119

Sometimes survival means becoming statistically ordinary.

Tyson Ellison and his class watched as the president announced the national IQ tests that were going to take place. Tyson could overhear others in the class making fun of the president’s orange tan, and his floppy blonde hair that was clearly turning gray. His administration cabinet started clapping their hands in loud, synchronized approval of this mandatory event. Other classmates of Tyson began to boo.

His teacher, Mrs. Harrison, snapped her ruler against her desk. “Enough.”

The screen behind her showed the president spreading his arms wide, smiling as if he had just solved the world’s problems himself.

“America,” the president said, voice full of theatrical confidence, “we are entering a smart era. The smartest era. Nobody has ever seen intelligence like this before.”

A few students groaned.

“The IQ tests,” he continued, “are just the beginning. After testing, every citizen will wear an official Intelligence Badge. Transparent. Fair. Merit based.”

Mrs. Harrison muted the broadcast as whispers erupted.

“They’re ranking people now?” someone said.

“That’s insane,” another muttered.

Mrs. Harrison adjusted her glasses. “The badges will determine eligibility for certain privileges. Employment sectors, driver licensing, access to advanced technology, higher education tracks.”

Tyson felt a knot tighten in his stomach.

On the screen, bold letters flashed:

INTELLIGENCE IS OPPORTUNITY.

~ ~ ~

The outrage across the country was immediate.

Protests filled streets. News channels argued nonstop. Social feeds turned into battlegrounds overnight.

One of the loudest voices against the program was Tyson’s grandfather, Claude Ellison.

Claude had fought in two wars, fixed engines for forty years, and believed strongly that common sense mattered more than test scores.

“They’re not measuring intelligence,” Claude said at dinner, stabbing a fork into his potatoes. “They’re measuring obedience.”

Tyson’s mom sighed. “Dad, it’s supposed to help efficiency.”

“Efficiency for who?” Claude shot back. “You mark people with numbers, you stop seeing people.”

Tyson stayed quiet. He’d always tested well...too well.

Teachers called him gifted. Counselors talked about elite academies. Expectations followed him everywhere like shadows.

And now...expectations would be permanent.

~ ~ ~

The tests came two weeks later.

Silent rooms. Neural scanners. Adaptive questioning systems that changed difficulty in real time.

Tyson finished early.

The AI proctor paused.

“Exceptional cognitive response detected,” it said softly.

He felt no pride, only dread.

~ ~ ~

Three days later, badges were issued.

Small digital plates pinned over the heart, glowing faintly blue.

Tyson stared at his number:

IQ: 148

Gasps followed him through the hallway.

“Whoa.”

“Genius tier.”

“Dude, you’re set for life.”

Except he wasn’t.

Within hours, things changed.

Teachers called on him constantly. Students asked for homework answers. Guidance counselors scheduled meetings he never requested. A corporate scholarship recruiter emailed him before dinner.

Even worse, new rules rolled out.

Anyone above 140 IQ was automatically enrolled into the National Cognitive Advancement Track.

Relocation possible. Specialized training mandatory.

Government placement after graduation.

“You’ll help shape the future,” Mrs. Harrison told him proudly.

But Tyson heard something else:

You don’t get to choose your future anymore.

~ ~ ~

A week passed before the president revealed his own IQ.

The announcement came during a dramatic televised event.

“For transparency,” he declared, smiling broadly, “I am proud to reveal my very high score.”

The badge flashed:

IQ: 156

Commentators applauded. Supporters cheered.

But online, people noticed something strange.

The delay.

Everyone else’s badge had appeared immediately after testing.

His had taken an extra week.

Claude snorted when he saw it. “Took him seven days to get smarter, huh?”

Tyson laughed, but the idea stuck.

What if numbers could change?

~ ~ ~

The discovery happened by accident.

Tyson’s friend Lina worked part-time repairing school tablets. One afternoon she showed him something strange.

“The badges sync through a public infrastructure network,” she whispered. “They update remotely.”

“That sounds secure.”

“It is,” she said. “Unless you understand how the calibration algorithm works.”

She pulled up a diagnostic screen.

Every badge adjusted slightly over time based on behavioral analytics—reaction speeds, purchases, online habits.

It didn’t just measure intelligence.

It interpreted it.

Tyson stared at the code.

Then he understood.

“If you could rewrite the calibration layer...” he said slowly.

“You could change the number,” Lina finished.

She grinned. “Hypothetically.”

~ ~ ~

That night Tyson sat awake thinking about the Advancement Track.

About being shipped somewhere else.

About living a life decided by a score.

About his grandfather saying numbers erase people.

He opened his laptop.

And instead of raising his IQ...

He lowered it.

Carefully. Gradually. Believably.

148 132 119.

He stopped there.

Just above average.

Invisible.

~ ~ ~

The change took effect the next morning.

His badge flickered.

IQ: 119

No gasps.

No whispers.

No counselor summons.

Just...normal.

For the first time in weeks, someone didn’t ask him for answers.

He felt free.

~ ~ ~

That evening Claude noticed immediately.

“You shrink, kid?” his grandfather asked with a knowing smile.

Tyson hesitated.

Then nodded.

Claude leaned back in his chair. “Smartest thing you ever did.”

Tyson frowned. “I made myself less intelligent.”

Claude shook his head. “No. You made yourself harder to control.”

~ ~ ~

Weeks passed.

Tyson watched society reorganize itself around numbers. High scores became pressure chambers. Low scores became limitations. People stopped talking across badge lines.

But Tyson moved between groups unnoticed.

And he started noticing something else.

The system trusted average people.

They weren’t monitored as closely.

Didn’t trigger predictive oversight.

Could go places others couldn’t.

He began quietly helping classmates, adjusting badges for kids locked out of trade schools, restoring opportunities to people misjudged by a single test.

Not raising them to genius level.

Just returning choice.

One night, a message appeared on his screen.

UNKNOWN ADMIN ACCESS DETECTED

A new badge profile opened.

The president’s.

Tyson stared.

Original archived score:

IQ: 98

Modified:

157

Tyson leaned back slowly.

So his grandfather had been right.

The system wasn’t about intelligence.

It was about power.

Tyson closed the file.

He didn’t expose it...not yet.

Word Count: 996
Prompt: Write a story or poem in which your main character is a high school student living in a society where everyone wears a badge indicating their IQ. The student finds a way to change their number - and they lower it significantly. Why? Use Young Adult as one of your genres.
Written for: "The Writer's Cramp"