exactly the kind of achievement I'd been hoping for.
One moment I was standing beside Anita in the testing chamber, trying to make sense of everything that had happened in the past hour. The next, cold metal slammed against my back and thick restraints snapped shut around my wrists.
*Click.* Ankles. *Click.* Elbows. *Click.*
Individual metal clamps wrapped around my fingers, pinning each one so completely I couldn't move them more than a fraction of a centimeter. Then a restraint descended from above and locked around my forehead.
*Click.*
I tried shifting my shoulders. Nothing. My hands. Nothing. Even turning my neck was impossible.
Whoever designed this chair had looked at ordinary restraints and thought: *not paranoid enough.*
"...Seriously?"
Nobody answered. The metal was freezing against my skin, pressing into my arms and legs with just enough force to make the message clear. Escape wasn't happening. Not without superhuman strength.
Which I did not possess.
At least not yet.
I forced myself to stay calm and study the room instead. The chair wasn't bolted to the floor — it appeared to be integrated into it, manufactured as a single piece. Thick cables disappeared into the platform below. Several articulated mechanical arms rested folded against the ceiling, alongside medical equipment and monitoring devices and things I sincerely hoped I wouldn't have to identify.
The room itself was spotless. Too spotless. Every surface gleamed under bright white lights without a speck of dust or a scratch on the polished walls. The air smelled of antiseptic and ozone, like an operating room where expensive machinery had been running for hours.
Everything about this place communicated efficiency. Not humanity.
The scientist from earlier stood behind a transparent console, her expression as emotionless as the walls. She entered a few commands into the holographic interface. The restraints tightened slightly — just to confirm the point.
"Comfortable?" I muttered.
She ignored me.
Rude.
A faint mechanical hum filled the room. Something moved overhead.
I shifted my eyes as far as the restraints allowed. A large rectangular screen descended from the ceiling and stopped less than half a meter from my face, close enough to fill nearly my entire field of vision.
"...That's not ominous at all."
The laboratory lights dimmed one by one until only the pale glow of the screen remained. The humming intensified. The display flickered — static, then light. Thousands of tiny colored points drifting across the screen in strange geometric formations. Blue, gold, crimson, silver. Triangles folding into circles, squares stretching into spirals, patterns assembling at the edge of comprehension and then dissolving before my brain could catch them.
I waited for words. Instructions. Anything legible.
Nothing came.
The shapes grew more complex. The movement wasn't random — there was a rhythm to it, a hidden order just beyond my ability to parse. I narrowed my eyes.
"What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?"
Silence. The patterns kept shifting.
Gradually, without realizing it, I stopped trying to understand them. I simply watched. The lights flowed into each other — smooth, elegant, hypnotic. The longer I stared, the harder it became to look away. Not because something prevented it.
Because I didn't want to.
A pleasant warmth spread through my chest. My breathing slowed. The tension in my shoulders dissolved, and the restraints that had been digging into my wrists somehow stopped registering. A comfortable heaviness settled over everything, like sinking into a warm bed after days without sleep.
My thoughts slowed. One idea drifted lazily into the next and disappeared.
Time became difficult to judge.
Something soft brushed against the edge of my consciousness — barely a whisper. Then a voice. Not through my ears. Inside my head.
Gentle. Warm. Comforting.
*Give your life to The Bloom.*
The words settled into my mind without demanding anything. Almost affectionately. Like advice from an old friend.
I blinked slowly. The Bloom... The name sounded important. Meaningful.
*Give your life to The Bloom.*
Again.
*Give your life to The Bloom.*
Each repetition landed deeper than the last. The voice didn't command — it suggested. Patiently. Calmly. Like water finding its way through stone.
A strange certainty began forming somewhere underneath my thoughts. The Bloom protected people, didn't it? The Bloom knew what was best. Serving them wouldn't be so bad.
I frowned.
Something felt wrong.
Very wrong.
That wasn't my thought.
Was it?
I tried to concentrate. The effort felt like thinking through wet concrete — every time I pushed against the voice, the warmth returned and gently encouraged me to stop. To relax. To let go.
*Give your life to The Bloom.*
My eyelids drooped.
*Give your life to The Bloom.*
Maybe they were right. Resistance was exhausting. Wouldn't it be easier to simply—
A sharp jolt detonated through my mind.
Not painful. Awakening. Like plunging into ice water.
The fog shattered. The warmth vanished. My eyes flew open.
