Yamato Ishida (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
angry_friendship_wolf) wrote2020-11-02 11:51 pm
angry_friendship_wolf) wrote2020-11-02 11:51 pm
[tri OOM] The Assessment
“You’re sure you’ve got things under control here?”
It’s not just that Yamato’s going to be gone for four days (although he’s not going far, his mind reminds him, just over to Urayasu -- he won’t even be leaving Tokyo Bay). It’s also that, with preparations for her ceremony, Sora will be gone for three, while Jyou will be gone for two days with medical exams. That’s three of the eight of them gone, and while Daisuke, Miyako, Iori, and Ken have promised to fill in for them, the four of them don’t come close to making up for the loss in fighting strength.
“We’re sure,” Taichi says firmly. “We’ve got this.”
“If there’s a problem, call -- …”
“No,” Taichi says. “For the next four days, you’re off the team, Yama.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not kidding at all. Koushiro’s our strategist now,” Taichi replies. Koushiro gives an absent thumbs up over his computer. Taichi smiles, his eyes crinkling slightly at the edges, and squeezes Yamato’s shoulder. “So you can stop worrying about us, or the world, or whatever. Next four days, you’re just a normal teenager sorting out his future.”
---
The Crisis Defense Academy in Urayasu is built out in Tokyo Bay, on an artificial island not dissimilar to Odaiba itself, although much smaller -- although the academy itself only takes up a little less than half of the island, with the rest devoted to a base shared between the JASDF and JMSDF.
Considering building it started seven years ago and was concluded two years ago, it’s an impressive feat, although Yamato doesn’t recall a time where the base, ostensibly for use in early response to Digimon attacks, has ever actually successfully fielded a response to any Digimon attack.
Before the assessment, there’s an assembly, then an induction, both long and tedious. They’re told that there’s two-hundred of them in this group, and that they’re the fifth and final assessment group, the previous ones having all had between two-hundred and two-fifty people. By the time it actually gets to the first part of the assessment, the battery of physical tests on the first day, Yamato is practically itching to do something instead of just standing around listening to people talk.
The physical tests are … exhaustive. And exhausting. It starts with a run on the treadmill, measuring some two and a half kilometres; then push-ups; sit-ups; pull-ups; a shuttle run; an assault course; another, shorter run on the treadmill, this one on an incline; and finally a two-hundred meter swim wearing heavy clothes. Years of walking all day, running from monsters, and living rough in the Digital World, and even more years of martial arts and swimming, mean that Yamato’s actually pretty confident about the fitness test. Nevertheless, by the time the I-L surname group has finished, with each test coming immediately after the last, there’s an ache setting in to his arms and legs.
When they’re all done, he’s surprised to see the two-hundred strong assessment group dwindle down to a little less than a hundred-and-twenty. It has an oddly demoralising effect on the entire group, leaving them to slope off to a meal in the cafeteria and then back to their rooms.
The next day involves an entirely different challenge. They’re warned in advance that there are a lot of exams to get through, and it quickly becomes apparent there’s going to be no break between them. Modern and classical Japanese is first (not Yamato’s strongest subject), then Math, then Geography (years of working on maps comes in handy here), then Japanese History, then the sciences in an exam that’s purportedly combined but more like three full-length individual exams mashed together.
“It’s definitely on purpose,” one of the other applicants says at dinner that evening, when another ten applicants have left -- of their own accord, Yamato thinks, because there’s no possible way any of their exams have been marked yet. “They’re trying to exhaust us and see how we cope.”
It’s as good a theory as any.
Day three carries the looming threat of the part of this process Yamato is dreading the most. The exams -- conversational English, World History, ICT, critical thinking -- are actually a relief, since none of them are the interview he knows is coming.
It starts off poorly. He’s stammering every time he tries to talk, and while he’s getting out the answers, he knows exactly how he looks -- like a nervous, twitchy mess of a person who has no business being in this interview at all.
