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Chapter 16 - Episode 7: Moral Calculations & A Professional Call-Part 1: Processing the Preceding Madness.

 

The soft click of my bedroom door closing behind me felt like sealing an airlock on a spaceship that had just traveled to a new, bizarre galaxy. I stood there for a long moment, my back pressed against the cool wood, listening to the absolute silence of my room. The only sound was the frantic, wild hammering of my own heart against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the aftershocks of the last hour.

 

Slowly, I pushed myself away from the door and stumbled to my bed, my legs feeling like they were made of cooked spaghetti. I didn't so much sit as collapse onto the edge of the mattress, the springs groaning in protest under my weight. I dropped my head into my hands, my fingers pressing against my temples as if I could physically steady the whirling carnival ride inside my skull.

 

"Pffttt!!...". A disbelieving laugh, breathy and slightly unhinged, escaped my lips.

 

"Okay,". I whispered to the empty, poster-covered room.

 

 "Okay. Let's... let's just run the tape back…". I started counting on my fingers, the tactile motion helping to ground the insane facts.

 

"Number one," I said, holding up my index finger.

 

"I woke up in this body roughly... thirty-six hours ago." Middle finger joined the first.

 

"Number two: I French-kissed my own grandmother in the kitchen. Like, full-on, tongue, serious business." My ring finger shot up.

 

"Number three: ten minutes later, I had my hand on my sister's—my incredibly, stupidly hot sister's—absolutely world-class ass, and then I was groping her giant breast…"

 

I stared at the three raised fingers as if they belonged to someone else. The memories replayed in high-definition, sensory-overload detail. The taste of Nadia's mouth, the softness of her body, the feel of her yielding to me. The shocking, perfect roundness of Emily's backside under my palm, the heavy, intoxicating weight of her breast, the sound of her gasp.

 

And the most shocking part? The part that should have been accompanied by a tidal wave of guilt, of self-loathing, of existential dread?

 

Nothing.

 

There was no guilt. There was no shame. There was only a low, steady, thrilling hum of excitement buzzing in my veins. A possessive, primal satisfaction. They hadn't just allowed it; they had welcomed it. They had melted into it. Their responses hadn't been of disgust or resistance, but of relief, of joy, of a hunger that matched my own. That validation was a drug more potent than anything I'd ever experienced.

 

A wide, slow grin spread across my face. "And to be perfectly fucking honest," I announced to the empty room, my voice gaining strength,

 

"I don't feel bad about it. Not a single, solitary bit. I feel... amazing. I feel like I just won the lottery I didn't even know I'd entered.". The grin turned into a chuckle, then a full-blown laugh. The sheer, unadulterated absurdity of it all was finally hitting me. I was living in a world that is for me, is basically allowed me to be me.

 

The laughter subsided, leaving behind a crystal-clear resolution. The thrill solidified into intent. I looked at my raised fingers, specifically at the one representing Natalia.

 

"I am definitely going to breed my grandma," I stated, my voice calm and matter-of-fact.

 

The sentence hung in the air, so utterly insane that I had to pause and let it just be there for a second. A snort of laughter escaped me.

 

"Fucking heck," I muttered, shaking my head. "Never in a million years did I think that would be a life goal of mine… But hey, when in New Rome..."

 

The thought was no longer abstract, it was now a legitimate and proper target. A very specific, very appealing target, that even the government allowed it. And I was going to hit it. But first, I needed context. I needed to really understand the rules of this new game I was playing. Pushing myself off the bed, I walked to my desk and dropped into the chair. The computer monitors glowed to life with a touch.

 

"Alright, Sunday," I murmured. "Let's do some homework. Let's see just how beautiful this world really is."

 

My fingers flew across the keyboard, searching for the societal underpinnings, the moral codes, the "why" behind the "what." I started with broad terms: "New USA social norms," "government mandated relationships," "moral philosophy."

 

The information that flooded the screen was staggering. It wasn't just that things were allowed. They were encouraged. Actively, aggressively promoted. The articles, the government pamphlets, the educational videos—they all sang the same hymn. Relationships were liberated from every constraint my old world held sacred, all in the name of one overriding, desperate goal: procreation.

 

I leaned back, running a hand through my hair. "Amazing,". I breathed out, the word barely a whisper.

 

It wasn't a judgment at all; no, it was a statement of awe. This wasn't degeneracy. This was a societal survival mechanism, coldly logical and ruthlessly efficient. Love, attraction, morality—they were all secondary to the biological imperative to make more humans.

 

But why were they so desperate? The answer came quickly, painted in the grim, stark colors of this world's history.

 

The global population was over 50 billion. A number that should have been mind-bogglingly large. But then came the kicker. A full 70% of that population was affected by lingering radiation from the ancient wars.