The hypnotic voice was still there — still repeating the same sentence — but now it sounded distant. Muffled. Like someone speaking from the next room.
Before I could process what had happened, I felt it. A familiar presence brushing gently against my thoughts. Calm, steady, careful.
Recognition hit instantly.
Anita.
Relief moved through me so suddenly I almost laughed.
*Are you alright?*
Her voice in my mind felt unmistakably human compared to the machine's manufactured warmth. There were real emotions behind it — concern, exhaustion, determination.
*As good as anyone can be while being forcibly brainwashed.*
A faint ripple of amusement traveled across the connection.
*Good. At least you're still sarcastic.*
Despite everything, I smiled. *I'd be worried if I wasn't.*
*Me too.* The reply carried a hint of genuine warmth, which struck me as strange — we'd known each other for a few hours, yet here we were holding telepathic conversations while trapped in an underground laboratory run by a secret organization trying to rewrite our personalities.
Life had taken an unexpected turn.
*Thanks.* The gratitude came more sincerely than I'd intended. Without her, I wasn't sure how much longer I would have resisted. Or whether resistance had even been possible.
*No problem.* Simple. Matter-of-fact. As though pulling someone's mind back from the edge of personality erasure was just another Tuesday.
For a while neither of us spoke. The hypnotic command kept repeating in the background — *Give your life to The Bloom* — but it resembled distant static now. Still present. Still trying. No longer reaching me.
It was almost interesting to observe. Anita hadn't overpowered the machine or destroyed its influence. She'd simply given my mind something stronger to hold onto. A genuine human connection rather than manufactured loyalty. The voice had nothing to compete with that.
Which made me wonder just how powerful her ability actually was.
*Wait.* A question surfaced. *How are you doing this?*
*Doing what?*
*Using your ability.* I frowned at the screen still filling my vision. *You're not touching me.* During the earlier test, she'd needed physical contact to establish the link. Now we were several meters apart without even a line of sight.
A longer pause this time. When she answered, I caught something beneath the calm.
Hesitation.
*You're not the only person hiding your ability.*
Interesting. Very interesting.
Miss Quiet Girl had secrets. That shouldn't have surprised me — everyone here had reasons to conceal what they could do, especially after watching how Bloom catalogued every ability during testing. If I had something unusual, I'd hide it too.
I already was, as it happened. Transfiguration hadn't come up in conversation.
*Fair enough,* I thought.
Trust wasn't freely given in a place like this. It had to be earned. But the thought opened a wider question: if Anita had hidden part of her ability, how many others had done the same? Probably most of them. Maybe everyone.
Bloom would know that.
Which meant either they couldn't detect concealed abilities, or they simply didn't care.
The second possibility was significantly more unsettling.
*There are probably a lot of people hiding their powers.*
Anita's reply came quickly. *Looks like The Bloom doesn't care.*
A pulse of genuine confusion followed. *The Bloom?*
She hadn't heard the name.
*Apparently what this organization calls itself,* I thought. *Because they're currently trying to program me into becoming their loyal servant.*
Silence.
Then a quiet wave of unease traveled through the connection — real unease, not the machine's manufactured kind.
*...That's not reassuring.*
"No," I thought grimly. "It really isn't."
For a few moments, neither of us spoke.
The connection sat between our minds like a thin thread of awareness in the dark — not intrusive, not intimate. I couldn't read Anita's thoughts and she couldn't read mine, not without actively trying. It was more like sitting beside someone in complete darkness. You couldn't see them. Couldn't hear them. But you knew they were there.
That alone made the machine's voice easier to resist.
*Give your life to The Bloom.*
The words still carried weight — less than before, but enough. Every repetition pressed gently against my thoughts, searching for hesitation, for doubt, for any crack it could widen. Whoever designed this understood the human mind with uncomfortable precision. It wasn't forcing obedience. It was encouraging it — patiently, subtly, the way water shapes stone. One thought at a time.
Then Anita's presence wavered.
Subtle enough that I nearly missed it. The warmth surrounding her consciousness weakened, like a candle starting to gutter.
*Anita?*
A pause — long enough to be concerning.
*I'm getting tired.*
Her mental voice had shifted. Not frightened. Just distant, as though speaking had become much harder.
The connection flickered again, more noticeably this time. The edges of her presence blurred and dissolved into static.
I understood immediately. Maintaining the link wasn't free — psychic ability consumed energy, and she'd already pushed herself hard during the earlier tests. Whatever reserves she had left, she was burning through them to keep my mind clear.
