Chapter Eight:

"Processing Humanity"

The world was waiting.

Everywhere, in every corner of the earth that still had breath left in it, people gathered at The Ultimate Dive processing centers. Some came alone, others in groups. Some hesitated, standing at the edge of the crowds, watching, listening, calculating. Others pushed forward, eager to reach the front, their impatience mixing with excitement or desperation.

Gameweaver watched over them all.

Her image moved seamlessly across towering digital screens, her ever-present smile an eerie contrast to the tense silence below. The glow from her projections bathed the crowds in an artificial radiance, making their expressions unreadable. She loomed above the crowds like an all-seeing goddess, her gaze impossible to escape, her voice weaving seamlessly into the air, filling every space, leaving no room for doubt. Her face was everywhere, her voice the only thing uniting the thousands of people preparing to leave their bodies behind.

"Welcome, pioneers of tomorrow!" she cooed from the massive holographic screens hanging above the processing centers. "Today, we rewrite history together!"

The crowds churned beneath her glowing gaze.

In Nairobi, Kenya, people jostled forward, their movements tense, pressed shoulder to shoulder beneath the sweltering heat. The sun glared down, unrelenting, baking the cracked pavement beneath their feet. The stifling air reeked of sweat, desperation, and too many bodies crammed into too little space, dust clinging to every breath.

Water was scarce. Conversations were quiet, as if raising their voices would sap remaining energy. Some held onto their Gamepasses like talismans, fingers curling around them as if the thin metal could shield them from the brutal sun. Others clutched onto each other, families holding tight.

A boy stumbled, his legs weak from dehydration. His mother caught him before he hit the ground, whispering words too soft to hear, her fingers brushing against his forehead as if checking for fever.

The line did not slow. It could not slow.

Beyond the gates, the processing center loomed. Guards stood watch, unmoving, their faces obscured by mirrored visors. Their silence was louder than any warning.

A woman near the front hesitated, her eyes darting toward the horizon. She clutched her Gamepass but did not step forward. The people behind her did not wait. The current of bodies swallowed her hesitation, pushing her onward.

Above them, Gameweaver’s voice coiled through the stifling air. "No more thirst. No more hunger. Step forward and embrace the future."

And so they did.

In Boston, USA, faces were gaunt, hollow-eyed from hunger, fingers gripping their worn Gamepasses like lifelines. The cold gnawed at exposed skin, the wind threading through the shattered remnants of the city like a thief stealing warmth. Every breath was a reminder of what had been lost, food, security, time.

The line outside the processing center stretched through streets once filled with prosperity, now reduced to skeletal structures and hollowed-out storefronts. People huddled in thin coats, layers scavenged from the dead or abandoned long ago. Their bodies shivered, but their grips on their passes never loosened. This was their only chance. Their only way out.

A man near the front swayed on his feet, his ribs protruding sharply beneath his tattered sweater. He licked cracked lips, eyes cautious of the armed security stationed nearby. No one would step out of line.

No one dared.

Some whispered about the rations that had stopped coming. Others muttered about the fires that had burned through the last of the supply stores. The young woman near the middle of the line exhaled sharply, forcing down the ache of hunger as her fingers traced the edges of her Gamepass.

Above them, Gameweaver’s voice poured from the speakers, rich and smooth, drowning out the sound of empty stomachs. "A world without hunger. A world where food has no limits. Step forward and leave your famine behind."

The people listened.

And they moved forward.

In Melbourne, Australia, the sick shuffled forward, many leaning on makeshift canes, coughing, their bodies barely holding on. The scent of antiseptic and human desperation lingered, a dense mix of sweat, sickness, and the sharp bite of recycled air. Every step was a struggle, every breath labored.

The line moved at a sluggish pace, punctuated by occasional gasps or the sharp, wracking coughs of those too weak to suppress them. Some clutched rags to their mouths, others pulled threadbare scarves tighter around their faces, as if they could shield themselves from the inevitable. A few had already collapsed, their bodies slumped against the cold pavement, left behind by the relentless march toward salvation.

