Factory or front line. The only options for humans under thirty.
I watch the androids evaluate a new crop of recruits, see them run a barrage of medical tests. Anyone who passes gets sent directly to the battlefield.
The machines are merciless in their selection. And I’m young, healthy. An elevated heart rate is my only way out. Otherwise, certain death awaits.
Deep breaths. As many and as fast as I can.
I’ve already had a cold shower. Already had as much black coffee as I could stomach.
Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
The line dwindles. I hope it’s enough.
“Next.”
The Weekday One Hundred 