*Anita—*
The connection trembled violently.
Then snapped. Clean.
One moment she was there. The next — nothing. Complete silence.
I was alone again.
The hypnotic voice rushed back. Not louder. Just closer, as though something had been holding it at a careful distance until now.
*Give your life to The Bloom.*
The warmth returned with it. Gentle. Patient. Understanding.
My eyelids grew heavy.
No.
I bit down hard enough to taste blood. The pain spread sharp and immediate and *mine*. I focused on it. The machine wanted me relaxed, comfortable, passive — pain accomplished the opposite. I stopped listening to the words and started counting them instead. One. Two. Three. Four. Anything to keep my mind occupied. Anything except compliance.
Time stretched. I had no idea how long I stayed in that chair — the machine never changed, the voice never stopped, the patterns on the screen never resolved into anything I could hold.
Eventually, the humming slowed. The patterns on the screen lost their rhythm. The lights dimmed.
*Give your life to The Bloom.*
One last whisper. Then silence.
The screen went dark.
*Click.* The restraint around my forehead released. *Click.* My wrists. *Click.* My ankles. *Click click click* — the finger clamps unlocking one by one.
Blood rushed painfully back into my hands.
I stayed seated for several seconds. Not by choice.
Something felt wrong.
A dull ache pulsed behind my eyes, each heartbeat sending another wave through my skull. I pressed two fingers against my temple.
"...Ow."
The headache wasn't the frightening part.
Without warning, words drifted across my mind. Soft. Natural. Comforting.
*The Bloom protects humanity.*
I froze.
That hadn't been my thought. Had it?
*The Bloom is salvation.*
No. Definitely not mine.
*The Bloom must be obeyed.*
A cold chill moved through me. The terrifying part wasn't hearing them — it was that for a fraction of a second, they sounded *reasonable*. Not irresistible. Not commanded. Just... plausible. Like a convincing argument presented calmly.
The moment I consciously pushed back, they dissolved. Gone like mist burning off in sunlight.
But the damage remained. Not physical. I had *felt* them. For one instant, some part of me had wanted to believe them.
I slowly clenched my fists.
"So." I let out a long breath. "It didn't fail."
The machine hadn't rewritten my personality. Not yet. It hadn't turned me into anything. Instead it had planted something tiny, almost imperceptible — a suggestion. A seed. One session wasn't enough to take root.
But ten? Fifty? A hundred?
Every calibration adding another layer, another small adjustment, until one day you stopped noticing which thoughts were yours and which had been placed there. And you wouldn't notice — that was the point. You'd simply believe you'd always thought that way.
A perfect prison. Built inside the human mind.
I finally understood why they called it "calibration" and not something more honest. The word sounded technical. Routine. Like adjusting tolerances on a machine before it left the factory. Not rewriting human beings.
The perfect lie.
I pushed the thought aside. Dwelling on it wouldn't help. Survival first.
I placed both hands on the armrests and stood.
Or rather, tried to.
The moment I put weight on my legs, the room lurched sideways.
"...Whoa."
My knees buckled. I stumbled forward several steps, arms out, desperately negotiating with gravity.
For one humiliating second I had all the grace of a newborn deer discovering that legs were a more complex proposition than they appeared.
Somehow — *somehow* — I did not fall on my face.
I straightened as quickly as possible and cleared my throat.
Nothing had happened. Absolutely nothing embarrassing. Certainly not.
Unfortunately, there were witnesses. Two guards near the exit, the scientist behind her console. All three had undoubtedly seen everything.
My dignity had officially departed. Cause of death: attempted walking.
I folded my hands behind my back and adopted what I hoped resembled a composed posture. Nobody commented. The scientist simply observed me — not really looking at me, evaluating me. Every shift in posture, every micro-expression. Checking the results.
Was she assessing whether the calibration had worked?
My pulse picked up. Could she tell something had gone wrong?
I kept my face neutral. No tension, no suspicion, no fear. Just calm, uncomplicated obedience — exactly what a successfully calibrated person would presumably display.
Hopefully.
"Return to your previous position," the scientist said.
Every instinct flared briefly. Questions, resistance, the urge to push back.
Common sense won. Immediately.
I turned and walked back toward the chair without hesitation. "Of course."
No complaints. No delay. Exactly right.
Each step felt louder than it should have. I could practically hear my own heartbeat. *Steady. Don't overthink it. Just be normal.*
The scientist watched. The silence stretched.