 

It wasn't just about a few side effects and sickness, it was worse than that, shorter lifespans, chronic illnesses, widespread infertility, and children born with weaknesses that never would have survived in my old world.

 

And as if that wasn't enough, my research uncovered the true nightmare: Radiation Storms, one scary natural phenomenon, it was real, a global catastrophic weather events that could sweep across continents without warning, a toxic fallout that poisoned the land and the people, powered up by category 5 storms. This earth was a planet stuck in a cycle of sickness, disasters and desperation, trying to out-breed its own decay, which were the fruit of their own making. I sat there, the glow of the monitor reflecting in my wide eyes. The make-out session with my grandma suddenly seemed a lot less like a kinky fantasy and a lot more like a patriotic duty.

 

The initial shock of the population stats and the specter of radiation storms began to settle, morphing from a wave of horror into a cold, analytical understanding. This wasn't just a society with loose morals; it was a machine built for a single, desperate purpose: survival. And every cog, every law, every whispered social more was designed to serve that purpose.

 

Leaning forward, I rested my elbows on the desk, my chin propped on my fists as I stared at the screen. The facts were laid out, but I needed to understand the mechanics. The how. How does a society like this actually function day-to-day?

 

"Sunday," I said aloud, my voice quiet in the hum of the computer. "The radiation zones... they're impassable, right?… What does that actually mean for trade? For travel? For... everything?"

 

The speaker on my monitor emitted a soft chime, and her voice, calm and informative, filled the room. "[The radioactive wastelands and the frequent storms act as definitive natural borders… They are not merely dangerous; they are, for all practical purposes, uncrossable for the vast majority of the population of the world... There is no continual international trade as you would conceptualize it. low tourism. Low actual cultural exchange… Each nation-state exists in a state of enforced isolationism… They are islands, separated by seas of poison…despite sitting in a single continent…]"

 

I let that sink in. restricted imports and exports. Every country was forced to a closed system.

 

"So... if a country's population starts to drop..." I began, thinking it through.

 

"[It faces economic and eventual societal collapse,]" Sunday finished for me, her tone matter-of-fact. 

 

"[There is no solid influx of immigrant workforce to fill gaps. No external resources to bolster a declining economy. A nation's only appreciable resource is its own people. Their health, their numbers, and their productivity are the sole metrics of national security and economic stability. This is the foundational logic behind the Government Mandated Reproduction Duty.]"

 

A cold clarity washed over me. It was so much bigger than just me and my weird family situation. The pressure to procreate wasn't just a suggestion; it was the bedrock of the entire civilization.

 

My refusal wasn't just teenage rebellion; in the eyes of the state, it was borderline treasonous. A direct threat to the system. No wonder Miss Reis had been so frosty.

 

"Okay," I muttered, nodding slowly. "So, the government's pushing this hard. What about the people at the top? The ones who own... everything?" My old-world cynicism kicked in. "I bet they found a way to profit from this mess..."

 

I started typing again, diving into economic reports, corporate structures, and news articles about the elite. Sunday assisted, pulling up financial records and shareholder reports with silent efficiency.

 

What I found was a familiar, if amplified, nightmare. The corporations—especially in a hyper-capitalist nation like New USA—were predators. With a surplus of desperate, sickly people competing for a limited number of jobs that couldn't be outsourced, the power balance was grotesquely tilted. Wages were suppressed to near-starvation levels. Worker protections were a joke, mentioned in dusty law books but never enforced. The rich didn't just get richer; they built gilded fortresses on the backs of a struggling, expendable workforce. Why can they do this, it was simple, people don't have the privileges to chose work, losing job is like a death sentence.

 

I scowled at the screen, a bitter taste in my mouth. "Some things never change," I grumbled. "So, the 1% get to ride out the apocalypse in style while everyone else fights for scraps. Figures."

 

But then my curiosity, ever the otaku diving down a wiki rabbit hole, took a darker turn. How did these billionaires live? If the common man was encouraged to fuck his cousin, what did the elite get up to?

 

A few searches later, and my jaw was on the floor again.

 

It wasn't just about having money. It was about displaying reproductive success as the ultimate status symbol. I found myself watching a "Ned Talk" basically, this world's TED Talks featuring the CEO of Nerve, the company that made all of VR gear. He was a sleek, silver-haired man in an impossibly tailored suit, standing on a stage and calmly, confidently preaching the gospel of procreation.

 

"We must think of ourselves not as individuals, but as cells in the great body of our nation!". he declared, his voice booming through the speakers.

 

"Every child is a victory! Every birth is a strike against the decay that seeks to claim us! I myself am proud to have done my part, with my thirty-seven wives and one hundred and twelve children! We must embrace our biological imperative with joy and vigor!". I stared, utterly dumbfounded and also quite amazed, he said all that with the same bland confidence a CEO on my Earth would talk about quarterly profits. He wasn't a pariah; he was a visionary, A hero of mankind.

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