Chapter 33: Chapter 33

Imagine, for a moment, the feeling of a seat belt locking during an emergency stop. Now layer on another point of restraint, and another, constricting and growing tighter. And then by some miracle loophole of gravity, you slip free, plunging through the windshield, the shattered glass tearing at your body still somehow a reprieve from that horrible, terrible pressure that for a moment, you believed would never stop, enjoying the second's long reprieve before you hit cracked asphalt.

Or, in my case, the snow.

I’m not certain how the wolf managed to twist in the air and grab me. But as I collided with the ground, the impact was enough to knock me out. 

/////

A memory came to me, rising out of the darkness and the pain. There was an out-of-season fake poinsettia placed atop a glass, gold trimmed coffee table. I remember thinking how odd it was, for a room this calculated. The beige recliner and matching couch were exactly the same height. Childrens toys took up a small corner, stuffed animals, shape sorting, and a disproportionate number of dolls, the entire trove likely doubling as a means of entertainment and a manner of testing cognitive ability. 

I didn’t like tests back then, before I understood how to beat them, how they worked. And this entire room felt like a test. The receptionist guided you in first, and the therapist was never on time. So, it was—really, entirely up to you. Did you go to the comfortable looking armchair or the couch? What would that say about you? And if you picked a magazine from the table, I shuddered to imagine what they would extrapolate from that.

So, I did the least offensive thing. Took a seat on the far end of the couch, where one was expected to sit, and stared blankly, into the plastic greenery of the hideous, off-season poinsettia. 

The door clicked open. Doctor Svelt let himself in. He was a big man, rotund as he was tall, living in a perpetual loop of business casual Fridays—thin plaid shirts with a hardworking belt and jackets that, if I propped one up with a pole, likely had some practical application as a tent. 

He peered at me confused, as if it hadn’t taken Dad making the appointment weeks in advance to see him. 

“Hm. Matthias? This can’t be right. We finished our mandated sessions, didn’t we?” The big man’s face scrunched in faux puzzlement. 

“You didn’t fix me,” I said, straight and to the point. The man made going out into the weeds a career choice, so I needed to be direct or this would never get resolved. 

“And when I floated the idea of check-in sessions with your father, he said that decision was entirely up to you.” The side of his mouth pulled up in the beginnings of his signature, vulpine like smirk. 

“Yes, I’m in distress. Yes, I’m here of my own accord. Partially because I didn’t know gloating would be a part of the process.” I kept my voice terse, firm. 

The smirk disappeared. He tracked to his armchair, grabbed a clipboard from the side-table and sat down. Good, he was taking me seriously now. 

“We’ve discussed the efficacy of referring to people, especially ourselves, with terms like broken.” 

I blew air out through my teeth. “And I didn’t call myself broken. Because I knew you would say that. However, a person generally isn’t assigned mandated therapy because they’re normal, would you agree?” 

“By normal, you mean neurotypical?” Dr. Svelt asked. 

I chuckled. “See, that’s a trap. I wouldn’t have recognized it six months ago, but I recognize it now. If I say yes, we get into an hour plus conversation on the general definition of normal, and a retread of what it means to be on the spectrum. If I say no, you make me spend an hour defining it and warp my explanation until I self-realize that I do fit in some atypical loosely defined interpretation of normal.” 

Svelt set his pen down. “Normally, I’d maintain the value of having either of those conversations. But I can see you’re unsettled, so why don’t you start with telling me what happened?”

“I thought about hurting someone again.” I said. 

“And I thought about slapping the smug smile off my last patient’s face when he made the same joke about my running late for the hundredth time.” 

I rolled my eyes. “I know the difference between ideation and an intrusive thought.” 

“So. You planned it?” Svelt asked. His tone didn’t give anything away, but I knew this was bait. And if I somehow ousted myself as an ongoing danger to someone else. 

“No. Yes. I saw someone who’s been giving Ellison a hard time at school. Like no one’s told this kid it’s not the 90s anymore. He was sitting on the railing of an overpass off I-20. Legs dangling over traffic, listening to music. I passed him on my walk home on the sidewalk. He was inches from me. There were no cars, no witnesses. It would have been easy to just…”

“Give him a push?” The therapist prompted me. 

“I listened to your advice. Thought about the disproportionality of it. Took precautions after that. Been taking the long way around, in case he does that often. But I didn’t feel guilty. At all. If anything, it felt like a missed opportunity.” 

“And that’s why you’re here. Because you don’t feel guilty?” 

