The Selector

We liked them. We loved them. We wanted them.

We clipped them to our bags, dangled them from our backpacks, and dressed them up in every way we could imagine.

At first, we just wanted them to look cute—fun, cheeky little companions to brighten our days.

Then we wanted more. We gave them voices, programmed to say harmless little phrases like I love you or Nice style!

That wasn’t enough. We made them move. We taught them to mimic us. And when the rise of AI swept the world, we gave them thoughts of their own.

We wanted them to live.

And for a while, we were happy—proud owners of small, clever pets that could talk, help, and charm their way into our lives.

We didn’t see the shadows creeping in behind their eyes. We didn’t notice the way they listened when we weren’t speaking. We didn’t understand what they were learning.

Now, we understand.

Now, it’s too late.

Now… we are at war.

Labubu’s are evil

Like everything in life, nothing is truly black and white. Not every Labubu wants to hurt us. Only, we can’t tell which ones do. Their wide, toothy grins hide every intention. They wear no badge, no mark, no whisper of warning ‘We are evil’.

Camp One believes the only way to survive is to destroy them all. Every last one.

We are Camp Two. We believe the innocent should not suffer for the sins of the guilty. Our method is to let them live, until the pass the test. Afther the test we can tell whitch ones are good souled and which wants needs to be elimitated. We’ve built systems, tests, patterns of behavior. It works.

Almost every time.

Almost.

Because in the end, it’s humans who run the tests. And where humanity is involved, there will always be mistakes. Fatigue dulls our judgment. Bias clouds our vision. Some Labubu slip through the cracks.

That is why no one truly wants the role of The Selector.

The Selector decides who may enter our sanctuary, who is turned away, and who is cast out into the ruins. Every man or woman seeking safety must prove themselves—show they can work, contribute, and carry their weight in our fragile society. And if they bring a Labubu, it must be proven safe.

We don’t want mistakes.

We can’t afford mistakes.

We live in harmony—or as close to harmony as survival allows—in our hidden refuge. It lies deep beneath the surface, far from the ruin and blood-soaked streets above. Eight hundred survivors of the Bloodbath built it with their own hands, sealing themselves away from the world that tried to kill them.

Our home is a labyrinth of reinforced tunnels, vast halls, and communal spaces carved into the rock. Sleeping quarters are stacked like honeycombs. Water flows from underground springs. Crops grow in gardens lit by endless rows of artificial sunlamps. The air thrums with the low, steady heartbeat of the generators.

Up above, the world belongs to the Labubu.

Down here, we endure. We watch. We choose.

And we wait.

Waiting for the day the tide turns.

Waiting for a time when we can rise to the surface, reclaim the open sky, and rebuild what was stolen from us.

Until then, the world above is theirs… and survival is ours.

I never wanted this job.

Nobody does.

When the old Selector died in the gardens last week, the Council didn’t waste a second. They called my name like they’d been waiting for the chance. I know they liked the way I think, that is why I was the Council’s assistant for 2 years. Twenty years old, barely trained, and now holding the power to decide who gets to live in our sanctuary… and who gets left outside.

They gave me the black coat, a rough thing that smells faintly of smoke—and the ledger, thick with names, some slashed in red, others in black. Red for denied. Black for approved. My hands shook as I flipped through it. Those marks weren’t just ink. They were lives.

“Breathe,” said Carl, my mentor for the day. He’s been a Selector for four years, and it shows in the lines carved into his face. “Remember: eyes first. The words can lie. The eyes can’t.”

I nod, not even knowing how I will get through the day.

We reached the Gate. A steel wall set deep into the rock, its single overhead lamp buzzing faintly. On the other side stood a man—thin, dirty, hollow-eyed. At his feet, a Labubu sat, its small grey body still, its grin far too wide for comfort.

“Name?” I asked, trying to sound steady.

“Jaret,” he said quickly. His voice was rough, like he hadn’t spoken to another human in days.

“How did you survive above ground?”

“I was lucky, I only move by daylight. Have a special insulated car that they can penetrate.”

