The Dungeon Child

When the Mother enters to check on me, I have the core safely stored in one of Theory's tunnels. I can feel her nervously tapping it, somewhat unsure of what exactly it is. I don't blame her for being uncertain - I myself aren't completely certain that it really is a dungeon core. It's not as though I have the slightest practice in creating dungeon cores.

Even while the Mother checks me over, sticking a small glass rod in my mouth and making a sad noise as the red liquid inside rises, giving me a bag of ice wrapped in a towel to put on my forehead, I can't focus on her or even thank her. My perception is funneling and warping, twisting around uncontrollably. It's bad enough that I'm sick, it doesn't help that my vision is sickening to simply watch.

Once she leaves, I tiredly reach a hand down, and Theory helpfully scoots the core into my hand. Lifting it to my face, I squint at it, my physical eyes still itching and my emotions skewed. It still looks like a traditional dungeon core, a flawless sphere sucking mana in at a prodigious rate and infusing the entire house with it. If I think about it even casually, every square inch of the building makes itself aware to me, and I have to deliberately stop thinking about it to avoid getting an even worse headache.

My greatest concern at the moment is the weird split in mindsets. Putting my hand in front of my face, I wave it slightly and see a faint afterimage, the barest trail of an image. The problem is that I have no way of telling whether it's my physical eyes or the core that's producing the afterimage, or even if it's a side-effect of whatever malady it is that's inflicting my body.

Lying on my back feels a bit better, so I flop down and examine the core a bit closer. When I try to look inside it with mana, it's promptly sucked inside and redistributed, without any of my direction helping it along. It's an automatic action that has nothing to do with my conscious thought, one performed with stunning efficiency and speed. I can clearly sense the unconscious action of the core, which is somehow also me, performing the action. After some attempts at doing it for myself, I come to the realization that I'm utterly incapable of doing it half as well as the core-self.

On the other hand, my physical, human self is the only one capable of interacting with the world on my own, and more importantly, leaving the house. Aside from that, the core-self is incapable of speaking or communicating in any way, but can also produce objects with significantly greater speed and precision than my human body can.

It's frankly curious as to HOW IN ALL THE THRICE-BLASTED REALMS ANY OF THIS IS POSSIBLE. Sincerely!? Truly!? What exactly did I do that let this happen?

Calm down. All I have to do is calm down and think.

Except that's one of the blasted problems!

Half of me is both panicking and curious, alternating between gripping the sheets in absolute terror and gazing in mild awe at the streams of mana precisely reconfiguring themselves. The other half is perfectly level-headed, going over the measurements of the house, figuring out potential pocket dimensions, calculating the odds of performing the task again, and trying to discover a way to start improving the production rate of minions and/or necessary materials.

I both can't think straight and am thinking straighter than I have since I was a dungeon. I'm feeling worry, caution, fear, curiosity - a massive cocktail of emotion, and also nothing at all. A near-absolute void of clinical detachment, and perhaps the faintest tinge of disgust.

Putting the core down, I rest my head on my knees and sense the wood of the floor distort as it cradles the core in much the same way. Closing my eyes, I sigh... despondently. That's the word. The core, on the other hand, remains impassive in my thoughts, and I realize I may need some assistance figuring out what's going on.

Slowly standing, I amble downstairs and ask the Mother tiredly, "Can we go to Charlie's house?"

She looks up from the half-finished breakfast, mildly concerned. "I don't think you should go anywhere, honey. I could ask if Charlie wanted to come over, though."

I nod slowly, and she makes an 'aww' noise. "I'm sorry you're feeling under the weather. I'll call them right now. Do you just want to see Charlie, or is there anyone else you want to see?"

I almost reply with a negative response, and then think about it for a moment. "Actually," I start.

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

Charlie and Dillon arrive at our house soon enough, their Mom dropping them off in a minivan that looks quite a bit fancier than ours. The moment they enter the house, I feel a half-stab of irrational fury, a portion of me demanding that I send Theory to annihilate the intruders. Gritting my teeth on my bed, I cast the instinct away. Why is it that I only just now started feeling that old sensation?

Glaring at the core, I once again attempt to suck my mana back into myself, but everything I push into it gets absorbed. Shaking my head, I put it under my pillow, waiting for them to come upstairs.

As they approach my bedroom, the instinct rumbles in annoyance, and I once again squish it ruthlessly. It's hard to tell whether my human-self did the squashing, or if it was the core-self, but I'm both too tired and too sick to think about it coherently.

Opening the door, Charlie practically bounces in, and I sense Theory tense in anticipation. Oh, that's right - Charlie hasn't met Theory yet, if memory serves. With a simple mental command, I tell her to stay back, and she obeys immediately.

Right behind Charlie, Dillon walks in with a tentative swagger, presumably looking for traps. I unfortunately have not installed any yet, and my core-self promptly gets to work designing a few.

Squinting from the mental pressure of essentially having two minds and humorously redefining a certain uncommon phrase regarding indecision, I give my best smile. Charlie's smile drops instantly, and Dillon whistles lowly, closing the door. "Man. When your mom said you were sick, I didn't think you'd look this miserable."

Too tired to clarify the difference between his Mom and the Mother, I settle for glaring at him, responding, "I need help."

Charlie raises a hand, and I turn my gaze to her. Cheerily, she asks, "Can I have some magic?"

Before I can even tell her yes, the room infuses with mana and concentrates around her, filling her core with magic and effectively increasing her overall capacity as my core-self calculates the maximum possible potential of a human minion, which I once again have to dispel. It's the strangest split between being impressed at my newfound capabilities and trying to figure out the safest way to dispose of the core.

With a massive grin, she summons a gentle ball of flame and starts molding it like a chunk of clay. Dillon's jaw drops, but before he can start asking questions, I tell him, "I need your help with something."

Closing his mouth, he nods nervously, and I pull the core out from under my pillow. His eyes widen to the size of plates, and he leans in closer, asking, "Is that what I think it is?"

A particularly painful stab of headache strikes, and I wince in response. Rubbing at my temples, I say, "Yes, it's a dungeon core."

He reaches forward to touch it, but I yank it away. "It's a core that I've accidentally infused with... my soul, I believe."

I'm thankful to find that Charlie is too distracted with the rather impressive statue of herself that she's constructed from flame to notice what I just said, but Dillon's eyebrows jump. "You what? Why?"

Narrowing my eyes, I tell him through gritted teeth, "What part of 'accidental' did you miss?"

Rolling his eyes, he throws his hands wide. "Fine, then. What do you need my help with? And what do I get out of it?"

I squint at him. It's hard to think through the pain in my forehead, but I continue regardless. "If you help me figure out how to retract the part of my soul back into my form..."

I pause for a moment, considering my options. One, I could threaten him. I've already done it before and it wasn't very hard at the time, but Charlie is present, making it significantly more difficult. Two, I promise him that I won't ever hurt him, not unlike the similar vow I've made regarding the Mother and Charlie. Not especially viable, since it would give him reign to do whatever he wanted.

Of course, there is that dangerous third option.

Swallowing hard, I glare at him. "Help me with this, and I'll give you magic."

This is honestly a terrible idea.