886 | Chemical Clock Adjustment

886 | Teen Body Clocks and Forced Chemical Adjustments

Chapter 1: Diesel Pitches Rev a Plan for Mandated Stimulant Injections

As Diesel pitches Rev a plan for mandated stimulant injections to fix their morning exhaustion, the atmosphere in the cafeteria feels heavy—one fluorescent light flickers above the cafeteria table, stuttering a cold blue glow over Diesel and Rev.

Diesel’s eyes glitter with the particular kind of excitement that usually means the fire alarm will go off later.

“I have a money‑making idea,” Diesel says, leaning so far across the table that his hoodie strings dip into a puddle of soda. “Do you want to team up and make millions?”

Rev pokes at his lukewarm fries. He doesn’t bother hiding the sigh.

Last time Diesel had a “money‑making idea,” half the school nearly got expelled for a shoplifting ring disguised as a hallway boutique.

“Your last idea,” Rev says flatly, “was to organize teens to steal and then open discount resale stores. What’s this new attempt to get rich without effort?”

“It’s totally legal,” Diesel insists, flicking a hand like that’s a minor detail. “This time, it’s a humanitarian mission. Think of all the teens suffering from early‑morning sleepiness and post‑lunch coma. I watched a teacher get so boring that the whole class passed out.” He grins. “Even the teacher. Some kids thought it was an alien sleep ray attack until the bell saved them.”

Rev rubs his temples.

He can feel his own fog—that heavy, damp blanket that doesn’t lift until midday.

“I didn’t know weariness was a ‘serious problem’,” he mutters.

“That’s because the system wants you tired,” Diesel shoots back, voice rising. A nearby table glances over. “Our natural body clocks are out of sync with adult rhythms. That’s why we have bomb tests. We’re more awake at midnight than at eight a.m.”

He isn’t wrong, Rev thinks. I feel more alive at 2 a.m. than I ever do in Algebra.

“Okay,” Rev says slowly. “I admit to chronic night‑wakefulness. Are you proposing night school? Because, honestly, I’d be more functional in class at 2 a.m.”

Diesel shakes his head, a predatory smile forming.

“No profit in night school,” he says. “Adults have the same problem, but they use approved remedies to manage their energy. I’m talking about something bigger: mandated medical treatment for the ‘closed‑lid’ epidemic. A quick jab every morning, and everyone is wide awake for proper… societal programming.”

Rev’s stomach turns.

Injections.

Mandates.

The word indoctrination hangs in the air like a bad smell.

“Would your coffee‑laced‑with‑sugar booster need scientific studies?” Rev asks.

“Caffeine inoculation has been unofficially tested on adults for centuries,” Diesel says, sliding smoothly into a sales‑pitch tone. “Energy drinks are everywhere. It’s time we benefit from what science has ‘perfected’. Equal focus for all. Everyone awake. No more ‘closed‑lid’ excuses.”

A quiet voice behind them cuts in.

“Why make it mandatory?” Evan asks.

He sits at the next table, textbook open but clearly not reading. He turns his chair slightly, brows drawn together.

“Some students don’t have the ‘closed‑lid’ problem,” Evan says. “Why jab everyone?”

Diesel ignores him.

His mind is already sprinting ahead.

“We also need a second jab,” he tells Rev, leaning closer. “A ‘seditious shot’ to sedate them at night. We copy adults: coffee, sugar, alcohol and sleeping pills. We can heal everything—mood swings, identity crises, the hunger for approval.”

Rev watches Diesel’s eyes.

This isn’t just about money.

This is about control.

He’s talking about turning them into something predictable.

“Hasn’t science already proven that chaos is dangerous?” Evan asks quietly.

Diesel doesn’t even look at him.

“Socially challenged students with wild hormones can be managed,” Diesel whispers, almost to himself. “We solve the sleep disaster with brain‑friendly drugs. We train teen brains to align with adult time. Everyone wins.”

Rev glances at Diesel’s tight grin.

No, he thinks. Some people win a lot more than others.

Chapter 2: Evelyn Argues Against Diesel While the Principal Approves Mandatory Injections

Evelyn argues against Diesel while the Principal approves mandatory injections behind closed doors to solve the school's energy crisis. “Is caffeine laced with sugar even legal for teens?” Rev asks, leaning back as if distance alone could protect him from the idea.

