he monthly Emotion Registration Day is one of the few days in mortal life explicitly marked on the calendar. It's not a holiday, nor a commemoration. It's an accounting.
The registration hall is located in the underground structure of a converted old city hall, with a narrow entrance and a stabilizer array suspended from the ceiling. Every breath is filtered, every heartbeat is recorded.
Mortals line up, entering in order of their status level. The third-level mortals' queue is the longest and quietest. Lin Jin is in the middle. Ahead of him is a middle-aged woman, her fingers constantly stroking the edge of her identity tag, a slight and repetitive movement. It's a self-soothing behavior tacitly permitted by the training manual.
The monitor above her head glows with a pale yellow light.
"Fear is low."
"Sorrow is slightly high, but within a reasonable range."
"Any unreported emotional events recently?" The woman shakes her head, her lips move, but no sound comes out. She knows that language itself adds uncontrollable variables. The recorder nods and makes a note. When it's Lin Jin's turn, the crystal scan unfolds before his eyes. A string of data flows quickly, accurate to three decimal places. Joy: 0.091
Love: 0.123
Sorrow: 0.381
Fear: 0.412
Dislike: 0.052
Desire: 0.071 The recorder paused. "Your emotional distribution is very even." Lin Jin didn't respond.
"Even, usually means low productivity." There was no blame in his tone, only an experienced judgment.
The recorder typed the conclusion on the terminal:
"Stable emotions, average output, no abnormal risks." This was a safe assessment.
Safety, in Lincheng, is the highest level of praise.