It's April 17, 2021. 10:00 am, Saturday. The airport looms before us, a sprawling complex of glass and steel. It's been five years since I last experienced this, and it's just as overwhelming. The air carries the scent of jet fuel and coffee, with the faint smell of cleaning solutions.
Inside, there's a cacophony of sound - announcements echo, luggage wheels clatter, and conversations buzz. The place is alive with activity; families, business people, and tourists all moving with purpose. Digital screens flash with flight information, times, and destinations.
The security lines are long, a reminder of the forgotten procedures - removing shoes, laptops, and liquids. The high ceilings amplify every sound, while shops and restaurants line the walkways. The lighting is bright, almost clinical.
For someone who's only been here once before, the airport feels like a different world - a place of departures and arrivals, where journeys begin and end.
We're now in the midst of the airport's endless sprawl, my parents scanning around, looking confused. "Where's that red structure they mentioned?" Dad mutters, squinting at the signs and structures around us. "It's supposed to be near gate 12."
Mom, holding the map at arm's length, tries to make sense of it. "Maybe we've passed it already," she suggests, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose. I can't help but think they're getting old, their vision not what it used to be.
I look around, finally spotting a flash of red in the distance. "There," I say, pointing towards what looks like a small, oddly shaped building with a bright red roof, almost hidden by the larger structures around it. "That's it."
With a sigh of relief, we start walking towards it, navigating through the crowd.
As we approach the red structure, we find two families outside, clearly distressed. Their voices carry over the ambient noise of the airport.
"This isn't right, we weren't told about any test!" one parent exclaims, frustration evident in his tone. "How can they just fail our kids because of some impromptu test?"
Another parent, a mother, looks close to tears. "It's harsh, it's unfair. We came all this way, and now this?"
Before the conversation can escalate, security personnel appear, calm but firm. "I'm sorry, but you need to leave the premises," one of the guards says, his voice devoid of sympathy. Without much protest, knowing they have no choice, the families are escorted away, their complaints fading into the background noise of the airport.
My parents exchange a quick, worried glance, their brows furrowed. Clearly, they hadn't heard about any tests either. With a collective breath, we step into the red structure.
The interior contrasts sharply with the exterior, which has an old-world charm with its red brick facade and small, arched windows, giving the impression that one is stepping into a different time period. However, once inside, the space is unexpectedly modern, with sleek lines, polished surfaces, and the latest technology at every turn.
At the reception desk stands a young lady with flowing auburn hair, styled in loose waves that catch the light. She's dressed in a well-tailored suit that accentuates her figure, the fabric a deep navy that complements her hair. Her beauty is striking, with sharp, elegant features and eyes that seem to assess everything with a calm, professional gaze. She looks up from her computer, a polite, welcoming smile on her lips.
She greets us with a warm, professional tone, "Good morning. May I have your full name, please?"
My father opens his mouth to answer, but she raises a hand gently, stopping him. "I need to hear it from you, young man."
I clear my throat, slightly nervous. "Damon Dylan Hofstadter."
She types it into her computer, her eyes scanning the screen before she nods in confirmation. "Damon Dylan Hofstadter, it's time for your test."
She leads us down a hallway to a small, quiet room with a single desk and chair. On the desk, there's a tablet displaying the scenario: the classic trolley problem.
"You see a runaway trolley moving toward five tied-up people lying on the tracks. You're standing next to a lever that can switch the trolley onto another track, where there's one person tied up. What do you do?"
I consider the question, knowing it's meant to probe deeper than just the surface-level decision. "It depends on who the people are," I reply, my voice steady. "If I know the one person on the other track, I'd save them. Personal connections matter in these decisions. Ethics isn't about numbers; it's about the value we place on individuals."
The young woman nods, a thoughtful look crossing her face. "The trolley problem is an ethics question," she says, "and there is no right answer. It's about perspective, about what you value."
She types my response into the system.
We're led to another room where the second test awaits. The young woman with auburn hair gestures to a large board displaying flight information. "For your next challenge, you need to recite all the locations from where the airplanes are coming and where they're going to," she explains.
My mother, unable to contain her disbelief, interjects, "That's impossible. We just walked in here. How could anyone know that?"
The interviewer looks at me with a knowing smile, "It's not impossible for you, is it, Damon?"
I shake my head, already scanning the board. "No," I respond confidently. Then, with a clear, steady voice, I begin to list them off, "From New York to Tokyo, from Paris to Sydney, from London to Dubai, from Johannesburg to Sao Paulo, from Los Angeles to Beijing..." I continue, naming each flight's origin and destination with precision, the information somehow etched into my mind from the brief exposure at the airport's screens and conversations.
