The notification appeared without warning, materializing in the center of Alexander's vision with a soft chime that belied its gravity.

  [QUOTA SYSTEM ACTIVATED]

  Weekly Requirement: 10 kills Time Remaining: 168:00:00 Current Progress: 0/10 Status: DEFICIENT

  Failure to meet quota will result in termination.

  Alexander froze, his hands hovering over the map he'd been studying. The phrasing was clinical, bureaucratic—the same tone used in corporate memos announcing resource rationing or productivity targets. But this wasn't about production metrics or efficiency ratings. This was about killing.

  "Alexander?" Elijah's voice broke through his shock. "Did you just—"

  "Yes." Alexander's reply was terse, his mind already racing through the implications. "Everyone got it?"

  Nods around their camp confirmed it. Ellis had gone pale, her normally confident posture suddenly diminished. Tullian's face hardened into a mask of military stoicism. Valeria's expression remained carefully neutral, but her hand had moved instinctively to the hilt of her knife.

  "What exactly happens if we fail?" Ellis asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Alexander didn't immediately answer. Instead, he accessed his personal library, rapidly searching for information on the quota system. The interface materialized a thin volume titled "Advancement Requirements: Essential Protocols." He scanned through it, his expression growing more grim with each page.

  "It's not metaphorical," he said finally, closing the book with a sharp gesture. "Termination means exactly what you think it means. Neural cascade failure. Death."

  The words hung in the air, heavy with finality.

  "That's not possible," Elijah said, shaking his head. "They can't just execute pyers for failing to meet an arbitrary quota. There would be public outrage, investigations—"

  "No one would know," Valeria cut in, her voice ft. "Think about it. Our bodies are in stasis pods. If someone dies in here, it would be simple to report a 'technical failure' or 'unforeseen medical complication' to the family. No way to prove it was deliberate."

  The clinical precision of her assessment silenced Elijah. Alexander knew she was right—the system was perfectly designed to obscure its true nature.

  "Ten kills," Tullian said, breaking the silence. "Are we talking about other pyers or just the native creatures?"

  Alexander reopened the rule book, examining the fine print. "Both count. A pyer kill equals five creature kills. And guardian defeats provide substantial quota reduction."

  "That means we can meet the requirement without killing anyone, just by hunting creatures," Ellis said, a note of desperate hope in her voice.

  "It's not that simple," Alexander replied, showing the section on escation. "The requirements increase each week. By the fourth week, it would be nearly impossible to meet the quota through creatures alone."

  Ellis sank down onto a nearby log, her face ashen. "This isn't what they told us. The recruitment broadcasts, the orientation—it was all about advancement and opportunity."

  "Opportunity for whom?" Valeria said with a bitter ugh. "Did you really think they'd tell the Worker and Servicer csses that they were being sent to die? This is popution control, pin and simple."

  Alexander shot her a warning look. Css tensions were already high enough without explicitly stating what they all now suspected.

  "It doesn't matter what they told us," he said firmly. "What matters is how we respond now. We have a week to meet the quota, and we will meet it."

  "Just like that?" Elijah asked, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. "We're going to start hunting people because a notification told us to?"

  Alexander met his brother's gaze steadily. "Would you prefer the alternative?"

  The question silenced Elijah, but the turmoil in his eyes spoke volumes. Alexander understood his brother's moral qualms—had anticipated them, in fact. Elijah had always been the compassionate one, the twin who questioned while Alexander executed. It was part of why they banced each other so well.

  "Let's be practical," Alexander continued, addressing the entire team. "We have several options. First, we focus on creature kills to satisfy the initial quotas, buying us time. Second, we prioritize guardian encounters, which provide significant reductions. Third," he paused fractionally, "if necessary, we target pyers who are already hunting others."

  "Self-defense," Tullian nodded, understanding immediately. "We don't initiate, but we don't hesitate when threatened."

  "Precisely. We're not becoming murderers. We're surviving in a system designed to eliminate us."

