MM - Chapter 263 - NOTES ON A PAGE

The air inside the spartan office was just the way Raine liked it—uncomfortably chilled by an overzealous climate system. Morty’s drone hovered silently over his shoulder, its single red optical sensor a stark contrast to the lower-floor’s muted gray tones. 

They had nine interviews on the books after the few cancellations. It was no surprise Morty found so few psychologists willing to come in, despite the prestige of meeting Carter city’s champion. Mental health was a declining field, its practitioners increasingly relegated to servicing the fragile egos of wealthy spouses married to abusive martials. Their clientele was a niche demographic, and any psychiatrist with experience tended to operate within correspondingly narrow cognitive frameworks; whatever Raine KongRu wanted from them wasn’t the usual, which meant it was likely a waste of time.

In his previous life, the world had been slow to recognize the vital role psychiatrists would play as ZionLine’s popularity blossomed. Initial attempts to do the usual and use AI therapists had been a colossal failure. The machines, reliant on iterative logic, had no experiential reference for the visceral horrors of ZionLine. Their advice, consequently, was often catastrophically useless. Furthermore, the AI Accords strictly forbade them from holding jobs that humans desired, rendering any guidance they offered as professionally invalid—little better than talking to a friend. 

Most people, seeking to save credits, still opted to confide in an AI companion, a poor substitute for genuine help. Eventually, a visionary psychiatrist had identified the overwhelming need and created the OWDIT system—Outer World Death Induced Trauma. That man, whose name Raine desperately wished he could recall, went on to own a third of the mental health facilities that subsequently spawned across the globe. Raine had no intention of settling for a slice of that pie. He wanted the whole damn pie, and the first step toward that conquest began today, in this sterile office.

While they waited, Morty filled him in on the day to day operations within Belehorn Tower. “Has there been any trouble with the Coalition members?” Raine laced his fingers in his lap, leaning back in the medical chair’s excessive cushions. “I know they like to throw their weight around, and the tension from everything our people are going through is bound to create friction.”

Morty’s synthesized voice emanated from the drone. “There have indeed been a few… minor altercations. Nothing beyond the scope of my projections, and certainly nothing that warrants an activation of containment protocols; a few injuries sustained by our slaves, err, members. As of yet, there have been no reports, nor evidence of injuries among the Coalition experts.”

“Makes sense.” A grim smile touched Raine’s lips. “They are true experts, products of martial families backed by a monster like Grandmaster Malakar. Our people have barely been inside ZionLine for a week. They have a long road ahead before they can stand up to that caliber of martials. Still, the friction is good; it’s precisely the motivation they need. It gives them a goalpost right in front of their faces—something to strive for, and eventually, to surpass.”

The office door slid open right on cue, admitting the first psychiatrist. She was prim and proper in a severe business suit, her posture ramrod straight. She strode in with an air of unshakeable confidence. Her eyes—top-shelf AR prosthetics—took in every detail. Raine and Morty’s drone were no exception to her scrutiny. The repeated zooming in and out of her prosthetics suggested she was the type that liked to think everything was a clue, another piece of some grand puzzle, one that no doubt required her considerable expertise to solve.

The woman extended a manicured hand across the desk, her voice smooth and lacking inflection. “Mr. KongRu, I am Dr. Rosalyn Hargrove. Your assistant mentioned a pressing need for therapeutic expertise.” Her gaze drifted to Raine’s neck, where the dark mottling of bruises extended beyond the collar of his suit. “Fear not, confidentiality has been, and will continue to be, the cornerstone of my success.”

Raine accepted the handshake, his grip firm and brief. He leaned back, ignoring the sharp twinge from his ribs. “This interview has nothing to do with my injuries. This is about something bigger, though I can’t go into the details.” He had personally worked with several OWDIT-certified therapists in the past and knew the principles well, though not the nuanced fundamentals that allowed them to treat experiences divergent from his own.

“Interesting. Do tell, Mr. KongRu. If preferable, I can refer to you as Champion KongRu, or Expert?”

