The Dungeon Child

Thesis isn't doing what I want her to.

I stare at her, perturbed by her constant movements. Presently, she's building a web, a carefully executed and well-thought-out design consisting of concentric circles, dilating into a small point at which she rests. The web is securely located near the top of my blue-painted room, in a corner from which she can observe my present core room.

Despite her obvious diligence and impressive architectural skills, she is regardless not doing what I want her to.

"Thesis," I begin, pointing at my lap. I'm currently seated on my bed, cross-legged. "Please come here. I must speak with you."

With an excellent flip, she fires off a web at the rotating fan on my ceiling and swings down to land in my lap, looking up at me with her pretty black eyes. If spiders could smile lovingly at their masters, I'm certain Thesis would be doing so. I frown at her regardless.

"Why have you not created more spiders? Our defenses could certainly use the bulk. They're practically non-existent."

Thesis can only stare at me quietly, her head tilted slightly. I sigh in disappointment. What I wouldn't give for an extra spider to examine and dissect - her intelligence has been improved significantly, but my meager abilities only stretch so far without the System to guide me. Much as I hate to admit it, I completely relied upon the System to perform the heavier tasks such as buffing INT points.

Upon further consideration, perhaps reproduction in this curious and dauntingly confusing world is managed through some other method. Based on the minuscule amount of ambient mana I've detected in the air, it could be that creatures such as spiders and possibly even humans are incapable of generating the sufficient mana to create their offspring. Regardless of my musings, I know of someone who is more than capable of explaining the intricacies.

Wandering downstairs and being careful to employ the handrail as instructed, I head for the kitchen, where the Mother is busy preparing the food for tonight. I am unsure as to what methods she uses, as there is once again no System to direct her plans for sustenance.

"Mother? Can I ask you something?" Hah, take that! I used the word 'can' instead of 'may'! Bow before my pretense of unintelligence and gaze in unawares at my superior intellect!

"Jason, it's may I ask you something."

What!? But - but what of my pretense!? If you expect me to use such deliberate phrases such as 'may' in place of 'can', why did you not say so before? Now I appear a buffoon!

Oh, right.

"Mother, how are babies made?" I manage the question successfully. I don't trust my unfortunately disappointing tongue to appropriately form the consonants required to inquire about the greater intricacies of my curiosity, and as such, I must simplify.

She flinches most uncharacteristically, nearly spilling the long, stiff yellow rods out of the iron cauldron upon its sleek metal furnace. Turning to me with a slight flush flooding her cheeks, she asks in a mild stutter, "Wh-what?"

Hm. I thought that this blasted stutter was due to my body's meager age, or perhaps a misfortune due to my unorthodox origins. Apparently not.

"How are babies made?"

She sets the furnace to some unknown setting, then turns to me placing her hands on my shoulders. If it's intended to be comforting or perhaps placating, I am unaffected. "Honey, why would you ask that? Was Daddy talking about girls again? You should really ignore him when he brings that up, all right?"

I shake my head serenely. "I was curious. How are they made?" I dearly hope I don't have to ask a third time. Delivering my intentions with this mangled tongue is difficult enough without having to repeat myself. "Is it something I shouldn't know?"

She looks extraordinarily nervous, sweeping her stringy blond hair behind her left ear and refusing to look me in the eyes. What is it about this question? It should have a simple enough answer.

"Well, honey... when a man and a woman love each other very much-"

I cut her off dismissively. "Yes, yes, they get married. But how are the babies made?" I'm beginning to get extremely frustrated, to the point where I go so far as to interrupt the Mother whilst she's speaking. I make a mental note to reign in my words. It won't help anyone (specifically myself) if the flow of information is interrupted.

She flinches with an awkward smile, then continues. "That's very good, Jason. Where... where was I?"

I tilt my head accommodatingly. "At how babies are made." How many times must I repeat myself!?

Swallowing hard, she decides to once again use her sad attempt at looking away. Simply because you can't see me doesn't mean I'm not here. What kind of logic would that be? "Um. Honey... oh dear, the spaghetti's burning! Go upstairs and play with... what did you call her?"

I frown, my forehead creasing. "Thesis?"

She nods affably, turning to the cauldron. I can tell even from here that its temperature is at suitable limits, which can only mean one thing. Even the thought of it is enough to shake me to my pathetic excuse for a core, a red thumping thing inside my upper chest.

This 'spaghetti' has a much lower burning temperature than I thought. What other mysteries and inconsistencies exist in this mad universe!?