The Dungeon Child

I am presently sitting cross-legged on some spongy mats, a colorful tin box with hinges open in front of me.

My midday meal consists of a peanut-based gooey spread, not unlike a brown slime, and some kind of a fruity mishmash of what I assume to be grapes, placed between two slices of gently seared bread. A small bag crafted from an unusual type of transparent material holds some heavily oil-infused pieces of fried potatoes, and the long, sealed tube next to it contains an artificially colored dairy-based... butter? Milk? Somewhere between the two.

I've already taken a bite of the brown slime/grape mash/bread combination and found it satisfactory. Truly the Mother's genius cannot be overstated. Fumbling gracefully for a moment, I dip my hand into the transparent bag and remove a few of the potatoes, inspecting them before I eat them. My eyes widen in surprise. The salt dusted on their surface makes them quite delicious.

My group is having a short break from the tedious pointlessness of school, seated in a rough circle on a variety of differently colored squares, each one made from the same foamy material. Most of them are loudly discussing what sort of 'candy' they like the most, whatever that is. I've only bothered to remember two of their names - Charlie, of course, and a much... larger child whose name is Buck.

From what I can tell of Buck, he wants what I have. It doesn't matter if he already has the exact same thing I have, he wants the one I have. Whether it be a tin box, a plastic chair, etc, he wants my version of it. I'm not sure why - it won't help him get any more stuffing between his ears. I can only assume it's because he wants to be more like me, which I suppose could be accepted as flattery? Possibly?

Humans truly make no sense sometimes.

Charlie practically falls over laughing at something or another that one of them does, and I can't help but be curious. Whatever Charlie finds interesting, inevitably, must have something of innate intent behind it.

To my immediate confusion, all of the children are currently sitting around a small decorated box, a small stack of white sticks protruding from it. They look rather similar to the one that the teachers use to scribble on their boards, but my associates are sticking these sticks into their mouths.

Buck, curling his lip, places one of the sticks just on the edge of his mouth so that it juts out, then takes a massive breath. The assorted children immediately crack into peals of laughter, leaving me immensely baffled. What exactly about this is funny?

Charlie, chuckling, hands me one of the sticks. "Argus! You should do it too!"

I finger the stick, rolling it around my hand. Looking up into her face, I ask cautiously, "What is it?"

She smiles cherubically. "It's a candy stick! Do the thing!"

Blinking, I stare down at it. This is candy? It's so... unassuming. What am I even supposed to do with it that's so hilarious?

A sudden burst of laughter catches my attention. Buck had seized two of the sticks and was shoving them up his nose, seeing how far they would go. I wouldn't recommend it. His brain is up there somewhere and he could potentially damage it.

Grinning, he starts scrunching his nose to make the sticks waggle back and forth, and the children start laughing raucously.

Never mind. Whatever's up there, it's already too damaged to be injured by these little sticks.

Shaking my head, I return my attention to the stick in my hand, then cautiously put it in my mouth.

...

Oh dear Ecstacy, thy name is candy.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Once the Mother and I return home in the vehicle known as a 'minivan', I jump out and rush to my room, eyes wide. I can hear my core thumping a little louder and a little faster than usual, for some reason, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters, not even the fact I ate seven of the glorious, magnificent candy sticks.

The moment I enter my room, I seize a piece of paper and began sketching out a quick diagram of the candy's makeup, careful not to miss any details. Of course, once I'd eaten one or two of the ambrosia-laced rods of joy, I'd memorized its composition in excruciating precision, but one can't be too safe. "Thesis!" I call, "You must come down here. I have something for you to try!"

Finishing my rapid drawing, I wait for her to arrive patiently. When she doesn't, I look up to the ceiling. "Thesis?"

Hm. The ceiling is remarkably web-free.

Ambling downstairs, I check the tavern area, the recreational room with all my old toys (ugh), and even the schoolroom. Who thought of bringing school home? Regardless, I can't find the spider anywhere.

Frowning, I walk into Pop's room. As usual, he's seated in his cushy, peeling brown chair, staring at the ever-changing magic mirror in front of him. Unlike the usual, he looks... guilty, I suppose, when I walk in. Fixing my gaze on him, I ask, "Pop, have you seen Thesis around?"

He flinches in his seat, his eyes sliding away from the screen and from me. "Who?"

I narrow my eyes. "Thesis. My spider. Do you know where she is?"

Snorting, he rubs a hand across his nose and mumbles something I can't quite make out, and my instincts spike. My old dungeon instincts, not the human ones.

Approaching him slowly, I place a hand on the armrest of his chair and say levelly, "Pop, where is my spider."

Rolling his eyes abruptly, he juts his chin forward stubbornly and tells me, "Got rid of it, all right? The thing was spookin' me and I didn't like it, so I pitched it in the trash."

My ears are ringing. Why are my thoughts so slow? A moment ago they were speeding faster than I could process them, but now...

I harden my gaze. "Where is the trash?"

He sniffles irritably. "Dunno. Dump, I guess. Trashmen came by today. Made sure they picked it up."

I breathe in deeply, then exhale harder. Closing my eyes, I repeat the process, calming myself down.

I cannot kill him. I must not kill him. My cover would be blown, the Mother would be horrified, Charlie would never speak to me again. I cannot kill him.

I open my eyes. "You threw away my spider."

His eyes meet mine and roll away as if they're greased. "T's my house. I can do what I want. It's my house."

The Mother enters, and whatever's on my face, it worries her. Putting down her loaded bags of unprepared food, she paces over, putting her hands on my face. There's liquid on my cheeks. When did that happen? "Jason, are you all right?"

Pop interjects, "'Course he's all right. 'E wouldn't be a man if he couldn't take a hit."

She glares at him, then redirects her attention to my downcast expression. "Jason? What's he talking about?"

Staring at the ground, I mutter, "He threw away Thesis."

Her eyes light up with fire. Not real fire, but it burns regardless. "Thank you for telling me, honey. Can you go up to your room? Mommy and Daddy need to have a little talk."

I'm familiar with these little talks. They involve a lot of yelling while I'm in a room where they think I can't hear. I nod regardless. "Yes, Mother."

Trudging up to my room, I hear the Mother's voice erupt like a volcano trap on my deepest floor. I don't care.

Flopping on the floor, I lie on my back, staring at the clean ceiling fan and the notable lack of ever-so-slightly glowing webs. The lack of an acrobatic spider I'd barely had for a week.

I rub the liquid away from my eyes and sit up. There is no time to worry about misplaced spiders. I have to regain my defenses, make them stronger. My room will not be breached twice. My valuables will not be stolen twice. I'm going to have to find more spiders, perhaps some beetles.

I don't think-

I'm not going to-

...

No more names.