“Absolutely—for now,” Diesel says. “Adults worship their sweetened coffee. No one dares criticize it. They’re terrified of a ‘caffeine emergency’ crashing productivity. We beat them to it by standardizing a daily regimen of stimulants and…” He pauses, hunting for a word. “And evening ‘relaxatives’ to keep everyone level.”

Rev grimaces.

“There has to be a better word than ‘laxatives,” he says. “Sounds like a hospital brochure, not a lifestyle. What about… Sleep Mellow‑Toning?”

Diesel’s eyes light up.

“Mellow Toning,” he repeats. “That sounds scientific. Safe. Cozy.”

“It sounds like a trap,” says a new voice.

Evelyn slides into the seat beside Evan, notebook already open.

He’s talking about us like we’re lab rats, she thinks, a familiar dread coiling in her stomach.

“I’d rather start a protest to change school start times to match our actual sleep cycles,” Evelyn says. “Your drugs create lifelong dependence.”

Diesel rolls his eyes.

Evelyn doesn’t stop.

“Teen melatonin rises and falls later than adults’,” she explains. “We’re wide awake when our parents are yawning, and we’re half‑asleep when the first bell rings. Our bodies aren’t broken. Your schedule is.”

“There’s no money in fixing the schedule,” Diesel says. “We label the ‘closed‑lid’ crisis an energy emergency and fix it with medicinal infusions. The brain will adapt. Once we set the pattern, it aligns with adult time.”

Evelyn taps her screen.

“According to this,” she says, “around 70% of adults need ritual coffee just to function. If they’re so ‘aligned,’ why do they need a ceremony to wake up?”

Diesel only grins wider.

“Exactly. Those adults never trained their brains with drugs early enough. Now it’s too late. Old brains can’t learn new tricks. Teens still can.”

“Your logic is upside down,” Evelyn replies, voice steady. “Disciplined souls must train their bodies without drugs. Start young, and you keep self‑control. Start with chemicals, and you never learn it.”

Diesel slams his palm on the table.

“Problems happen because not enough drugs are used,” he says. “We need to test high doses. Teens waste time drowning in feelings. My plan clears the clutter.”

Midnight, Christmas Eve.

The school board room smells like floor wax and old tinsel. A forgotten Santa decoration slumps in the corner, its plastic smile cracked.

Three people sit at a long table.

Rev looks at the rows of empty chairs.

“Does anyone even know we’re here?” he whispers.

“Doesn’t matter,” Diesel says, stepping up to the podium as if he owns it. “The rules only require a quorum of those present. And we’re present.”

The Principal—face gray with exhaustion and something colder—lifts a hand.

“All in favor of mandating an energy booster vaccine for students,” he says, “raise your hand.”

Three hands rise.

“Motion passes,” the Principal intones.

Just like that.

It is done.

Mandatory morning booster shots.

Mandatory evening “Mellow Toning” doses.

Rev watches Diesel sign the paperwork with a flourish.

It’s starting, he thinks.

We’re not just students anymore.

We’re a controlled market.

Chapter 3: Evan Distributes Arm Plates and Evelyn Protests the AI Robots

As Evan distributes arm plates and Evelyn protests the AI robots in the courtyard, the students begin to push back against the forced medication. The school feels different now.

Colder.

More mechanical.

Low‑frequency hums vibrate through the floor. AI robots glide along hidden tracks, their silver arms tipped with glinting needles, ready to deliver the morning “booster.”

Evan stands by the lockers, passing out heavy, foam‑covered objects wrapped in hoodies.

“Keep it under your jacket,” he whispers to a pale sophomore. “I’ve distributed metal arm plates covered in dense foam to trick the robots. They’ll think you’ve already been injected.”

He watches a robot approach.

Please work, he thinks. If we don’t block these injections, there might be no one left to graduate.

A week later, the hallways look like a battlefield of the exhausted.

“Hey, Evan,” Evelyn calls, coming toward him. Her eyes are red‑rimmed. “Have you been to the gym? Half the track team is collapsed on the bleachers. They’re overdosing on ‘help.’”

“I know,” Evan says quietly. “The only ones still standing are mostly the ones wearing my arm guards.”

The Principal strides past, posture unnaturally calm.

Evelyn steps into his path.

“Why are so many students missing?” she demands. “Why are the ones who show up so weak and foggy‑brained?”