The room falls silent except for my voice, the list growing longer as I prove my exceptional memory. My parents watch in awe, and even the interviewer looks genuinely impressed by my recall.
We're led to a large, indoor range within the building, the artificial light casting stark shadows across the concrete floor. A peculiar setup awaits - an object, small and seemingly impossible to hit, placed at an oddly angled and distant spot. The young woman hands me a gun, a real one, not something I've ever handled before.
"You have three shots to hit this target," she instructs, pointing to the elusive object.
My mother gasps, "But he's never shot a gun before!"
"This isn't about just shooting," the interviewer replies, her eyes on me. "It's about how you approach the problem."
I take a moment, not to aim but to observe. I fire the first shot, intentionally off-target, using the recoil to feel the gun's weight, its kickback, calculating in my mind how these forces interact. The second shot, I adjust my stance, noting the trajectory, the air resistance, the bullet drop - all physics in play. The third shot, I use to further refine my understanding of the gun's mechanics, the bullet's flight path, and the environment's influence.
Then, I pivot to biology and perception. I compare the object's size with nearby landmarks within the room, estimating its true distance and position. I consider my own physiology, how my eyes, brain, and muscles coordinate, factoring in my heart rate and adrenaline for precision.
With all this data, I realize something: the object isn't where it appears at all. It's an optical illusion caused by the room's layout. It's actually slightly to the left and much closer than it looks. I recalibrate, taking into account everything I've learned from my shots, the environment, and my own body's capabilities.
I take a deep breath, aim not where the object seems to be but where my deductions tell me it truly is, and fire. The bullet hits with a satisfying sound, the object falling from its hidden spot.
The young woman's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, then she simply states, "He passes."
We're back at the entrance of the red structure, the moment of departure looming. My parents' faces are a mixture of pride and worry, their eyes misty with unshed tears.
"We're not allowed to visit, you know," my dad says, his voice thick with emotion, attempting a weak smile. "Hell, we don't even know where this school is. But at least you'll be back by Christmas, right?"
I nod, the reality of their words sinking in, mixing with the excitement of what lies ahead. "I'll be back," I assure them, my voice steadier than I feel.
My mom pulls me into a tight hug, her warmth enveloping me. "And when you return," she says, her voice soft but firm, "I'll cook your favorite food. You'll have missed it, I'm sure." I keep my face neutral, not letting on how much I actually dislike that dish, but I appreciate the gesture.
I hug her back, the promise of her cooking bringing a small, genuine smile to my face despite my feelings about the food. Then I turn to my dad, who claps me on the shoulder, his grip firm with unspoken emotion. "Make us proud, son. And take care of yourself," he manages to say, his eyes betraying his attempt to keep it together.
We stand there for a moment, a family on the brink of change. "I'll make you proud," I promise, the words feeling small against the enormity of this departure.
One last embrace, one last look into the eyes of those who've known me all my life, and then I step back, the separation feeling like a physical tear. They wave, their figures growing smaller as I'm led away by the auburn-haired woman towards my new chapter, leaving behind the warmth of family for the chill of the unknown, with the comforting promise of Christmas and the pretense of enjoying a meal I secretly despise.
The auburn-haired woman leads me through more corridors, the architecture blurring into a maze until we reach a secluded part of the building where a private jet awaits, its sleek form almost blending into the surroundings. Without a word, I'm ushered inside, the interior far more luxurious than I expected, with plush seats and soft lighting.
I'm guided to a small, private room within the jet, the door closing behind me with a soft but definitive click, hinting at a lock engaging. Before I can even settle in, a sweet, almost floral scent begins to fill the air, coming from vents above. It's subtle at first, like the scent of a distant garden, but quickly grows stronger, enveloping me in a cloud of drowsiness.
My limbs feel heavy, my thoughts begin to slow and swirl as if underwater. My eyelids grow leaden, each blink longer than the last. The gas, I realize through the fog, is meant to put me to sleep, to keep the location of this mysterious school secret. There's a brief moment of panic, but it's quickly drowned by an overwhelming sense of calm, of inevitability. My body slumps into the seat, my head nodding forward as I fight to keep my eyes open, to hold onto consciousness just a little longer.
But the fight is futile. The world around me dims, my last coherent thought is of the unknown journey ahead, and then nothing. I pass out, succumbing to the embrace of sleep, carried away to a new life by the gentle, insistent pull of the gas.