The psychological evaluation room had all the subtlety of a carnival fortune-teller's tent—trying way too hard to seem non-threatening while absolutely promising bad news about your future. Muted blue walls that someone had read would be "calming." Padded chairs arranged in a circle like this was a fucking support group. A box of tissues strategically pced within grabbing distance. The interrogation handbook, interior design edition.

  A woman approached with the kind of smile that existed only on the surface, like someone had painted it there with cheap watercolors. Her tailored gray suit screamed "colborator with excellent benefits." The nyard around her neck identified her as "Dr. Evans, Psychological Assessment."

  "Welcome to your pcement evaluation," she said, voice moduted to the exact frequency of false comfort. "Today we'll determine how you can best contribute to our sustainable resource community."

  Sustainable resource community. Like we'd all gathered for a fucking farmers market instead of being tattooed, categorized, and prepped for routine exsanguination.

  Evans distributed tablets with deceptively simple assessment tests. Pattern recognition, logic puzzles, spatial reasoning—the standard battery to separate the potentially useful from the disposable. I'd seen variations during hunter training, in the counter-interrogation modules.

  The key was calcuted mediocrity. Too stupid, they'd ship you to hard bor. Too smart, they'd give you special attention. Neither scenario improved survival odds or information-gathering potential. I needed to be forgettably competent—just another functioning blood bag.

  I deliberately alternated correct answers with carefully selected errors, creating a profile of someone moderately intelligent but unexceptional. As I worked, Evans circuted through the room, her attention focused less on our answers and more on our behaviors. The fidgeters, the criers, the rage-suppressors—she cataloged them all with clinical detachment.

  A youngish man in horn-rimmed gsses appeared at her side, his pallor and unnatural stillness marking him as vampire despite the business casual attire. He scanned the room with the enthusiasm of someone reviewing spreadsheets of particurly unimpressive quarterly results.

  "Processing rate is 22% below target," he noted, not bothering to lower his voice. "Count Dominic expects the eastern quadrant fully operational by next week."

  "We're expediting assessments," Evans assured him. "We've increased rejection protocols for borderline cases."

  Rejection protocols. That'd be the euphemism for whatever happened to resources deemed unprofitable. Something to look forward to if my mediocrity act failed.

  The next phase involved group problem-solving—the kind of manufactured team-building exercise that corporate America had perfected long before vampires took over. Our group contained five potential "resources": myself, the elderly man from intake (now wearing a designation card identifying him as Jacob), and three women of varying ages.

  "Please work together to disassemble and reassemble this device," Evans instructed, pcing a mechanical puzzle in the center of our circle.

  The contraption looked like the bastard offspring of a Rubik's cube and a pocket watch, all interlocking gears and sliding panels. Standard assessment tech—designed to reveal leadership tendencies, cooperation styles, and problem-solving approaches without appearing to do so.

  I carefully calibrated my participation. Not the leader, not the deadweight. I made targeted observations, offered periodic assistance, but deferred to Jacob when he suggested an approach to the locking mechanism. His hands moved with the practiced precision of someone with engineering experience—potentially valuable information for ter.

  Evans observed our group with particur interest, her tablet recording notes without her looking at the screen. The vampire administrator had moved on, presumably to be bored by human inadequacy elsewhere.

  After the group exercise came the interviews. One by one, we were escorted to a small adjoining room containing a single table, two chairs, and a camera mounted in the corner. No pretense of comfort here—just functional interrogation space.

  Evans reviewed her tablet as I sat across from her, her expression pleasantly neutral. "Designation 4172. What was your occupation before acquisition?"

  I'd prepared for this during the intake process, constructing a background that would expin any slips in my physical conditioning without suggesting hunter training.

  "Park ranger," I answered, the lie built around enough truth to be sustainable. "Yellowstone, until the outbreak. After that, just... surviving."

  "Any specialized skills? Medical training, engineering, electronics?"

  I hesitated just long enough to seem like I was genuinely considering the question. "Basic first aid. Some tracking. Nothing special."

  "Family connections?"

  "None surviving." That part wasn't a lie.

  "Previous resistance affiliations?"

  And there it was—the ndmine in the flowerbed. I manufactured a small flinch, the reaction of someone who'd encountered resistance groups but wasn't part of them.

  "No," I said, adding a slight tremor to my voice. "They... they approached our settlement st winter. We refused to join. They took our supplies anyway."

  Evans made a note, her expression unchanging. The most dangerous interrogators never showed when they caught something interesting.

  "Any medical conditions that would affect regur extraction procedures?"

  "No."

  "History of violent behavior or escape attempts from previous holdings?"

  "No." I kept my eyes on the table, portraying the defeated compliance they wanted to see.

  The questions continued for seventeen minutes—I counted each second, maintaining my cover while absorbing everything about the room, Evans's patterns, and the camera's blind spots. When the interview concluded, I was directed to a waiting area where other assessed "resources" sat in various states of shock, resignation, or barely suppressed panic.