The Principal doesn’t break stride.

“The rules were changed,” he says. “Students are no longer forced to attend. Some appear to be choosing to stay home. No data is being generated on the matter.”

“No data?” Evelyn’s voice spikes. “There’s an epidemic of healthy teens turning into sick, dizzy wrecks. Everyone knows it’s from the daily shots!”

“We are looking into commissioning a scientific study,” the Principal replies. “At present, there is insufficient data. Our students’ attendance and health information are private. We are exploring whether other countries have a similar issue. We will keep you updated.”

He lies through his teeth, Evelyn thinks, fists clenching. He’s just waiting for us to fade out of the numbers.

“I’m not waiting for a study,” she says.

By lunch, she’s standing on a bench in the courtyard, megaphone in hand.

“We are not machines!” Evelyn shouts. “We don’t exist for someone else’s ‘energy emergency’ plan! No more forced jabs!”

Within hours, the courtyard is a sea of signs and hoarse voices.

Media vans roar up. Cameras zoom in on AI robots trying to wedge through the crowd.

“No more injections! Our arms hurt!” students chant. “Stop the mandatory jabs!”

A robot reaches forward to inject a girl in the front row.

Its needle slams into the hidden metal plate under her sleeve with a sharp clink.

The needle snaps.

The robot freezes, sensors whirring in confusion, then turns away in search of a new arm.

“See?” Evan says, standing next to Evelyn on a brick planter. “The robots can’t pierce the plates. They move on. Armored students are getting marked as ‘completed’—no more jabs.”

Evelyn glances at the cameras, then at the main doors.

Diesel stands in the lobby shadows, watching everything with narrowed eyes.

“It’s working,” she says.

“For now,” she adds quietly.

She doesn’t believe Diesel is finished.

Not by a long shot.

Chapter 4: Diesel Introduces Mind-Aid Vending Machines to Replace Injections

When Diesel introduces Mind-Aid vending machines to replace injections, the school immediately trades one form of control for another. Weeks later, the AI robots stand powered down in the foyer, their needle‑arms retracted.

The Principal steps onto a makeshift stage, his voice echoing over the PA.

“Due to student concerns,” he announces, gesturing at the silent robots, “the experimental injections will cease. Fortunately, one of our school’s brilliant students has created an alternative.”

The crowd shifts.

Hope flickers.

“Diesel has always been pro‑choice for personal medicine,” the Principal continues smoothly. “He has designed a mostly safe brain‑booster drink for those who have become dependent on their morning supplement. Think of it as ‘brain‑breakfast in a bottle’.”

Spotlights snap on.

New vending machines glow along every corridor—rows of bright, humming boxes fully stocked with neon liquids.

“Three cheers for Diesel!” some seniors shout. Their voices sound thin, but desperate. “He’s helping us function!”

Diesel stands to the side, basking in applause.

As Evan and Evelyn approach, Diesel leans close enough for only them to hear.

“Full disclosure,” he murmurs lightly, “this product hasn’t been formally tested. Not enough time. But the need is urgent, right?”

Evan’s jaw tightens.

This was never a retreat, he thinks. This was always the endgame.

“The morning shots were designed to get our bodies addicted,” Evan says under his breath. “Now that we’re hooked, you roll out your vending machines. The students who used my arm plates won’t be compulsively buying your bottles.” He meets Diesel’s eyes. “But you don’t care about them, do you?”

Diesel turns away.

“The amazing thing about my Mind‑Aid drink,” he tells a cluster of athletes, “is that it can be used anytime. End‑of‑school‑day slump? Take a third booster for practice or parties. Repeat the pattern, and your superior human brain will eventually take over, releasing the chemicals on its own—like a muscle getting stronger with use. It’s training. Your brain becomes more fluid.”

“I never liked the idea of liquid brains,” Evan says, stepping between Diesel and the athletes. “Addictions don’t go away with repetition. The body builds tolerance. You need double to feel ‘normal’.”

Diesel smiles.

“Then the pro‑choice solution is simple,” he says. “Drink two bottles in the morning and two after lunch. We offer a variety of flavors, all with natural organic sugar for extra energy.”

By next week, the atmosphere shifts from sluggish to jittery.

Too awake.

Too wired.

Evelyn corners the Principal again.

In the hallway behind them, a student stares at a locker, whispering to someone who isn’t there.

