The Dungeon Child

I have figured out a game.

Once left alone, I decided to experiment in anti-stress techniques, both for myself and for Theory. While watching her pop up all over my room, legs snapping out to catch her insectoid prey, I came up with an idea.

It primarily consists of my sitting in front of a cluster of Theory’s trapdoors in my room and waiting for her to jump out of one, at which point I lunge forward and try to slap it shut before she can make it back. There’s no real threat, because thus far, my pathetic human reflexes have proven utterly ineffective against Theory’s impressive speed.

Eyes glued to the floor, I raise my hand, waiting carefully. It’s been several seconds since she last showed herself, and my hearing isn’t nearly good enough to pick up her rapid footsteps, but it doesn’t seem fair to use dungeon sense.

A circle of floor rattles, and my eyes flick to it as I raise my hand higher. To my surprise, it’d been a decoy, and a different patch is almost hurled from its hinges as Theory lunges out, taps my knee, then blurs back underneath her cover. My hand is a fraction of a second late and slams on the surface of the floor, making my palm sting.

It hurts a bit, but Theory is clearly having the time of her life. I might be minimally injuring myself, but I have every intention of making every second of time I spend with Theory a good one. I didn’t appreciate Thesis until she was gone. It won’t happen twice.

Four painful slaps later, the Mother opens the door. We’d practiced for this situation, however. Blasting out from underneath a trapdoor, Theory slams into my stomach, rights herself, and then flops on my lap. I start petting her, and the Mother finishes opening the door. She smiles at me and Theory, then raises her gaze to me. “All right, Jason. Do you need help getting ready?”

Relinquishing my hold on Theory, I frown. “I am ready.”

Looking my dusty clothes up and down, she raises an eyebrow. “I’m going to help you get ready, okay?”

Theory shoots under me bed and under one of her trapdoors as the Mother pulls me to a standing position, dusting me off. Squinting, I ask, “What do I do to get ready?”

She smiles at me, and a tinge of concern flits into my heart. “I have just the outfit in mind.”

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

I hate it.

Down in the front room, the Mother has stuffed me in a pair of itchy gray pants and a far itchier green sweater. The mana I’d be willing to expend in order to fix it can’t be easily calculated, but I can’t be sure the Mother won’t test it later for reduced itchiness, so I have to leave it as is. As for my ordinarily messy hair, the Mother has combed, straightened, and wet it down until it’s carefully styled in a manner she seems to like, and my small black shoes are entirely too tight, in my opinion.

“Aww, you’re so cute!”

I still hate it. A bit less, but I hate it regardless.

Behind the Mother, Theory has a trapdoor open and is appraising me. While I can’t understand spider and can’t read spider facial expressions very well, I have a feeling she’s laughing her head off. I’ll get revenge later on - I can figure out something appropriately embarrasing either on the way there or on the way back.

Sighing, I pull at the sweater, pleading, “Do I have to wear this?”

She waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, you look adorable. Besides, it’s only for tonight.”

The Mother herself is dressed in a relatively tight-fitting long green dress, with thin straps and no sleeves. Her hair is pulled up into a deliberately messy bun, and minimal amounts of makeup are expertly applied to her face. Objectively speaking, her beauty rivals that of any elven princess. Not that I have a bias or anything.

“You look like when I took you to prom.”

Pop, wearing a greasy white shirt and discolored brown shorts, is leaning against the side of his room’s doorway with a strange expression on his face. It’s noticeably softer than normal, and his ordinarily dead eyes have a slight spark of life in them as he takes in the Mother’s beauty.

She dramatically tosses a hand over her shoulder, and his face creaks in a tiny grin. As his eyes fall down to me, however, the grin fades, and a dangerous feeling hits me. Slowly, he brings his attention back up to the Mother, and the feeling disappears. “You look too good for just a dinner party.”

Chuckling, she pulls me into her hip and poses. “Ready for the red carpet?”

His smile returns. “Red carpet wouldn’t deserve you.”

I look back and forth between them, disgusted. What happened to the little talks? To the fact he got rid of Thesis? He might be softening up the Mother, but I refuse to be tricked by such things. I will have my vengeance, sooner or later.

Tugging on the Mother’s dress, I ask her solemnly, “I’m ready to go, right?”

Her hand almost goes to mess up my hair, but instead goes to my shoulder and pats it. “You certainly are. Is there anything you forgot?”

I nod, then rush upstairs before the sickening feeling building in my throat can exit. Taking a quick right turn into my bedroom, I creak the door open. In the dimming light from the evening sun, I see a trapdoor open on the floor. “Theory,” I tell her sternly, “stay out of the sight of Pop, all right? Absolutely no letting him see you. Don’t forget to eat the flies in your stash, they’re not going to stay good for very long - they’re going to taste best fresh.”

I see her dark face, eyes glittering in the shade, nod sharply before vanishing. I trust her to stay hidden. She’s remarkably intelligent, after all.

Returning downstairs, I see the Mother waiting at the door, pulling on a pair of high heels, and I scratch at my sweater once again. Pop’s face creases into a frown as I take her hand, and I squeeze it just to spite him.

Squeezing my hand back, the Mother tells Pop, “All right, we’ll be back in a few hours. It’s a bit of a drive. There’s some leftover spaghetti in the fridge if you want it - it should reheat really well in the microwave. See you soon!”

Leaning down to pick up the tray of ‘brownies’, an excellent smell rising from it, she misses the glare Pop gives me. I am unaffected, and stare him in the eye until he looks away.

Straightening, the Mother gets the subsequent wrinkles out of her dress, and smiles breathlessly at Pop. There’s an awkward moment where we stand there, waiting for someone to make the first move, and I provide that action. Pulling the door open, I gesture it, and the Mother’s smile is directed at me. “Thank you, Jason! You’re quite the little gentleman, aren’t you?”

As she leaves, I pause for a moment. Pop’s heavy glare is aimed at me. “You’re going to screw it up.”

I level my gaze at him. “You already did.”

I leave before he can respond.