IBP C2 Part 1

We gathered in the gymnasium, but there was no graduation ceremony.

I was ashamed of myself for thinking they might make us insert something into our orifices or march around the grounds on all fours while tied together. My mind seemed to have become as depraved as the people on this island.

It’s not my fault. Anyone who’s been mentally and physically tortured for a week here would think the same way. And this place… what I’ve been through here…

I engaged in shameless self-justification. It didn’t offer much comfort.

Meanwhile, the staff lined us up and replaced our identification tags. They were the same brass-colored plastic cards. They looked like factory workers performing repetitive tasks on an assembly line.

Their hands, devoid of any emotion or thought, handled our nipples as if they were objects. I flinched at the slightly rough handling, then noticed something strange.

My nipples, which had been throbbing until four days ago, were completely fine. The piercing wounds had already healed. It was an absurdly fast recovery rate. I instinctively knew that this was also due to the body modification. While I was surprised that such a thing was possible, I felt a familiar wave of nausea. Even the stronger stomach I had developed on this island wasn’t helping.

Once the preparations were complete, we were led out to the garden. Guests were already waiting in front of a prepared stage.

They sat at white tables that looked like something out of a medieval noblewoman’s drawing-room, and the scattered staff members attended to them, serving tea whenever they raised a hand.

And then the auction began.

The guests openly judged and sexually harassed us. Comments about chests and buttocks flew around. The face of the slave who was mistakenly pulled up first turned white, then blue.

However, the enthusiasm at the tables waned as the auction progressed.

“There’s nothing worth picking up this time. They’re all C-rank.”

“I heard they were trying something new, but it’s pointless if the ranks are consistently low.”

“Aside from the collarbone tattoos, there’s nothing exciting about them.”

They were right. I already knew it, but seeing it like this, I realized how similar the thirty of us gathered here were in physique and appearance. We looked like mass-produced androids with the same barcode stamped on our collarbones.

The guests quickly lost interest, and after the fifteenth slave, no one bothered to bid anymore. A real auctioneer would have been flustered, but the staff member, without batting an eye, simply declared the auction over.

‘Oh?’

I hadn’t expected standing in the back to be so advantageous. I was feeling happy for the first time since arriving on the island, when a voice like a bolt from the blue rang out.

[We will now begin an event game in the Olive Tree Garden. The theme is ‘Hunting.’]

The man’s voice, laced with a mechanical undertone, was familiar. It was the same voice that played classical music every night and released the gas, announcing, [It’s time to sleep.]

A recording? A live broadcast? …No, that wasn’t important right now.

‘This is insane. This fucking island!’

The guests cheered as if on cue. I gritted my teeth. The island’s ‘hunting’ brought to mind nothing but bloody murder carnivals from movies. I tried to calm my racing heart. Panicking wouldn’t do me any good. I had to stay calm.

Let’s think rationally. The head butler said there wouldn’t be anything that would endanger our lives. It seemed he wasn’t lying. It seemed he wasn’t lying. It seemed he wasn’t lying!

[Special guns will be provided to the guests attending this event.]

A staff member, who had been standing silently, held up something that looked like a water gun, slightly larger than a Glock, and shot it at a nearby slave.

The gun made no sound. What emerged wasn’t a shiny bullet, but a tiny, thin needle.

The needle pierced the slave’s skin like a syringe. A small tube remained at the end. It contained a yellowish liquid, which was quickly absorbed as soon as the needle was embedded.

…That can’t be glucose solution, can it? Should I be grateful that it wasn’t the bloodbath I had imagined?

“Hng!”

The man, who had been standing upright, staggered and hunched over. The voice calmly explained.

[This is a fast-acting aphrodisiac. Each gun contains twenty needles, so please use them wisely. You can temporarily own the captured slaves until sunset, but please be gentle, as they have just graduated.]

The guests, their elegant attire a stark contrast to their behavior, let out beastly cheers. As if they’d be gentle.

[Slaves, you may run while the guns are being distributed. Your locations will be displayed on the guests’ devices, so hiding in one spot is not recommended.]

‘Thanks for the tip, asshole.’

As I stealthily moved towards the back row, I finally spotted the speaker. It was hidden behind a tree in the garden. If I thought simply, it would be a staff member, but somehow, I felt it wasn’t. If it were, the staff members here could have just explained the rules. So, what’s this guy’s role then? I didn’t have time to ponder as the monotone voice declared the start of the game.

I was the first to move. If Kibbus were here, I would have taken him with me, but that clueless guy was standing near the front and was the third to be sold.

I glanced back to see how quickly the guns were being distributed, and my eyes met Kibbus’, who was sitting on some man’s lap, fidgeting and looking at me anxiously. Seeing the subtle sense of camaraderie in his eyes, I wasn’t overly worried about the week we had been apart. It seemed he had developed a one-sided sense of solidarity during our separation.

I gave a slight nod and started sprinting. The men with guns, along with the other slaves who were belatedly scattering, all looked at me.

Humans lived as hunter-gatherers for millions of years. Agrarian societies, where people settled in one place, began less than 10,000 years ago, and the concept of human dignity emerged only a century ago.

The primal hunting instincts embedded in our DNA still drive modern humans and cause various problems. Most of these instincts are filtered by reason, by the law, and by friendly chats with investigators, ultimately being buried deep within the unconscious.

But this place was devoid of law and order, investigators, and human dignity.

If caught, there’s no telling what horrors await. Would a staff member’s indifferent warning even register in the minds of these excited hunters?

…I’d say that’s highly doubtful, wouldn’t you?

Moreover, I was the prey that had proven its vigor by being the first to bolt. The gazes piercing the back of my head were persistent and sharp. I steeled my resolve.

I was going to show these ordinary people with non-lethal guns exactly what it meant to be from Zone 2 Investigation Headquarters, even if I was a desk jockey.

***