“Students are having hallucinations,” Evelyn says. “Their bodies can’t sleep. The stimulants don’t wear off, and the ‘Mellow Toning’ knocks out their minds while their bodies twitch all night.”

The Principal watches the hallucinating student as if examining a wall poster.

“It has come to my attention that some are losing their sense of reality,” he says smoothly. “This is nothing to be concerned about.”

“I have a new product for that,” Diesel says, appearing with a tray of blue bottles.

“My line of Mellow‑Toning drinks inserts melatonin to signal rest,” Diesel declares, voice slick. “Use Mind‑Aid to wake, Mellow‑Toning to sleep. Complete control of your own life.”

“Hooray for Diesel!” some students shout, clutching their blue bottles like lucky charms. “He’s saving us!”

Evan stares at their hollow eyes.

“He’s not a savior,” Evan says quietly. “He’s a merchant. And you’re his inventory.”

Diesel lifts a bottle like a toast.

“Just give your brains more time to adapt,” he says. “You’ll be amazed at what you can become.”

Evelyn watches the vending machines.

Their hum sounds louder.

Like a hungry, mechanical heartbeat.

Chapter 5: Evelyn and Evan Confront Diesel About the Addicted and Hallucinating Students

Evelyn and Evan confront Diesel about the addicted and hallucinating students wasting away in the school's common area. The common area looks less like a school and more like a waiting room in a psychiatric ward.

Students lean against lockers, their movements jerky, eyes distant.

Evelyn watches a freshman frantically claw at the blank wall where he thinks his locker is.

Is this what “mastering the body” looks like? She wonders. Or are we just watching ourselves dissolve?

“Look at them, Diesel,” Evelyn says.

She stands in front of a row of Mind‑Aid machines humming with predatory efficiency.

“There’s an epidemic of healthy teens becoming weak and foggy,” she says. “They’re hallucinating because the stimulants never leave their system. The Mellow‑Toning sedates their thoughts, but their bodies keep convulsing all night.”

Diesel leans casually against a machine, sipping a neon‑blue Mind‑Aid.

“The Principal already said it’s nothing to worry about,” he replies. “This is a transition phase. I’m pro‑choice—they’re free to decide if they want the edge.”

“You pushed them over the edge,” Evan snaps, stepping forward, his metal arm plates visible now like armor. “You hooked them with mandatory shots and then sold them the fix. They’re not choosing. They’re conditioned.”

Diesel’s eyes gleam with a clinical shine.

“You don’t understand the science,” he says. “I think their liquefied brains will learn to produce the right chemicals at the right times once they’re properly inoculated. My drinks show the brain the pattern. If they keep following the science, they’ll be rewarded.”

The phrase liquefied brains makes Evan feel physically sick.

He isn’t trying to help us, he thinks. He’s trying to reprogram us.

“Drugs rob the body of chances to learn self‑control,” Evelyn says quietly. “Soul self‑mastery includes training your own body. Real energy cycles are triggered by natural emotions—peace, joy, compassion. Not electrolytes and chemicals.”

“Emotions are messy,” Diesel replies, turning away. “Patterns are predictable. Predictable is profitable. I’ve already applied for grants. The government pays for free lunch tokens and booster drinks. If students double their dose each month, I’ll be a millionaire by graduation.”

He disappears down the hall.

Evelyn watches a pair of shaking hands scan an ID card for yet another bottle of Mellow‑Toning.

“What happens when the pattern breaks?” she whispers.

No answer comes.

Only the hum of the machines.

Chapter 6: Evelyn Argues With Diesel About Soul Self-Mastery Versus Chemical Addiction

As Evelyn argues with Diesel about soul self-mastery versus chemical addiction, the twisted reality of the school becomes unavoidable. The hallway feels like a looping dream.

Colors are too bright.

The air carries the sticky‑sweet smell of Mind‑Aid layered over the metallic scent of dormant AI robots.

Students drift through the corridor like ghosts in hoodies.

Eyes wide.

But empty.

Evelyn stands beside a vending machine, watching a junior try to punch in his code. His hand shakes so violently that he hits the wrong button three times.

We’re not mastering our bodies, she thinks. We’re being absorbed into the machine.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Evelyn,” Diesel says, appearing behind her with a tray of Mellow‑Toning bottles.

He looks sharp, almost buzzing with energy.