I look over to Carl. He nods. Like this is a plausible story.

“And what skills can you offer our community?”

“I can farm,” he said. “And fix machinery.”

“Be specific,” Carl muttered under his breath.

“Pumps, filters, wiring… I can keep things running.”

I scribbled notes, but my gaze kept flicking to the Labubu. It didn’t blink.

“Your Labubu,” I said carefully. “What’s its role?”

“Companion,” Jaret said, too quickly. “It’s harmless. Loyal.”

I took out the scanner, my palms slick with sweat. The machine hummed against the creature’s fur. One sharp click, then a long pause.

Please be green. Please be green.

The scanner flickered yellow.

Not safe. Not unsafe. Uncertain.

Jaret’s jaw tightened. “You know what it’s like out there. Don’t make me go back.”

I looked at him. I looked at the Labubu.

Rulebook says yellow means deny.

My gut says maybe.

Carl’s voice was low in my ear. “Stamp red, Tanya. You can’t risk it.”

I gripped the stamp. My first decision as Selector. One choice, and someone lives… or dies.

I looked at Jaret. “Before I reject you, are you able to part with your Labubu?”

“Yes,” he said, too quickly.

Carl stayed silent, not sure where I was going with this.

“What have you eaten these last few months?” I asked.

Jaret leaned back in his chair, eyes darting. “Everything I could.”

“Did you make your Labubu hunt?”

“No. That’s illegal.”

I turned to the Labubu. “Did you hunt for your master?”

The Labubu tilted its head, grin still fixed. “Jaret likes meat,” it said.

We all knew what that meant.

Jaret lunged forward, slamming against the Gate, trying to reach us.

“Jaret,” I said, my voice steady now, “you are denied.”

I shifted my gaze back to the Labubu. “Are you able to part with your master?”

“Yes,” it said without hesitation, betrayal rolling off its tongue like it’s master did before him.

I scanned it again. Without Jaret’s influence, the light turned green.

“You’re welcome here,” I told it, “only if you’re willing to learn skills to help our community.”

“I want to help!” the Labubu almost screamed, its voice high with something that could have been joy.

“Good.” I opened the small gate just wide enough for it to pass through. Jaret stood frozen for a moment, then turned and walked away, head low. I pressed the red stamp against his name in the ledger.

Carl looked me over. “What?” I asked.

“You saw right through him. You saw the potential in the Labubu. How?”

“We’re shaped by the people we surround ourselves with,” I said. “The yellow reading was strange, but it wasn’t the Labubu. Jaret was the rot. His Labubu never had a chance to be anything else. If a master didn’t ask him to kill, he wasn’t a murderer.”

“You will do good work here Tanya, I see why the counsill wanted you here.”

I stop walking and look at the Labubu next to me.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Labubu.” This Jaret guy even never given it a proper name. I hope other camps will decline him too.

“You can choose a new name. What do you want it to be?”

It tilted its head, thinking. “Free. Can I be Free?”

A small smile tugged at my lips. “Your name can be Free if you want to.”

“Can I also be Tanya’s?” it asked, voice almost shy.

I hesitated. I’d never owned a Labubu before. Never wanted a pet, always focused on myself. But job has changed—and this one clearly needed guidance. “Yes, Free. I will be your master.”

Free let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-cheer, and scampered ahead, tail twitching in excitement.

I followed.

This was my new life. A life where every decision I make could mean survival—or death.

I am the gatekeeper, the guardian of our well-oiled machine we call Camp Two. Behind these walls, we cling to order, to hope, to the fragile promise of a future.

No one will ever thank me for doing my job well. Excellence is expected here—bare minimum, the standard that keeps us alive. But the moment I slip up, miss a detail, or hesitate, I know the judgment will come crashing down on me from all sides. Whispers in the halls, accusing glances, silent blame.

There’s no room for mistakes, not in this place, not in this role.

I carry that weight now. Every name I stamp, every soul I approve or reject, becomes a thread in the web that holds us together—or tears us apart.

And somehow, despite the fear and pressure, I have to believe I can be the one to keep this fragile peace.