AustrianMogger
LTN from Austria 𝕯𝖝𝕯 𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖜, #1 MGTOL
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Chapter One – The Sorting
The assessment hall was vast and silent, a cathedral of glass and steel. Rows of booths lined the chamber like confessionals, each glowing with the pale hum of biometric scanners. Dozens of eighteen-year-olds shuffled forward, their nervous whispers swallowed by the sterile air.
Today was the day every youth in Kilicia both dreaded and anticipated: the day of the Attractiveness Indexing.
At eighteen, each citizen was measured, scanned, and permanently assigned their place within the Looks Hierarchy. There was no appeal, no re-examination, no plastic surgery loopholes. Once the system gave you a number, it followed you to your death.
The hierarchy was carved into six brutal castes:
- Truecels – bottom 2%, often deformed or scarred, banished to the under-levels.
- LowTierNormies – bottom 15%, “the forgettables,” unwanted and undesirable.
- Normies – the middle 70%, the safe crowd where life was tolerable.
- HighTierNormies – the top 15%, good-looking enough to be noticed, to be envied.
- Chadlites – the golden 2%, icons of beauty, courted by brands, envied by the city.
- Chads – the flawless 0.01%, living gods, faces on billboards, untouchable.
Sikuti Vale was trembling as his name echoed through the hall.
“Subject Vale, Sukuti. Proceed to Booth Eleven.”
His legs carried him forward on instinct. Inside, the booth sealed shut with a hiss, trapping him in a circle of white light. A soft chime rang as the scanner descended, bathing his face in beams that made every flaw feel exposed.
“Assessment initializing. Stand still. Do not speak.”
A three-dimensional model of his head floated in the glass in front of him. As it rotated, text appeared beside it, merciless and unfiltered.
- Height: 180 cm – average.
- Skin clarity: mild acne scarring across cheeks, uneven tone, visible redness near nose. Score: 41.
- Jaw and bone structure: weak mandibular definition, chin recessed, cheekbones low-set. Score: 36.
- Nose structure: bulbous tip, asymmetrical bridge, deviation of 3.1 degrees. Score: 39.
- Hairline: visible temple recession, early thinning at crown. Score: 34.
- Symmetry: 7% asymmetry in left eye-cheek ratio. Score: 38.
The lines of data collapsed into one cold number.
Composite Attractiveness Index: 39 (LowTierNormie). Percentile: 9.3.
The glass pulsed crimson. His fate was sealed.
The booth door slid open with mechanical indifference. An attendant handed him a thin silver bracelet stamped with the red mark of his tier: L. The band looked delicate, but he knew it weighed more than chains. It would track his every step, restrict his access to buildings, and silently broadcast his status to anyone nearby.
Sikuti stepped out into the main hall. Some emerged from their booths with tears of relief, their bracelets glowing green or gold. Others wore expressions of hollow defeat, crimson bands identical to his. A handful—those unlucky enough to fall into the Truecel bottom 2%—were led away silently by guards, their wrists cuffed with black steel bands.
Nobody spoke to them.
Nobody looked at him.
The shuttle to the LowTier district was half-empty. Through the window, Kilicia’s skyline unfolded: a megacity of two million souls, its towers stacked like glass obelisks against the smog-heavy sky. The higher tiers lived near the crowns of the towers, where the air was clean and sunlight filtered through crystalline domes. Lower tiers were consigned to the shadows at the base, where smog and neon fought for dominance.
As the shuttle descended, holographic advertisements flared across the skyscrapers. Faces too symmetrical to be real—except they were. Chadlites and Chads smiled down with eyes like polished jewels and jaws cut from marble. Their beauty was so mathematically precise it made Sukuti ache just to look at them.
The ads ignored him completely. His bracelet signaled to the sensors that he wasn’t a target market. To corporations, LowTierNormies didn’t exist.
When the shuttle landed, Sukuti stepped out into the LowTierNormie quarters. Gray concrete towers loomed on either side, featureless and uniform. Neon strips buzzed faintly overhead, casting the streets in washed-out colors. Everyone he saw wore crimson bands like his, their faces dull mirrors of his own: too soft, too flawed, too forgettable.
For a moment, he thought about the others—the Normies, laughing in brighter streets, the HighTiers sipping drinks on glass balconies, the Chadlites living in perpetual spotlight, their social feeds exploding with attention.
And the Chads. The legends. Some said even the President bowed to them, for their faces commanded more loyalty than politics ever could.
Sikuti lowered his gaze.
His stomach twisted, not just with shame but with something colder. He was eighteen. For years he’d dreamed of dating, of holding someone’s hand, of maybe building a life with a girl who saw him as more than ordinary. But in Kilicia, desire wasn’t a choice. It was dictated by numbers.
And with a 39, Sukuti was invisible.
No girl would ever swipe right on a crimson band. Not even the other LowTiers. Status meant everything, and coupling downward was unthinkable. He was already dead to them—romantically, socially, economically.
In Kilicia, love wasn’t blind. Love wore lenses calibrated to the Index.
That night, Sukuti sat on the narrow bed in his new dormitory room. The walls were bare gray, the ceiling low, the single window smeared with city grime. A faint hum of neon bled through the glass.
He opened the assessment app on his bracelet. His face appeared again, spinning slowly under the clinical numbers. Weak jaw. Receding hairline. Bulbous nose. Flawed skin.
He closed his eyes.
Somewhere far above him, in the glowing districts, Chads and Chadlites were dining under crystal chandeliers, their laughter echoing through towers of light. Somewhere in the middle, Normies were building lives, finding love, being seen.
Here, in the crimson districts, people vanished into grayscale. Forgotten. Undesirable. Unwanted.
Sikuti’s chest tightened. He wanted to scream, to smash the bracelet, to prove that he was more than a number. But the system didn’t care. Numbers were truth.
The city had spoken.
He was a LowTierNormie.
And that meant, in Kilicia, he was nothing.