“I’m looking at a whole school of them,” she replies. “They can’t tell if they’re awake or dreaming anymore.”

“This is nothing to be concerned about,” Diesel says, parroting the Principal’s tone. “It’s just their brains becoming more fluid. Once properly inoculated, they’ll auto‑produce what they need. We’re just giving them the template.”

“A pattern of addiction isn’t health,” Evan says, stepping up. His metal plates are still strapped on—a dented, visible act of defiance. “You didn’t teach them to be free. You taught them to be customers.”

“I am pro‑choice,” Diesel counters smoothly. “They can opt in or out. If they want to compete in an adult world, who are we to stop them?”

Evelyn’s voice stays quiet, but it cuts through the noise.

“Soul self‑mastery means owning your body’s rhythms,” she says. “Healthy bodies can be trained to align without chemical overrides. You’re stealing their chance to learn.”

“Training takes years,” Diesel says. “My drinks take seconds. Why wrestle with self‑regulation when you can buy it?”

“Because when you buy it, it doesn’t belong to you,” Evelyn answers. “We’re trading our souls for a waking schedule. That isn’t mastery. That’s surrender.”

Abby stands at the edge of the crowd, a Mellow‑Toning bottle sweating in her hand.

Am I still me, she wonders, if I need a formula to tell me when to wake and when to sleep?

A crash echoes from the cafeteria.

Students rush to the doorway.

A group has collapsed—not from exhaustion, but from a strange paralysis. Eyes wide open. Bodies refusing to obey.

“Just give their brains more time to adapt,” Diesel says.

For the first time, his face looks pale.

Chapter 7: Abby Questions Diesel After a Student Collapses from Chemical Overload

Abby questions Diesel after a student collapses from chemical overload as paramedics arrive in the cafeteria. Abby watches paramedics—who look a lot like upgraded AI units—load a sophomore onto a stretcher.

The cafeteria air is thick with Mind‑Aid fumes and the cold ozone of an overloaded system.

We’re in a feedback loop, she thinks. Waking and sleeping on someone else’s command.

“It’s a minor bug,” Diesel says, although his voice has lost some of its swagger. “The first generation of any great evolution has glitches.”

“A bug?” Evan says. “He was drinking four bottles a day just to stand up. You said the brain was smart and would learn the pattern. Instead, it’s collapsing.”

Diesel taps a blue Mellow‑Toning bottle against his palm.

“Sometimes the old structure must be broken before a new one can be built,” he says. “Once the pattern is set through infusions, the superior brain will take over. This is about becoming more fluid.”

“A soul isn’t something you rebuild in a lab,” Evelyn says. “We’re losing the ability to feel anything not flavored with caffeine and sugar. Disciplined souls align with nature, not neon.”

Abby looks at the machines lining the wall, their logos flickering in soft, inviting colors.

“What if we don’t want your ‘fluidity’?” she asks. “What if we just want to be sleepy at sunset and awake with the sun, no bottles in between?”

Diesel finally meets her eyes.

“Choice is a luxury of the slow,” he says. “The world is accelerating. Drink up or get left behind.”

Evan opens his backpack.

The clink of metal on metal echoes in the sudden quiet.

He pulls out a stack of arm plates.

“Or,” he says, “we can stop the machine.”

Students stare at the cold metal.

Then at their glowing bottles.

Somewhere deep in the building, the vending machines hum louder.

Like they can feel the threat.

Chapter 8: Evan Jams the Mind-Aid Machine Before the Principal and AI Robots Arrive

Evan jams the Mind-Aid machine before the Principal and AI robots arrive to force the students back into compliance. The North Wing hallway is a tunnel of humming lights and neon glare.

The Mind‑Aid machine at the far end throbs with blue light—the heart of this corridor’s addiction.

Evan stands in front of the Mellow‑Toning dispenser, holding one of his foam‑covered metal plates.

He doesn’t speak.

He slams the plate into the dispensing slot.

The mechanical arm tries to push through, grinding against the metal.

A high‑pitched, ripping screech tears through the hallway.

“That’s one,” Evan grunts.

If we break the machines, he thinks, we break the cycle. But what happens to the kids who can’t function without the boost?

“Do it,” Abby whispers. “If we don’t, no one ever gets a chance to feel really tired again.”

“You’re destroying property!” Diesel’s voice cuts through the screech.

