Four columns. Grey training uniforms in children sizes.
His whistle cuts through the air.
We stretch first, arms and legs in a chaotic rhythm. Some of us doing it too quickly at first, other to shallow. As the Instructor finishes walking and correcting, the loudspeakers switch from anthem mode to a short marching beat. It’s the same one we hear every morning.
“Lo-yal-ty!”
“Strength!”
“U-ni-ty!”
The call-and-response rolls down the rows like a drumline. We start to jog laps on the wooden ground, following the bright lines painted on it.
Somewhere in the second lap, Wei 'the annoying' hastens to push to the front so he could avoid the extra lap the last five have to do. With me being in the 1st third of the group, I don't accelerate to stay ahead as some others do.
Someone in the back stumbles over, presumably a loose shoelace. Zhang Rui’s eyes narrow, but another kid crouches and ties it fast before he needs to react, and his gaze slides further.
Halfway through, Xiu shouts the chant a beat too early. She is elbowed by her Friend, both pretending nothing happened while they shake with quiet laughter and the kids around them giggle.
I keep pace, steady breathing. I’ve done this too many times to even think about it. The movements are mechanical. I wonder what the Instructors see, considering my performance is among the best at Physical Education and the best in every Theoretical Education Block except Capellan History. Turns out, being an adult among children doesn't make you the best if you have to contest with an autistic enthusiasm for History.
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Then I hear it again.
My gaze slides to the ground. I could feel the hum emanating from it in my bones, but after a moment it receded. Slowly breathing, I tried to calm my heart. After the same happened yesterday, I nearly shat my pants. Today, I only was mildly panicked. Maybe I should speak to the Parents about this. It would be quite inconvenient to lose my second life to some kind of mental Illness.
Before too long, we were finished with the running and subsequent games designed to train and make us less energetic.
As we finished and went across the Compound to the Classrooms, I sidled up to the Instructor. He looked up at me from his Position of showing Liao how to tie his shoelaces.
As he stood up to give me his attention, I gave him the crispest (and probably the cutest salute) I could. It probably looks ridiculously earnest coming from a child.
"Instructor Zhang, did you pass my request to skip Technical II?"
He gives me a flat look. “You expect an answer after only a day.”
“Yes, Instructor.” I nodded with a stiff posture and maximum cuteness. Just like I practiced. My baby fat holding Cheeks did most of the work.
A sigh escapes him—short, barely audible, the kind that says I work with Children and don't get paid enough.
“I passed it to the Head Instructor. They’ll review it over the Weekend. Don’t expect a miracle.”
“Understood, Instructor.” What are they going to say? No, little child, you must stay with your cohort to continue the Indoctrination?
Not like it doesn’t extend into everything already—songs we sing, math problems we solve, history dates we memorize.
After I left him to line up with the others, the rest of the day passed without anything worth remembering.
Morning blocks bled into the afternoon in the same rhythm they always did. Arithmetic, reading, language drills. We spent most of History still on Ulan, the same topic we’ve been hammering at for two weeks straight ever since Year Two started. There’s only so many times and ways someone can say “And then we won” or "We lost, but we didn't fail" before it becomes background noise.
By the time the final bell rang, my Notebook was full of carefully curated facts, very boring math problems and annoyingly catchy Fascist song sheets.
As I stepped outside the compound, my Father was waiting there.