Had I blinked wrong? Was my breathing off? Should I have sounded more cooperative? I had absolutely no idea what successfully brainwashed looked like from the outside, which made pretending to be brainwashed considerably harder than it should have been.
Then the scientist looked away.
Relief hit me so hard I almost laughed. She hadn't noticed — or more likely, one session simply wasn't expected to produce complete compliance. If every subject emerged acting like a devoted cult member, the process would be conspicuous. This was gradual. Carefully paced. One imperfect first session probably wasn't cause for concern.
Lucky me.
Very lucky me.
Before I could think any further, the laboratory door slid open with a quiet hiss.
I turned instinctively.
Anita walked inside.
The moment Anita stepped into the laboratory, I knew something was wrong.
She was walking, but barely. Each step was deliberate, almost mechanical — as though she were concentrating on something as simple as putting one foot in front of the other. The calm expression she'd worn since we met was still there, but it wasn't effortless anymore. Faint shadows had appeared beneath her eyes. Her face had lost most of its color.
The scientist noticed immediately. "It appears you've overused your ability." Same flat voice. Same complete lack of inflection.
Anita didn't answer.
"You currently lack sufficient Universal Energy." The scientist continued as though Anita's silence were expected. "As a result, your ability has begun consuming biological energy instead."
Something shifted in Anita's expression — not surprise. Recognition. As though she'd already suspected something like this.
That explained why she'd vanished from my mind mid-calibration. She hadn't stopped because she wanted to. She'd run out of fuel, and when the Universal Energy ran dry, her ability had started burning through her own body instead.
No wonder she looked like she hadn't slept in days.
Filed away immediately: overusing abilities could literally consume you. Useful to know. Terrifying to know.
I couldn't ask questions without looking suspiciously curious. Fortunately, Anita did it for me.
"What is Universal Energy?"
The scientist let out the faintest sigh — not annoyed, more the sound of someone who'd answered the same question hundreds of times. She folded her arms behind her back.
"Universal Energy is the fundamental energy present in all things. It exists in every living organism and throughout the universe itself." Her tone had shifted into something resembling a lecture. "It possesses no fixed properties of its own. It can transform into any form of energy."
She raised one hand. A holographic flame appeared above her palm — then flickered out, replaced by crackling blue arcs of electricity, which condensed into a spinning sphere that blasted forward and vanished, which dissolved into faint ripples that distorted the air.
"Likewise," she said, dismissing the display, "all forms of energy can be converted back into Universal Energy. For that reason, it is often referred to as Original Energy."
Silence settled over the laboratory.
I kept my expression neutral. Inside, my mind was moving fast.
If she was right, Universal Energy wasn't merely another power source. It was the foundation beneath every other form — heat, electricity, kinetic force, psychic phenomena — the same substance taking different shapes depending on circumstance. Like water existing as ice, liquid, and steam, all at once depending on conditions.
The possibilities were absurd.
The scientist continued without pausing for reaction. "Every awakened individual utilizes Universal Energy."
*Awakened.* Another new term. People with abilities, apparently.
"Not all awakened follow the same developmental path. There are three primary classifications."
She held up three fingers and lowered them one at a time.
"Aspers. They manipulate external phenomena through specialized abilities." Telekinesis, energy attacks, elemental manipulation — that fit everything I'd already observed.
"Psychics." A brief glance toward Anita. "As the designation implies, they specialize in mental phenomena." Telepathy, mind reading, possibly memory manipulation and illusions. I filed that away alongside a note to remain appropriately cautious around Anita — not because I distrusted her specifically, but because anyone capable of reaching into another person's mind was inherently dangerous by definition.
"Warriors. They strengthen and refine their physical bodies through Universal Energy."
That one surprised me. No flashy abilities, no supernatural displays — just becoming stronger, faster, tougher. Simple. And, if done well, probably terrifying. I immediately pictured someone punching through reinforced concrete and outrunning vehicles.
Three paths. Three entirely different applications of the same underlying energy.
And I was nearly certain this explanation represented the absolute minimum — just enough information to make us functional. The scientist wasn't teaching us. She was issuing a briefing. A hundred questions surfaced immediately: Could someone belong to more than one category? How did awakening happen? Could abilities evolve? What determined the path?
I kept every single one to myself.
The scientist lowered her hand. "That concludes the explanation." She turned toward Anita. "It's your turn."
Anita swallowed — barely perceptibly — then walked to the chair without protest.
Not because she wanted to cooperate. Because two armed guards stood a few meters away and the scientist was watching everything. There wasn't an alternative.
