I came for the stipend and stayed for the way my lungs felt like new songs. If this is a cult, it has better snacks and a very persuasive treadmill.

They make you sign in with your legal name but call you “Stardust” like they’ve already seen your baby photos from the future. Two hours, they said. Diagnostics, agility, “spiritual neutrality.” I don’t know what that last one means, but the evaluator smiled like a therapist who does deadlifts. I jogged, I breathed, I cried—quiet, weird, good tears—when the AI cat purred in my lap like I’d passed a cosmic vibe check.

Then the questions started humming in my bones. Do you consent to optimization? On paper, yes. In my marrow? That’s a slower verb. Mehen’s speech played on loop—solid, charismatic, terrifying if you listen between commas. Ra stepped up next and my spine sat up straighter. She said unity like it was a dare. She looked like a queen and a warning.

There was a balcony. There was a man in cobalt who glanced at the cameras like he could hear them lying. There was the tall guardian in a suit who made me stand taller without saying a word. I felt safe. I felt watched. I felt… recruited by a future I want and a fate I don’t.

On the bus home, the night air tasted like possibility with a side of fine print. I want the stronger lungs. I want the clarity. I don’t want to trade my weird laugh, my messy playlists, or the way my kid falls asleep on my chest after cartoons. If ascension keeps those, I’m in. If it edits them, I’m not. Tomorrow I’ll return for day one of Orientation and ask questions out loud. If they flinch, I’ll know.