  Jacob arrived shortly after me, settling into the adjacent chair with the careful movements of someone managing arthritic pain.

  "Technical services," he murmured, gesturing to a new notation on his designation card. "Engineer before all this. They always need maintenance."

  I nodded, noting the additional value he'd just acquired in my mental calcution of potential allies. Engineers had access, tools, and knowledge of facility infrastructure—all critical for any future operation.

  A young woman across from us sat staring at her designation card, tears sliding unchecked down her face. The notation on her card was partially visible from my angle: "Breeding Program." I looked away, adding another debt to the ledger I was keeping against this pce.

  The afternoon stretched on as more people completed their assessments and received their cssifications. The breakdown was becoming clear: Premium Resources (rare blood types or special qualities), Standard Resources (ordinary blood donors), Labor Resources (physical work assignments), Technical Resources (specialized skills), Breeding Program (self-expnatory horror), and a cssification no one had returned with yet—which told me everything I needed to know about "Processing Out."

  At 2:17 PM, according to the wall clock I'd been monitoring, we were herded into a rger room containing actual chairs—the first sign that we'd passed from the "captured" to the "inventory" stage of dehumanization. Small mercies.

  A buffet table along one wall dispyed actual food—simple but recognizable as something humans might willingly consume. The smell of warm bread and vegetable soup created an involuntary physical response that disgusted me even as my stomach contracted painfully. Pavlov would've been proud.

  "Once you receive your final cssification and housing assignment, you may partake of the orientation meal," announced a broadly-built man in a business suit. His badge identified him as "Administrator Wilson, Human Resources Director."

  The irony of that title wasn't lost on me. Human Resources. At least they were honest about what they considered us.

  Wilson took a position at the front of the room, his posture suggesting the enthusiasm of a timeshare salesman about to describe an exciting investment opportunity.

  "Welcome to Eastern Valley Blood Services," he began, his voice carrying the practiced warmth of someone who'd given this pitch countless times. "You are now part of humanity's most important contribution to the new world order."

  The screen behind him lit up with sanitized images of gray-uniformed humans with color-coded bands, all smiling as they extended their arms toward medical technicians. Premium propaganda with a side of bullshit.

  "Our maximized resource model ensures optimal yield while maintaining Count Dominic's position as the region's premier blood supplier," Wilson announced with practiced corporate enthusiasm. "The Eastern Valley facility leads all territories in extraction efficiency."

  Premier blood supplier. Like we were touring a fucking wine vineyard instead of a sophisticated sughterhouse.

  "Count Dominic rewards compliant resources by permitting their continued existence," Wilson continued, clicking through slides showing sterile housing units and clinical extraction facilities that matched the cold efficiency we'd already experienced. "Resources who meet extraction quotas without resistance avoid immediate processing. Remember, you are here by the Count's generosity—your blood is his right."

  The carrot before the stick. I'd expected nothing less.

  "Conversely, ck of cooperation results in privilege reduction, reassignment to bor divisions, or in extreme cases, resource termination."

  There it was. The sanitized threat beneath the corporate jargon.

  As Wilson droned on about extraction schedules, nutrition protocols, and behavioral expectations, I found myself battling an unexpected reaction. Despite knowing this was calcuted manipution, the promise of food, a bed, and retive safety after the stress of intake processing created an unwanted feeling of relief. The instinctive gratitude disgusted me, triggering a wave of self-loathing and renewed determination.

  I wasn't grateful. I was gathering intelligence for the reckoning to come.

  Maya appeared after the orientation presentation, a tablet in hand and the same dead-eyed efficiency she'd dispyed during intake. "When I call your designation, you will receive your final cssification card, housing assignment, and meal authorization. You will be escorted to your assigned section following the orientation meal."

  She began calling numbers, each person approaching to receive their card before being directed to the food line. Jacob received his assignment early—Technical Resource, Section D. He gave me a small nod before being escorted from the room by a guard. I tracked his departure, mentally mapping the corridor they entered.

  The separated mother from intake was cssified as a Breeding Resource despite her obvious age—likely due to her previous successful reproduction. Her red-rimmed eyes suggested she hadn't located her son during processing. Another debt on the ledger.

  "Designation 4172."

  I approached Maya's station, keeping my expression carefully neutral.

  She scanned my barcode, reviewed something on her tablet, and selected a card from her stack. "Cssification: Standard Resource. Housing Assignment: Section B, Unit 37."

  Standard Resource. Exactly what I'd aimed for—invisible, unremarkable, but with retively free movement throughout general areas of the facility.

  Maya held out the completed card, her eyes briefly meeting mine with an emotion I couldn't immediately identify—perhaps recognition of another woman who'd built walls to survive. The moment passed so quickly I might have imagined it.

  "Proceed to nutrition," she said, already looking past me to the next designation in line.

  Standard Resource. Not special enough for premium treatment, not problematic enough for bor camps. Just another blood bag in inventory, exactly ordinary enough to be forgettable.

  Perfect.