It gets worse, though, when one of the interviewers flips through his file and dryly, disapprovingly notes both his family history and his ethnic background, casually dropping in the most derisive and derogatory terms he can like he’s reading ingredients off the back of a packet -- and maybe he’s testing Yamato or maybe he’s just that much of an asshole, but it doesn’t matter, because Yamato sees red and snaps back a sharp response. For the rest of the interview, he can’t keep the snarl out of his voice, and he leaves knowing that he screwed up, that despite what Taichi might say about him being a normal teenager for the next few days, he’s always going to be closer to being a feral animal. Now the interviewers all know it too, he supposes.
At first, he’s encouraged when he gets to dinner without someone telling him that he’s out of the assessment. Then he notes that nobody’s been thrown out over their interview -- like the exams, it’s doubtful the interview results have been tallied yet -- and that encouragement evaporates.
The fourth and final day sees the applicants divided up into groups based on which course they’re applying for, and suddenly that group of a hundred and twenty is a group of thirty.
The first test is on the flight sims, and Yamato notes, happily despite the gnawing reminder at the back of his head that he ruined the interview, that he aces the flight simulator, scoring the first place slot by a wide margin. The g-force test, which involves placing one person at a time in a centrifuge and having them solve simple visual puzzles as the g-forces increase and increase, and they lose their colour vision and their brains fog over and they start feeling short of breath and dizzy, sees him in fourth place out of thirty. He’s happy enough with that as well. The visual acuity and reaction time test that follows is a lot less interesting and unusual, but he scores high, and he’s happy with that.
Then, it’s one last assembly, full of platitudes and only one really useful piece of information (that as the last assessment group, they should expect to hear back within a few weeks), and they’re dismissed.
---
By the time he gets back to the safehouse, he’s practically falling asleep, and only the knowledge that half the Chosen (and then probably several people in the bar) will yell at him if he accidentally swerves his motorbike into an oncoming car keeps him from nodding off mid-journey.
As soon as he opens the door, the smell of spices and meat hits his nose. Daisuke is in the kitchen, casually cooking up a meal, as Koushiro, Miyako, Ken, and Jyou all work, and the other Chosen lounge around like cats.
“Looks like you’re all still alive,” he notes.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Taichi scoffs. “And sit down, Daisuke’s making enough for everybody. And he knows how particular you are about your ramen.”
It’s not just that Yamato’s going to be gone for four days (although he’s not going far, his mind reminds him, just over to Urayasu -- he won’t even be leaving Tokyo Bay). It’s also that, with preparations for her ceremony, Sora will be gone for three, while Jyou will be gone for two days with medical exams. That’s three of the eight of them gone, and while Daisuke, Miyako, Iori, and Ken have promised to fill in for them, the four of them don’t come close to making up for the loss in fighting strength.
“We’re sure,” Taichi says firmly. “We’ve got this.”
“If there’s a problem, call -- …”
“No,” Taichi says. “For the next four days, you’re off the team, Yama.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not kidding at all. Koushiro’s our strategist now,” Taichi replies. Koushiro gives an absent thumbs up over his computer. Taichi smiles, his eyes crinkling slightly at the edges, and squeezes Yamato’s shoulder. “So you can stop worrying about us, or the world, or whatever. Next four days, you’re just a normal teenager sorting out his future.”
The Crisis Defense Academy in Urayasu is built out in Tokyo Bay, on an artificial island not dissimilar to Odaiba itself, although much smaller -- although the academy itself only takes up a little less than half of the island, with the rest devoted to a base shared between the JASDF and JMSDF.
Considering building it started seven years ago and was concluded two years ago, it’s an impressive feat, although Yamato doesn’t recall a time where the base, ostensibly for use in early response to Digimon attacks, has ever actually successfully fielded a response to any Digimon attack.
Before the assessment, there’s an assembly, then an induction, both long and tedious. They’re told that there’s two-hundred of them in this group, and that they’re the fifth and final assessment group, the previous ones having all had between two-hundred and two-fifty people. By the time it actually gets to the first part of the assessment, the battery of physical tests on the first day, Yamato is practically itching to do something instead of just standing around listening to people talk.