Medical staff, indistinguishable from one another in their pale, disposable scrubs, hovered at the edges of the queue. They checked pulses with mechanical efficiency, their latex-gloved hands cool and impersonal. If someone’s breathing was too shallow, their limbs too unresponsive, they were lifted onto stretchers and taken beyond the processing gates, where no one asked what happed.

Near the front, an elderly man trembled, his frail fingers tightening around the last of his medication, a bottle nearly empty, rattling with the remnants of a past life. A young woman beside him, her face skeletal from malnutrition, clutched his sleeve, whispering reassurances neither of them believed.

Above them, Gameweaver’s voice was a balm and a command all at once. "No more suffering. No more sickness. The future awaits." The screens shimmered with promises, images of lush greenery, vibrant blue skies, a world where illness was nothing more than a memory.

And, the line moved forward.

In Tel Aviv, Israel, the tension was thick, the military presence undeniable. Soldiers in full tactical gear stood at rigid attention, their rifles slung tight across their chests, eyes scanning the restless crowd for any sign of disturbance. Drones hovered overhead, their mechanical whir barely audible over the murmur of voices and the occasional shouted command.

Checkpoint barricades, reinforced with razor wire, formed a controlled funnel leading to the processing center. Protesters pressed against the barriers, their voices raw with desperation and fury. "This isn’t salvation! It’s surrender!" a man bellowed, his sign shaking in his grip. The words "We Were Chosen to Live, Not to Disappear" were scrawled across it in thick, uneven strokes.

Yet beyond the shouting, those in line stood silent, their faces set, their shoulders squared. The fear had settled long before they reached this point. Some clutched small belongings, family photographs, keepsakes of the past that would never follow them into The Dive. Others held nothing at all, having already abandoned the weight of the world they were leaving behind.

A mother guided her child forward, the boy’s wide eyes rushing to the towering soldiers who did not acknowledge them, who did not look at them as people. Only as numbers to be processed.

The air smelled of sweat, metal, and something acrid—a faint chemical sting, the scent of controlled sterility, of order imposed on chaos. Every step forward felt irreversible, every movement toward the pods a march toward an unspoken finality.

Gameweaver’s voice echoed above them, her words slipping seamlessly through the atmosphere, drowning out the protests, suffocating all hesitation. "Step forward. A new world awaits you. There is nothing left to fear."

In Berlin, Germany, the city sagged under the strain of overpopulation, the atmosphere thick with exhaustion and decay. Exhaust fumes and the harsh sting of burning refuse mixed with the bitter cold and desperation, creating a cocktail of stagnation that clung to the lungs.

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Public transport overflowed, bodies crammed into outdated trams and buses that groaned beneath the strain. Every breath inside them formed visible clouds, heavy with the stale exhalations of the dying and the weary. For those who couldn't afford a ride, the only option was to walk, navigating through the labyrinth of alleyways where the sick and starving lay slumped in doorways, their shivering forms both ignored and accepted as part of daily life.

Even in the line outside the processing center, the weight of survival bore down on the volunteers. People clutched their Gamepasses tightly, their grip taut with tension, fingers numb from the biting cold. This was their escape from the crush of a city that no longer had room for them. Some stared ahead, just moving, while others muttered prayers under their breath, their whispered words forming small clouds that disappeared beneath the endless drone of a place that had long since ceased to care.

Above them, the screens hummed to life. Gameweaver's voice sliced through the air, smooth and intoxicating. "No more struggle. No more scarcity. Step forward into a world of endless possibilities."

So, they did.

In London, UK, the remnants of an old world tried to stand resilient against the new one forcing its way in. The city still bore its history in its bones, the towering monuments, the grand architecture, the echoes of a time when stability was an unshaken promise. But now, those reminders of a past world were cracked and weathered, standing defiantly amid the creeping tide of uncertainty.