“I feel alarmed. Because I don’t feel guilty. Because you cleared me. Said I didn’t have the markers. And I’m afraid that…” 

“It was a mistake?” Svelt asked. He went behind his desk to the miniature water cooler and poured himself a cup of water, handing me one as well. The man did this often when he needed to think. He tapped his cup. “How much of the evaluation did you answer honestly?”

I blinked in confusion, even as my heart raced in my throat. “All of it.” 

Svelt cleared his throat. “Look, I’ll make you a promise. You remember what I said about promises?

“That you don’t make them frequently. Because they’re iron-clad.” 

“Yes. Here’s my promise to you: No matter how you answer, I’m not going to report it to your parents or make you take the evaluation again. It won’t change how I see or treat you. Just be honest.” 

I hesitated. It was almost a reflex to lie about something like that, but Svelt had always kept his word, even when it was probably far more convenient to do otherwise. 

“Maybe half,” I said quietly. 

“Damn. I was guessing sixty percent.” Svelt said. When I stared at him, shocked, he laughed. “You’re hardly the first person to try to beat a psych eval by trying to pick out the correct answers. They’re specifically designed to root that out.”

“You knew.” My voice took on a tinge of accusation. “And you cleared me anyway.” 

“For good reason. For one thing, you’re a child, still too young for a definitive ruling. But even when you’re older, it’s even less likely. ‘I had therefore to remove knowledge, in order to make room for belief.’” Svelt sipped his water. 

“Are you really quoting Kant, to tell me you believe in me?” I snorted in derision.

“Most people with ASPD have an over-inflated sense of self. They tend to think themselves superior to the average person, elevated.”

“I don’t think I’m better than anyone,” I said immediately. 

“See,” he pointed at me. “Too quick to be a lie. Almost reflexive. You genuinely believe that. That lack of exaggerated ego, coupled with frequent anxiety, is a big mark against.” 

“You’re overlooking a hell of a lot. I have poor impulse control, can be manipulative, have a lack of empathy, and generally don’t feel guilty for anything. Those are all clear markers.” 

“Yes.” Svelt leaned forward. “But where you differ, Matthias, is how painfully aware of that you are. You’ve formed a regimen of checks and balances on yourself, done research, delved into philosophy to the point you can pick a half-assed quote out of the air.” 

“None of that matters if I don’t have a conscience.” I said. 

“I’d contend you do.” Svelt pointed a meaty finger to his head. “An external conscience, rather than internal. Formed from knowledge and self-awareness. It’s what stopped you from pushing that boy off the bridge.” 

“That seems vastly inferior.” 

Svelt mused quietly. “It’s inconvenient. And could easily lead you wrong, if you over-attach to problematic ideals. But not inferior.” 

“Why?” I asked, curious to hear the answer. 

“There’s a reason why Antisocial Personality Disorder trends in high-powered jobs. The reality is, ruthlessness can be a desirable trait in some aspects of life. But many people with ASPD can’t just turn that off. Use a hammer enough, and eventually, everything looks like a nail. 

“So, what, I just go through life pretending like I don’t have a hammer?” I asked. 

“Not at all. But only rely on your ruthlessness when you know, beyond a shadow of a doubt that you need it. And have the self-control to stop when the time is over.” 

/////

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I woke with a wet gasp, and immediately coughed out blood. A wave of pain seized me, so strongly I fought the urge to vomit. I could feel my pulse in my neck, in every laceration and wound on my chest. 

The entire top section of my armor was hanging off in tatters. 

There was a yelping growl a few feet away from me. Audrey was tangled up with the wolf. It was trying to disengage, and she wasn’t having any of it. Her vines were lashed around its mouth, keeping its jaw pried open painfully, thorns digging in all around the wolf’s muzzle. 

It saw me stir and tried to rush me down. A single vine lashed around a nearby stone, whipping the wolf’s head to the side. 

It stared at me with its remaining eye, roiling with hate. 

I forced my way to my feet, fighting through the pain, grabbing a health potion from my inventory and chugging it—and finding it tasted suspiciously similar to cough medicine—while I took several staggering steps back, looking everywhere for my crossbow. 

No dice. 

My bleeding was slowing down but not stopping. The entire left side of my body was numb from either trauma or blood loss. 

I pulled the <Blade of Woe> from my inventory. 

Eventually, the wolf dislodged Audrey with an explosive head shake, sending my summon flying into the snow.

Why are you so angry at me?

Her litter of pups froze in the frost. Why? She’s a winter wolf, you’d think they’d know how to care for their young in a storm, only…

The dungeon put her in the elevator when I first came here.