  Valeria leaned forward, her analytical mind already calcuting. "The most efficient approach would be to let others do the dirty work. Stay near conflict zones but out of direct engagement. Then move in when combatants are weakened."

  The cold pragmatism of her suggestion hung in the air. It was tactically sound—and morally repugnant.

  "No," Alexander said firmly. "We don't scavenge kills like vultures. That's not who we are, not how we operate. We hunt creatures primarily, engage guardians when prepared, and defend ourselves when necessary. No ambushes of weakened pyers."

  Valeria shrugged, but didn't argue further. Alexander wondered if she was genuinely convinced or simply choosing her battles.

  "I need to check something," Elijah said abruptly, activating his own library interface. Unlike Alexander's tactical manuals, Elijah's shelves materialized filled with medical texts and philosophical works. He selected one titled "Neural Interface Ethics and Applications," fingers rapidly turning virtual pages.

  "What are you looking for?" Alexander asked.

  "Something I remember reading during preparation," Elijah murmured, still scanning. "About what exactly happens during termination... here." He highlighted a passage and enrged it for the group to see.

  "Upon critical failure conditions or administrative termination, the neural interface initiates a two-phase process. First, a complete scan preserves the subject's neural pattern. Then, once preservation is confirmed, a controlled cascade failure terminates neural function."

  "Preservation?" Ellis asked, leaning closer. "What does that mean?"

  "It means they keep a copy," Elijah said quietly. "A complete neural scan—essentially everything that makes us who we are. Our memories, knowledge, personality patterns. All of it, preserved before termination."

  The implications settled over the group like a heavy fog.

  "Why would they preserve neural patterns of terminated pyers?" Alexander asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

  Elijah flipped to another section. "According to this, preserved patterns serve as 'computational resources for advanced system functions.' But the text is vague about specifics."

  "They're using people's minds as processors," Tullian said ftly. "Harvesting brain power for the system."

  The brutality of it, stated so pinly, cast their situation in an even more disturbing light. This wasn't just popution control—it was exploitation on an unimaginable scale.

  "So we're not just fighting for our lives," Ellis said slowly. "We're fighting to avoid becoming... processing units in their system."

  Alexander closed his eyes briefly, centering himself. When he opened them, his decision was made.

  "This changes nothing about our approach," he said firmly. "In fact, it only reinforces the necessity of meeting the quota. We focus on creatures and guardians. We defend ourselves when attacked. We survive."

  "And the ethics of it?" Elijah challenged. "The moral implications?"

  "Can be debated by philosophers who aren't facing termination in seven days," Alexander replied. "Right now, survival is our priority. We can question the morality of the system once we're secure within it."

  He turned to Tullian. "Modify our security perimeter. We need early detection of approaching pyers, not just creatures."

  To Ellis: "Focus resource gathering on combat advantages—anything that improves our capabilities against multiple opponents."

  To Valeria: "Expand your scouting radius. Identify creature concentration areas and potential guardian locations."

  And finally, to Elijah: "I need you fully operational as our healer. Whatever your reservations, we can't afford hesitation if we're attacked."

  One by one, they nodded—even Elijah, though reluctance shadowed his eyes.

  "We meet the quota," Alexander reiterated. "And we do it our way, not by becoming the monsters this system wants to create. Understood?"

  "Understood," came the unified response.

  As the team dispersed to their tasks, Alexander remained by the map, staring at the quota notification still hovering at the edge of his vision. The countdown timer ticked relentlessly forward, a constant reminder of the choice they'd just made.

  He'd been prepared for physical challenges, for strategic obstacles, even for betrayal among pyers. But this—this cold demand for violence as the price of survival—was the first test he hadn't anticipated.

  Alexander accessed his library again, this time selecting a different volume: "Strategic Compromises in Resource-Limited Environments." As he read, he tried to ignore the whisper of doubt in his mind.

  Is this a test of our skills, or of how far we're willing to compromise our humanity?

  He closed the book without finding an answer. Some questions, he realized, couldn't be resolved through research or preparation. They could only be answered through action.

  And in seven days, they would have their answer, one way or another