The streets were lined with boarded-up storefronts, their signs faded, their windows shattered or grimy with neglect. The once-thriving heart of commerce had slowed to a hollow whisper. The Underground stations, still operational but barely, rattled beneath the city, filled with passengers whose eyes were as empty as the old tunnels that carried them. Their hushed conversations spoke of ration lines, energy blackouts, and the growing unrest that loomed like an ever-present storm.

Community hubs, once places of gathering and camaraderie, had been transformed into distribution centers, where people queued for dwindling supplies. Posters promising stability flapped weakly against walls, their edges curled with damp. Even nature had begun its reclamation, vines creeping up abandoned buildings, cracks in the pavement sprouting with weeds, as if the city itself was unsure whether to persist or surrender.

The people of London moved forward, but with measured caution. Some clung to what was left of the old ways, attending crumbling churches, keeping routines that no longer served a purpose, whispering about a time when the world had made sense. Others embraced the shift, giving away their last possessions as if severing ties with a world that no longer had room for them, convinced that survival outside The Ultimate Dive was no longer an option.

Above them, Gameweaver’s voice cut through the cold London air. "A new dawn rises. A new world welcomes you. Step forward and take control of your destiny."

And despite everything, the history, the memories, the weight of what was, many did.

In New York, USA, the streets were thick with movement but empty of life, the weight of history pressing down on every shattered window. The towering skyline, once a testament to ambition and resilience, now loomed like a mausoleum to a world that had lost its way.

The echoes of a city that had once never slept were now only ghosts, except for the towering, pristine displays of The Ultimate Dive. Billboards glowed with an almost unnatural vibrancy, their colors untouched by decay, each projection flawless. Neon signs advertising the Dive hummed with an unnatural sharpness, their brightness almost mocking the dim ruins around them.

The air reeked of burnt plastic, oil, and human misery, thick with the sound of bartering, arguing, whispering. The city was always moving, but nothing truly lived here anymore. Where once traffic choked the streets, now only scattered figures moved between abandoned cars, their steps cautious, deliberate. The pavement was cracked, lined with the remnants of what had been left behind, discarded belongings, faded newspapers proclaiming distant tragedies, the bones of a metropolis too stubborn to fall but too broken to rise.

In the heart of Manhattan, the processing center stood like a new temple amid the ruins of capitalism’s greatest shrine. The line outside stretched far beyond what the eye could see, winding through streets that had once held celebrations, protests, parades. Now, they held only the resigned, the desperate, the hopeful.

Some in line still clung to relics of the past, a broker gripping a shredded briefcase, a singer weaving invisible melodies through a cracked microphone.

Their dreams had once built this city.

Now, they were abandoning it.

Above them, Gameweaver’s voice cut through the void, smooth and absolute. "New York has always been a city of reinvention. This is your chance to begin again. Step forward and embrace the future."

And one by one, they did.

In Tokyo, Japan, neon lights reflected off damp pavement, the processing center nestled between towering digital billboards. Unlike the crumbling streets of other cities, Tokyo pulsed with artificial life, massive screens projecting seamless advertisements, their bright, shifting colors drowning out the dark sky.

The streets below were a different story. A steady stream of people moved toward the processing center, their faces obscured behind the familiar white surgical masks, the kind that had once symbolized caution but now only masked resignation, the glow of The Ultimate Dive’s ever-present imagery catching in their downcast eyes. Holo-displays lined the buildings, showcasing a world beyond suffering, beyond scarcity. The promise of escape was irresistible.

The line remained orderly, an unbroken procession of masked figures moving in perfect synchrony, but the silence was unsettling. Tokyo had always been a city of noise, yet here, the only sound was the hum of the billboards and the automated voices guiding people forward. No protests, no chaos, just quiet surrender.

Above it all, Gameweaver’s voice drifted through the air, soft yet inescapable. "A limitless world awaits. Step forward and leave the old one behind."

And so, they did.

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.