“Mr. or Expert are fine. My first question is a scenario; I’m curious how you would approach it. Let’s say a friend of mine has suffered repeated deaths—horrific ones. The pain from each is so real that they have left deep, psychological marks. I am not talking about the simulated visuals of VRVods, but actual, visceral death.”

Dr. Hargrove’s prosthetics zoomed in and out again as her brow furrowed in a mask of polite concern. “Deaths, you say? That sounds profoundly distressing.” While speaking, she withdrew a small, leather-bound notepad. The rich scent of the leather filled the space between them, a calculated therapeutic tool. Dr. Hargrove was no fool to be led astray by Raine’s misdirection. She’d met far too many clients who had to be circumspect in their every word for fear of being recorded from afar. She knew how the game was played, and she could clearly see the suffering seated across from her, wrapped in an expensive suit. 

“Instead of discussing this friend, let us begin with your own experiences. How have these events, these deaths, impacted your sense of safety in your daily life?”

Raine’s focus sharpened, his tone hardening to match. “Again, this is not about me.”

“Oh yes. I am quite aware. Please bear with me as I come to understand at my own pace, Expert KongRu.” She finished with a thoughtful hum, scribbling a note on her pad.

Raine’s jaw clenched, but he powered through. “The most I can say is that these deaths are inflicted by monsters. Before killing their prey, they employ torments that would shatter anyone—being torn apart, dissolved in acid, crushed alive. The list is endless. Even after the body recovers, the mind carries the scars. Traditional therapy is inadequate because there is no framework for treating the deceased. Given that level of mental damage, how would you proceed with treatment?”

Dr. Hargrove jotted another brief note, her expression a careful construction of measured empathy. “I see. Such vivid descriptions suggest a heightened state of hypervigilance.” Her next words made Raine want to roll his eyes into the back of his skull. “Tell me, when these ‘deaths’ occur, how does that make you feel? Overwhelmed? Isolated, perhaps?”

“Last warning, Doctor.” Raine’s voice was low and flat. “I am not your patient. This interview is for a broader issue.”

It was painfully clear that Dr. Hargrove was a hammer, and to her, every problem was a nail. Astra Infernum did not need a hammer to beat away its failures, a scalpel to excise its weaknesses, or a brush to polish its grime. Astra Infernum needed a new tool, one that did not yet exist on Earth.

Sensing his rising frustration, she pivoted with the practiced smoothness of a seasoned professional. “Of course. This friend, or friends of yours, are they male or female?”

“Both,” Raine clipped out. “My organization, Astra Infernum, requires innovative protocols to address what we are calling phantom death trauma across all of its members. We need a wide-reaching, systemic solution, not personalized therapy. There aren’t enough psychologists in the city for that.”

She tilted her head, voice a soothing balm he did not want. “Well, you are correct that phantoms of pain, fear, and more can certainly stem from severe physical trauma. To answer your initial question, I would begin by exploring the individual subject's support network. As an example only, I might ask: How is your relationship with your mother? Has she been a source of comfort for you in recent times?”

Raine’s fingers began a quiet, rhythmic drumming on the armrest of his chair. A twitch started behind his left eye. “You know what. This isn’t working. Thank you for your time.”

Dr. Hargrove did not stand. Instead, she leaned forward marginally, her gaze steady and reassuring. “Family dynamics often underpin our responses to severe stress. And your father—was he present during these horrible deaths? Did his absence perhaps exacerbate the emotional void?”

A vein pulsed in Raine’s temple. He shifted in his seat, fighting the urge to stand up and personally escort her out. “We are done here, Dr. Hargrove. If you do not wish to see yourself out, I can have someone assist you.”

She offered a faint, knowing smile and finally stored her little journal. Standing, she moved toward the door but paused at the threshold, turning back for a parting shot designed to secure a portion of his fortune for herself. “These delusions of repeated demise sound like very formidable episodes of PTSD, likely caused by unresolved guilt. They will continue to manifest in ever-stronger episodes if we do not take immediate action to address the root issue. Even if it is not with me, I strongly urge you to seek guidance, Mr. KongRu.”

His dangerous glare was all the response she needed. The door clicked softly shut behind her; the silence she left behind felt louder than their conversation. The mismatch had been absurd, her professionalism an impenetrable wall against comprehension.

