Chapter Eight: 

"Processing Humanity" Part Two:

The processing centers were vast, built to handle the overwhelming numbers with ruthless efficiency. Volunteers disappeared into the system like drops in an endless tide, each step forward erasing their pasts.

The air inside was sterile, tinged with the faint scent of disinfectants, a quiet hum of unseen machinery thrumming beneath the floor. Every station was streamlined, every technician programmed for speed. The sheer scale was staggering, countless pods lined up in cold exactness, an assembly line of departure. There was no hesitation, no backlog. The system functioned as intended: seamless, relentless, inevitable.

Masked security forces lined the edges of the crowds. They wore featureless visors, their movements synchronized and eerily calm. They did not bark orders, nor did they need to, just their presence alone kept everything orderly. No one dared to step out of line.

Outside the centers, reactions varied from city to city. In some locations, the tension threatened to crack. A sudden shift in the crowd stirred a current of unease through the lines.

In Manhattan someone shouted. "Wait! I changed my mind!" but their voice was lost in the shuffle of voices and the forward press of bodies.

"I can't do this," she choked out.

No one comforted her. The line moved forward, swallowing her grief whole.

In Berlin, a woman collapsed from exhaustion, her body crumpling onto the pavement. No one stopped. The line surged forward, feet kicking, stepping, trampling, until she was just another part of the dust and concrete.

In Tokyo, entire families gathered to thank the volunteers, bowing their heads in gratitude, murmuring words of honor and sacrifice. Parents held the hands of their children, whispering that these brave souls were giving them a future. Some wept openly, pressing their palms together in silent prayers of thanks.

In Tel Aviv, Israel, the scene was different. Protesters lined the barricades, their voices rising over the steady hum of the waiting lines.

"THE ULTIMATE DIVE IS SUICIDE!"

"SUICIDE IS A MORTAL SIN!"

"DON'T LET THEM TAKE YOUR SOUL!"

A woman clutched a sign so tightly her fingers bled, tears streaming down her face as she shouted, "Please, don’t do this! There must be another way!"

In Nairobi, Kenya, a man argued with his friend just outside the line.

"We survive here! I don’t need a fake world to live!"

"It’s not about survival!" his friend snapped back. "It’s about living! You think I want to spend the rest of my life starving in the dust?"

In New York, Alex stood in the line, shifting uncomfortably in his worn jacket, the gold thread of RolandOGilead dulled with age. He exhaled, adjusting the strap of his pack before stepping forward. His pod was waiting.

In Berlin, Germany, Leo stood among the restless crowd, his fingers brushing over the warped silver ring threaded through the chain around his neck. Tension hung over the crowd, the press of too many bodies closing in from all sides. He exhaled, steadying himself. His pod was waiting.

In Tel Aviv, Israel, Raya gripped Ani’s collar looped around her wrist, the worn leather pressing into her skin like a lingering reminder of the past, but also, of strength.

She could still hear the echoes of his last breath, feel the warmth seeping away beneath her fingers. The Gamepass was heavy in her pocket, a weight that carried more than just a decision, it carried everything she had lost.

The workers processing the volunteers were not what most expected. People imagined compassionate faces, reassuring words, perhaps even the solemnity of a priest or the efficiency of a hospital. Instead, they were met with blank stares and automated precision, more machine than human.

They weren’t doctors or guides. They weren’t kind. They weren’t cruel. They were nothing.

They moved with eerie care, scanning Gamepasses, checking vitals, inputting data, never looking at the people before them for more than a second. Their mirrored masks revealed nothing, only reflecting the faces of those who stared back, warped, hollow, and stripped of identity, as if the masks weren’t just hiding emotion but consuming it. Their voices were sharp and efficient. If someone hesitated, they didn’t reassure them. They simply moved on to the next in line.

The process did not stop for nerves.

Gameweaver’s voice rang through every center, light and melodic, yet woven with something just slightly off, too smooth, too carefully measured. A handful of people flinched, but no one spoke of it.

No one ever did.

For a fraction of a second, a glitch fractured her words, barely perceptible, before she continued as if nothing had happened.

It was the voice of a puppet master pulling invisible strings, a lullaby not meant to soothe, but to sedate.

"Step forward, pioneers! One by one! Let’s make history together!"

One by one, the pods opened. Sleek. Empty. Waiting. The inside was smooth, sterile, comforting in a way that shouldn’t be. Like a coffin built to whisper promises instead of hold the dead.

The people moved forward. One step, then another, no hesitation. It was a march into the unknown, a procession of silent acceptance.

And the world didn’t stop them.