The physical tests are … exhaustive. And exhausting. It starts with a run on the treadmill, measuring some two and a half kilometres; then push-ups; sit-ups; pull-ups; a shuttle run; an assault course; another, shorter run on the treadmill, this one on an incline; and finally a two-hundred meter swim wearing heavy clothes. Years of walking all day, running from monsters, and living rough in the Digital World, and even more years of martial arts and swimming, mean that Yamato’s actually pretty confident about the fitness test. Nevertheless, by the time the I-L surname group has finished, with each test coming immediately after the last, there’s an ache setting in to his arms and legs.
When they’re all done, he’s surprised to see the two-hundred strong assessment group dwindle down to a little less than a hundred-and-twenty. It has an oddly demoralising effect on the entire group, leaving them to slope off to a meal in the cafeteria and then back to their rooms.
The next day involves an entirely different challenge. They’re warned in advance that there are a lot of exams to get through, and it quickly becomes apparent there’s going to be no break between them. Modern and classical Japanese is first (not Yamato’s strongest subject), then Math, then Geography (years of working on maps comes in handy here), then Japanese History, then the sciences in an exam that’s purportedly combined but more like three full-length individual exams mashed together.
“It’s definitely on purpose,” one of the other applicants says at dinner that evening, when another ten applicants have left -- of their own accord, Yamato thinks, because there’s no possible way any of their exams have been marked yet. “They’re trying to exhaust us and see how we cope.”
It’s as good a theory as any.
Day three carries the looming threat of the part of this process Yamato is dreading the most. The exams -- conversational English, World History, ICT, critical thinking -- are actually a relief, since none of them are the interview he knows is coming.
It starts off poorly. He’s stammering every time he tries to talk, and while he’s getting out the answers, he knows exactly how he looks -- like a nervous, twitchy mess of a person who has no business being in this interview at all.
It gets worse, though, when one of the interviewers flips through his file and dryly, disapprovingly notes both his family history and his ethnic background, casually dropping in the most derisive and derogatory terms he can like he’s reading ingredients off the back of a packet -- and maybe he’s testing Yamato or maybe he’s just that much of an asshole, but it doesn’t matter, because Yamato sees red and snaps back a sharp response. For the rest of the interview, he can’t keep the snarl out of his voice, and he leaves knowing that he screwed up, that despite what Taichi might say about him being a normal teenager for the next few days, he’s always going to be closer to being a feral animal. Now the interviewers all know it too, he supposes.
At first, he’s encouraged when he gets to dinner without someone telling him that he’s out of the assessment. Then he notes that nobody’s been thrown out over their interview -- like the exams, it’s doubtful the interview results have been tallied yet -- and that encouragement evaporates.
The fourth and final day sees the applicants divided up into groups based on which course they’re applying for, and suddenly that group of a hundred and twenty is a group of thirty.
The first test is on the flight sims, and Yamato notes, happily despite the gnawing reminder at the back of his head that he ruined the interview, that he aces the flight simulator, scoring the first place slot by a wide margin. The g-force test, which involves placing one person at a time in a centrifuge and having them solve simple visual puzzles as the g-forces increase and increase, and they lose their colour vision and their brains fog over and they start feeling short of breath and dizzy, sees him in fourth place out of thirty. He’s happy enough with that as well. The visual acuity and reaction time test that follows is a lot less interesting and unusual, but he scores high, and he’s happy with that.
Then, it’s one last assembly, full of platitudes and only one really useful piece of information (that as the last assessment group, they should expect to hear back within a few weeks), and they’re dismissed.
---
By the time he gets back to the safehouse, he’s practically falling asleep, and only the knowledge that half the Chosen (and then probably several people in the bar) will yell at him if he accidentally swerves his motorbike into an oncoming car keeps him from nodding off mid-journey.
As soon as he opens the door, the smell of spices and meat hits his nose. Daisuke is in the kitchen, casually cooking up a meal, as Koushiro, Miyako, Ken, and Jyou all work, and the other Chosen lounge around like cats.
“Looks like you’re all still alive,” he notes.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Taichi scoffs. “And sit down, Daisuke’s making enough for everybody. And he knows how particular you are about your ramen.”