She sat. The restraints activated.
*Click.* Wrists. *Click.* Ankles. *Click.* Fingers. The head restraint locked last. She closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them, the calm expression had resettled into place.
The screen descended. The lights dimmed. The calibration began.
Watching from outside felt completely different.
Even from several meters away I caught myself instinctively glancing toward the display. I looked away immediately. Not making that mistake twice.
Anita stared at the screen. For a while, nothing visible happened. Then gradually — so gradually it was easy to miss — her shoulders relaxed. The tension left her face. Her eyes went unfocused.
It looked exactly like the ridiculous brainwashing scenes from old science fiction films. Flashing lights, hypnotic patterns, a machine quietly rewriting someone's thoughts.
The only difference was that this one actually worked.
The absurdity of it might have been funny. If it weren't happening directly in front of me.
The scientist observed her holographic displays calmly. Numbers streamed across them — heart rate, brain activity, energy fluctuations. Whatever the machine was measuring, she appeared satisfied.
Then something brushed against my mind.
Anita.
I understood immediately. She wasn't checking on me — she was reaching for me. Using me as an anchor, a stable point to hold onto while the machine tried to bury her beneath manufactured loyalty.
I accepted the connection without hesitation.
*Are you okay?*
A short delay. *Yes.* Even mentally she sounded exhausted — far weaker than during my calibration. *Just... tired.*
The strain was unmistakable. Maintaining the link while resisting the machine was costing her.
*This is definitely brainwashing, isn't it.*
A flicker of bitter amusement. *I think so.* A pause. *And if we're unlucky... this won't be the last time.*
I glanced toward the scientist. Somehow I doubted this organization settled for a single session.
Neither of us spoke for a moment. I could feel Anita's concentration slipping at the edges — each passing minute making it harder to hold on. She needed something to keep her mind occupied, a thread to follow that wasn't the machine's rhythm.
So I started talking.
*You know,* I sent across the link, *I've decided this laboratory has terrible customer service.*
A flicker of confusion. *...What?*
*Nobody offered snacks.*
Silence.
Then the tiniest trace of amusement. *You're complaining... now?*
*Absolutely. If you're going to imprison and brainwash people, the least you can do is provide decent food.*
A weak laugh traveled through the connection — barely there, but real.
Good. She was still thinking for herself.
So I kept going. I complained about the chair. The lighting. The scientist's complete absence of conversational skills. The guards standing around looking intimidating instead of doing anything useful. The antiseptic smell. The fact that the holographic demonstrations had been genuinely impressive and nobody had acknowledged this.
Anything. Absolutely anything.
The content didn't matter. Every response from Anita meant she was still fighting.
Time crawled. Five minutes, ten, fifteen, twenty — each one longer than the last.
Then the machine's hum began slowing. The patterns faded. The screen went dark.
The restraints unlocked.
The psychic connection vanished — not gradually. Completely.
Anita pitched forward.
"Anita—"
The guards were already moving. One caught her shoulders, the other her legs, before she could hit the floor. I instinctively stepped toward her.
Two more guards moved directly into my path without a word.
*Stay back.*
I stopped. My hands clenched.
The scientist examined her holographic monitors, data scrolling rapidly. After a few seconds she gave a small nod. "Exhaustion." She tapped a command. "Transfer Subject Anita to her cell. Administer Type One Nutrients."
"Yes, Doctor."
The guards lifted Anita carefully. Unconscious, she looked smaller somehow — not physically. Just human.
A few hours ago she'd been a complete stranger. Now watching her carried out like equipment left an unpleasant weight in my chest. Maybe because she'd saved me without being asked. Maybe because in a room full of cold scientists and armed guards she was the first person who'd felt like anything resembling an ally.
The laboratory seemed emptier after she disappeared through the doorway.
The scientist looked toward me. "You." Two guards moved to flank me. "Follow them."
"I wasn't planning on staying."
No reaction. Tough crowd.
I followed toward the exit. Just as I reached the doorway —
"Subject Inala."
I stopped and turned.
She never looked up from the monitor. Her fingers kept moving across the interface.
"Your training begins tomorrow."
A cold feeling settled in my stomach.
The tests, the power evaluation, the calibration — none of that had been the objective. It had been preparation. Orientation.
The easy part.
I took one last look at the silent laboratory, then followed the guards into the white corridor beyond.
Somewhere ahead: my cell.
Tomorrow: training.
The nightmare had only just started.