Awakening: Prodigy

05: A Tight-knit Group

POV Seth

Eight years later.

"We're mostly a tight-knit group," Seth said to doctor Margaret Yan, his therapist, when asked about his relationship to his squad-mates. "I keep my players so busy that they're too exhausted for the infighting and politics."

Seth sat across from an attractive, not-quite middle-aged woman. An Oriental jade comb impaled her thick locks, binding her immaculate look in place. Much like the hardcover books imprisoned behind glass in her bookcase, the comb was likely a generational heirloom.

He might have fallen for her soft-spoken statements and her refined poise if he hadn't been listening to those same statements. He had noticed the way she twisted his words, egging him onto accepting her version of his experience. His trauma. Her narrative.

He might have indulged in the way she shifted her long smooth legs under her seat, enjoying the way the slit along her modest skirt hinted at her hips. Instead, he was annoyed by her deception, aware of the verbal chess match that he needed to play to get his nightly dose of REM inhibitors. Only two sessions in she had threatened, granted gently, that she could remove his meds, deeming them an unnecessary prescription.

She was a therapist, not a medical doctor. He had made the mistake of pointing out that subtle but important fact, to which she smiled her coy little smile. She claimed that she suspected they were potentially causing a hormonal imbalance, which may be the source of his delusions. At that point, he understood her role in his therapy.

Her job was not to overcome his trauma, but to undermine his narrative and convince him he had experienced something else entirely. There was nothing sinister in the games, it was just a psychological manifestation of his stress. It was possible, but there was more to his experience in the Championship game than just paranoia and stress induced hallucinations.

He hadn't slept last night because he had failed to comply with her version of events. As exhausted as he was, he was determined to win at her game. She didn't ask about his rest. She smiled when she saw him, no doubt noting the effects of her subtle torture.

His prize, a single white pill five millimeters in diameter, sat between them on a small tray with a tall glass of water. It was apparent to him that she was using his medication as bait, a reward for compliance with her narrative. For all he knew, the little pill between them wasn't the REM inhibitor, but some other devious concoction.

He'd survive. Maybe she was right, and he needed to adjust. It was unlikely that the military was going to supply him with REM inhibitors throughout his tour.

Seth considered thanking her for disregarding his human need for sleep. He'd begin conditioning himself tonight. He'd adapt, and she'd lose her power over him.

A large abstract painting hung behind the therapist's desk, reminding him of the chaos of the Killing Fields. Large spatters of red intermingled with the legions of yellow and purple specks which in his mind represented soldiers, all dying to the swathes of hostile black that dominated two-thirds of the painting. The spotlight above it, lit for the first time since he had started these terrible sessions, drew attention to the title placard beneath it: 'Incursion'.

On either side of the painting hung a column of awards. Her diplomas and certifications were all neatly lined up beneath the painting, set in a row atop the low cabinet that bridged both imposing bookcases.

He caught her smile, noting that she had ensnared his attention. Whether she had intended for the painting to remind him of his reason for attending the Council's Academy, he couldn't say. He knew that nothing in this room was by accident, including illuminating the atrocious artwork.