Specimen: forty humans, one dark chamber.
The colony has assembled to pedal machines that arrive nowhere. Each mounts a stationary frame, feet fixed, and rotates a weighted disc against resistance the human itself increases by turning a small knob. They generate no distance. They transport no cargo. The disc drives nothing but its own reluctance to spin, and the human pays a monthly tribute for the privilege of fighting it.
At the front, a single elevated human shouts numbers and encouragement into a mouthpiece while colored lights pulse. This one does not pedal so hard. The others obey it completely, standing when instructed, sitting when instructed, exhaling in unison on command. I have logged this as a dominance display, though the dominant human appears to derive no food or territory from the arrangement, only volume.
The chamber is kept dark. The heat rises. Liquid escapes the humans through their surface glands at an alarming rate, and rather than seek repair, they consider this the intended outcome and grow more vigorous. Rhythmic sound is broadcast at a magnitude that would rupture my hearing membranes, and the humans move their limbs in time to it, which suggests the sound is a coordinating signal, like the flashing of a swarm.
Anomaly: at the session's end, the humans do not appear injured or diminished. They dismount unsteadily, glistening, and their faces slacken into the expression they otherwise reserve for their young. Several embraced. One made a sound I could not distinguish from distress, yet the others responded to it as a positive.
Preliminary conclusion: the species has learned to manufacture exhaustion deliberately, in a heated dark room, in a group, to a beat, and to treat the wreckage of themselves as a reward. I have marked the disc as the sacred object.
I remain uncertain what it grinds.