Raine sank deeper into his chair, rubbing his temples. “Wow. Like talking to a wall.” Inspiration struck, and his neck ratcheted around to the unusually quiet drone. “Or… an AI that’s gotten too full of himself. Morty,” Raine’s voice held an edge of warning. “You did make it clear they were here to interview for a larger project, and not to treat me, personally, right?”

Evil, mechanical laughter utterly lacking tone and inflection filled the room, causing Raine's scalp to slide back in discomfort. “And miss out on watching a pair of Neanderthals beat each other over the head with their oh-so-evolved communication skills? Never!” Morty’s voice was dripping with synthetic amusement. “You should have seen your face! Would you like to see your face? I recorded every detail… for science.”

“You are a right bastard to waste my time like this when I’m so busy, Morts. Just for that, I am not helping with your legs today. Happy?”

“Worth it.” The AI quipped without a moment’s hesitation.

Raine shook his head, nostrils flared. “Lucky you’re too cute to scrap. Send in the next one already.”

* * *

Thankfully, Morty’s prank had its limits. While the subsequent interviewees all failed to grasp the scope of Raine’s vision, or even a basic understanding of the complexities at hand, they at least took his time seriously. Of the seven who actually showed, two were selected. Neither was remotely qualified for his ultimate plans. Still, they were a start, at least capable of assisting the most severely traumatized guilders in getting back to the grind.

Damn, if only I could remember that psychologist’s name. Raine left the office with furrowed brows. Pierre… something? No, that doesn’t sound right. He was definitely French, I’m sure of that, at least. The name danced just at the edge of his memory, a frustrating ghost. Jean-Luc Picard? No, that’s not right either.

The annoyance of forgotten memory was an unfortunately familiar ache. There were so many advantages to his foreknowledge that he was completely missing out on, lost in the fog of, as Morty would put it, an inept biological design.

Raine returned to Mel’s room. On the way, he browsed the InfoStream, doing a little shopping for the girls; nothing extravagant, just a few small gifts to let them know he was thinking of them. He then forced his body to relieve itself and consume its fill of vital nutrients. His headset’s strap snapped tight under his chin as he fell up a tunnel of stars, eager for another long session inside.

Before they parted ways, Morty shared the ZionLine N-codes for Masters Nero, Orenna, and Pryce. The rust bucket had also confirmed that almost all of the Coalition members were currently logged in. 

He messaged Nero first. “I have a few minutes. Where are you right now?”

Nero’s call took long enough to arrive that Raine finished organizing the drops from the previous day. The man’s face appeared in the corner of his vision. Behind him was the familiar scenery of a naturally-formed basin, its walls lined with crystal deposits. “We’re in some place called Emberstone Hollow. Maybe twenty klicks south of Mirror Lake Town, on the far side of the forest. We found a Return Stone. I’ll send someone back to escort you.”

“Don’t bother.” Raine’s image was blacked out as usual, so Nero missed the shake of his head. “I know where it is. Be there in a few.”

“A few?” The master asked, confusion lightly coloring his expression. “Is there a town nearby? We could use a break, but can’t log out. We got caught in another monster rush.” Despite the severity, there wasn’t an ounce of concern in Nero’s demeanor.

Raine chuckled, amused by the peak master’s nonchalance. For trained elites like the Coalition, a monster rush was merely an inconvenience. “No. There aren’t any towns closer than twenty clicks.” He ended the call, impressed by how far they had progressed in such a short time. Additionally, offering to send someone away from the fight meant they likely hadn’t suffered a casualty yet. 

The initial plan to let the Coalition members suffer a bit before swooping in as their savior was clearly not going to work. 

Raine Lunged high into the air and deployed his Premium Skydrifter. He stuck to the green sky lanes, the wind propelling him only slightly faster than he could have run with the Fraction of Grace. He used the few moments of peace to organize some lower-level bribes from his inventory. The equipment might not win him any loyalty from the Coalition, but that was not his goal. He only needed them to owe him enough favors to cash in on Constantine’s freedom.