I gave her an insane smile. Then used <Suggestion.> I was still met by the same teeth-rattling resistance from the first time, but the image cut through like a superheated blade. It was the image of three wolf pups, alive and shivering in the cold. 

The Flowerfangs were idiots compared to this thing, and they could understand spoken speech. 

“How long did they wait for you, I wonder, before the cold took them.” My tone was cruel, mocking. 

The reaction was immediate. With a heart-broken howl, the wolf flung itself straight at me, gracelessly, it’s mouth open, waiting to snap. <Awareness> made dodging the clumsy movement child’s play. I rolled forward, feeling a rush of air pass over me. I struck upwards blindly, my dagger cutting deep into its stomach. It landed in a heap, still pushing itself up, but slower than before.

“If only I could have gotten here sooner,” I cocked my head in mock sympathy.

It threw itself at me again. This time, I was ready, and leapt on top of the wolf when it landed prone, one arm looping around its neck and holding on tight for leverage. <Blade of Woe’s> effect lit the wolf’s organs up. I drove my knife into it, over and over again, aiming for its massive lungs.

It rolled over, trying to flatten me. If there was less snow to serve as cushion, it might have worked, but as it was, all the motion succeeded in doing was breaking a few of my ribs and tightening my grip. Somehow, I managed to hold on to my knife, and drove it down twice more. 

But it wasn’t working. The wolf had regained enough awareness to realize she was in a bind, and began to run towards the trees, likely intending to scrape me off. 

Not wanting to risk it, but out of ideas, I tried <Suggestion> again, and sent her another image. A lone wolf pup, the one in the middle, most likely to survive, letting out a sad little howl. 

The wolf’s sprint slowed to a stop, and she turned her head to look. 

I dropped and subconsciously spun, channeling the movement of the unsparing fang, and shoved the dagger directly into her heart. 

The albino wolf stared down at me, her muzzle slack, and then collapsed to the side, sending up a spray of snow. 

All at once, the last vestiges of adrenaline and fight went out of me. I collapsed against her blood-soaked chest. Shallow breaths moved me slowly in a rocking motion. Slowly, a paw extended out, reaching out towards the fallen pups. A low whine emitted from her throat. 

Have the self-control to stop when the time is over.

Through the haze of pain, I considered everything I knew about Suggestion. It could transmit images and directions, though it generally couldn’t make a person do anything they didn’t want. But what if I sent an image the target wanted to believe more than anything? Would they still believe it, even if they knew that, logically, it couldn’t be true? 

Unsure of how to do what I intended, I reached out one more time with <Suggestion.> Normally, I had a limited window to do anything with it before the connection tightened, and then closed. Now it was wide-open, resistance lessened from the wolf’s weakened state. 

The wolf emerged from the elevator, panicked, and found her pups huddled together in the blizzard. They were shivering and whining but still alive. She picked them up, one by one, transporting them to the shelter of a cave. Then, she warmed them with her body and fell asleep slowly, feeling the asymmetrical beats of three tiny hearts.

I coughed blood again, and paused to drink another health potion. But then I noticed that the wolf’s whining had ceased, and I paused to watch her scarlet eye slowly close.

“You saved them all. Rest, now.” 

The blizzard was picking up steam. Thorns prickled me everywhere as Audrey slithered back in my shirt. “Coo-oo-oold.” 

“Me too.” 

I wasn’t certain how much time I had. My plan was to get down to the lobby to warm up, keep chugging health potions, then gather whatever I could find.

The notifications pinged as I struggled to my feet. 

<Arctic Wolf, Matriarch, Defeated>

<Adaptive Dungeon, Fourth Floor has been cleared.>

<XP Reward: M>

<Congratulations! You are the first User to clear this floor of the Adaptive Dungeon>

<You are currently ranked 1st on the Leaderboard!>

<System error. Username not found. Placeholder will be used.>

<User: ???, Class: ???, LVL: ??? >

<Bonus Reward: +2 to Toughness>

I fell to my knees, my skin drawing tighter around me as if my flesh was trying to force its way out. 

“Didn’t miss that,” I said through gritted teeth. 

<Level Up: Ordinator has reached Level 7.>

<Key Conditions Met: A new Title has been unlocked.>

My eyebrow raised. That was my first title since the initial two. But before I could pull it up to inspect what I unlocked, I noticed a strange glow behind me, coming from the direction of the Arctic Wolf. 

Is that a monster core? 

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