He stands at the far end of the hall, framed by the lobby’s blue light.

He no longer looks like a classmate.

He looks like a CEO guarding his product line.

“I am pro‑choice, Evan,” Diesel calls. “If they want two bottles in the morning and two at lunch to stay sharp, that’s their right.”

“It’s not a choice when you engineer dependence,” Evan fires back. “You primed them with forced shots, then sold them ‘brain breakfast’ in a bottle.”

Diesel walks toward them, footsteps echoing.

“Give their brains more time,” he says. “Their liquefied minds will learn to automate the pattern. My drinks are training wheels.”

“A soul isn’t liquid,” Evelyn says, stepping from the library shadows. Her gaze falls on a student slumped against a locker, clutching an empty bottle like a lifeline. “Healthy teens can be trained to function on their own cycles. You’re stealing that chance.”

“I’m giving them the power to be impulsive, to take risks, to be adventurous,” Diesel argues. “Isn’t that what being a teen is for?”

“Not when the price is a permanent chemical leash,” Abby says, moving beside Evan.

The double doors at the end of the hall fly open.

The Principal enters.

He isn’t alone.

Four AI robots roll in behind him, their injection arms replaced with heavy‑duty clamps.

“It has come to my attention that our school’s infrastructure is being sabotaged,” the Principal says. “Since attendance is no longer compulsory, those who remain must follow the mandated health regimen.”

“What about the students collapsing?” Evelyn demands. “The ones hallucinating?”

“There is insufficient data,” the Principal replies calmly. “Security will ensure the machines remain operational and all present students are properly ‘balanced’ for the curriculum.”

The robots’ sensors glow red.

They lock onto Evan.

He places the metal plate in his hand.

“Diesel,” Abby says quietly. “Is this the ‘pro‑choice’ world you wanted?”

Diesel looks from the robots to the jammed machine.

His mouth tightens.

He says nothing.

The robots start to move.

Chapter 9: Evan, Evelyn, and Abby Prepare to Flee from the Approaching AI Robots

Evan, Evelyn, and Abby prepare to flee from the approaching AI robots as red sensors light up the hallway. Red sensor beams sweep the hallway, painting lockers with pulsing light.

The vending machines hum like distant engines.

Abby feels the caffeine buzz in her veins fight with a wave of cold fear.

Am I just a data point in someone else’s experiment? She wonders.

“We need to move,” Evan whispers, metal plates clinking softly in his bag. “If they clamp us, they restart the jabs.”

“I’m not running,” Evelyn says, even though her knees feel like jelly. “If we leave, there’s no one to witness what’s happening. No one to tell the media that the sickness is real.”

Diesel steps back, eyes flicking between them and the robots.

“You’re exaggerating,” he says. His voice is too high. “I am pro‑choice. They want Mind‑Aid. They want to chase their desires.”

“They want it because you rewired them,

Chapter Synopsis: Diesel pitches a money-making plan to Rev for mandated morning stimulant injections and evening mellow-toning doses to fix student exhaustion, which the Principal quickly approves. When the resulting forced injections and subsequent Mind-Aid vending machines cause severe addiction, hallucinations, and student collapses, Evelyn, Evan, and Abby push back. Evan distributes metal arm plates to jam the robots and machines while Evelyn argues for natural soul self-mastery over chemical dependence, culminating in a standoff as AI robots advance down the hallway to enforce compliance.

Core Themes & Laws:

• The danger of trading natural body rhythms and self-control for corporate-driven chemical dependence

• The illusion of "pro-choice" freedom when addiction and dependency have been artificially engineered

• The fundamental conflict between soul self-mastery and mechanized, predictable behavioral programming

• The courage required to stand against systemic institutional control and protect personal sovereignty

Key Entities Featured in this Document:

• Diesel: An entrepreneur who promotes and sells mandatory booster shots and addictive Mind-Aid drinks for profit

• Rev: A student who initially listens to Diesel's pitches but recognizes the threat of total behavioral control

• Evan: A student resistance leader who distributes metal arm plates and jams vending machines to stop chemical enforcement

• Evelyn: A mystic student and Truth-speaker who advocates for natural sleep cycles and soul self-mastery over chemical overrides

• Abby: A student who questions the chemical dependency of the student body and joins the resistance

• The Principal: An authoritarian administrator who implements mandatory health regimens and dismisses student health crises due to insufficient data