Logging out of Elderpyre and waking up in his bed was often awkward. After spending so many hours in bed, Alex's body felt stiff and achy, with joints and muscles protesting against movement and a general sense of sluggishness pervading his limbs. Today was different, though. After all that grueling physical training, slipping into his well-rested real life body felt like Christmas in July.
Having logged out for the evening earlier than he usually did, Alex found himself having a bit of extra time in his hands. He did some stretching exercises and went out for a run around the courtyard, musing about how easier the light exercise came to him now.
The Happy Motel was empty as usual. Carpenter was in her office, busy with paperwork. In the cafeteria, there was only Beth - a forty-something guard Alex had only met a couple of times. She greeted him with a nod, then went back to reading her book. It was an old paperback copy of Cormack McCarthy’s Blood Meridian, of all things. Bob or Hank were nowhere to be seen.
Alex ate dinner alone, grabbed a couple of extra sandwiches and apples in a doggy bag, and headed back to his room. Soon enough, he found himself eager to get back in Elderpyre. He had a ton of notifications to go through. He also craved a beer, and he just so happened to know a place where he could have one while staring at stat screens. He put on the casque again, pressed the button on its side, and thought of his Shard.
“Hey there, Mort,” he said as he materialized in the old-timey speakeasy. “How’s it hanging?”
“Good evening, sir,” said the bartender, solemn as ever. “Can’t say I can complain. It’s good to have you here.”
“It’s good to be here. I can’t even begin to describe the day I had.”
Hunter climbed on a stool by the bar as Mort poured him a glass of water.
“Drink, sir?”
“A pint of lager, Mort, thank you.”
“Coming right up, sir.”
Mort got him his beer, and Hunter pulled up his notification feed. The blessing he had gained by communing with the Place of Power at the Sacred Training Grounds helped his Skills and Abilities grow at an accelerated rate, and the cascade of
His newly-gained Athletics Skill had already gotten to 4. His Evasion Skill sat at 8, and his Meditation at 5. He’d also gained a couple of ranks in Polearm Mastery, though not in Close Combat. As for his Abilities, pushing himself to the limit had gained him three ranks in Toughness, which now sat at 21. Good - that also meant a bonus to his overall Health too. That never hurt.
To get a better feel for the big picture of how his progression was going, he pulled up the Skills and Abilities section of his character sheet.
Skills:
Athletics: 4
Close Combat: 19
Evasion: 8
Meditation: 5
Occultism: 11
Polearm Mastery: 18:
Short Blade Mastery: 3
Survival: 23
Abilities:
Augmented Familiar: 19
Conjure Familiar: 24
Craft Spirit Charm: 10
Low-Light Vision: 24
Mystic’s Eye: 10
Toughness: 21
If this first day was evidence of the overall Ascension training itinerary, he could expect to see a huge increase to his physical-related Skills and Abilities over the next few months. Still, even the dopamine hit from seeing the numbers go up wasn’t enough to make him forget the simple fact that, compared to the other Aspirants, he kind of sucked.
Fitness and endurance were one thing. Despite having upgraded his Stamina to 130, he still couldn’t catch up with the rest of the group. If it hadn’t been for his Out of Pure Spite Trait triggering and boosting his Stamina Regeneration, he’d simply have given up. If he continued to push himself like that, though, getting a couple dozen ranks in Athletics would be a matter of days. A week, maybe. That was bound to improve things quite a bit in that perspective.
Then there was the whole sparring thing.
Hunter fell short of everyone else on that front, too. He found that baffling. Even as he pushed himself to keep running, wheezing and trying not to cough up a lung, he thought that fighting would be where he’d rise above the other Aspirants, prove to be better. He’d squared off against low-dwellers, giant spiders, owlbeasts. Back in the Halls of the Cor Ancestors, he’d managed to kill Cthulhu’s little cousin, for fuck’s sake. How could everyone still be better than him? He didn’t like to admit it, but that vexed him to no end.
“How was training, then, sir?” the bartender asked, cutting through Hunter's reverie and pulling him back to the present.
“Grueling. But you already know that, don’t you?”
“Indeed, sir. I just wished to remind you that I am always here to lend a sympathetic ear, should you feel the need to discuss anything.”
“I think it will take more than a sympathetic ear to help me suck less. Mort. But I appreciate it.”
“As you wish, sir,” Mort said, not pushing.
Then there was the other thing - the nosebleeds and migraines. He’d died in-game no fewer than three times, each more brutal than the last. That’s where the game’s verisimilitude had screwed him over. The agony, the pain, the horror felt too real. It had put a massive strain on his nervous system. Now everytime he strained himself a bit too much, he got migraines and nosebleeds both in-game and in the real world. The doctor had said that unless he stopped putting himself in these kinds of situations, simulated or not, he might be facing a very real risk of a stroke or a heart attack.
Hunter, being Hunter, had more or less brushed him off.
During one of the headache and nosebleed episodes, he’d figured out it wasn’t physical strain that wracked his nerves, but rather emotional distress. It hadn’t been the exhaustion of the training that had driven him over the edge, but the bitter realization of his lack of stamina and skill, paired with the resentment he still harbored towards Fawkes for putting him in an emotionally impossible situation.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“Mort?” Hunter said. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything, sir.”
“Are bartenders still the first line of advice and support for troubled late-night drinkers?”
“Is the Pope Catholic, sir?” the bartender cracked a joke - a rare occurrence, though his face remained perfectly straight. “How can I offer assistance?”
“I… I need to find a way to stop feeling bad about things.”
“Would you care to elaborate, sir?”
Hunter explained, and Mort listened thoughtfully.
“So I was thinking,” he concluded, “If I find a way to not get all hot and bothered, that would help with the whole nerves-going-haywire thing, right?”
“That does make sense, sir.”
“So that’s my question to you. How can I find ways to… I don’t know, care less? Roll with the punches? That kind of thing.”
“I see,” Mort nodded thoughtfully, his expression grave. “That is a challenging ask, sir.”
“That’s why I came to the world’s best bartender with it, Mort,” Hunter offered with a feeble smile. If Mort registered the compliment, he didn’t show it.
“I would strongly advise you to consult with a therapist or trained mental health counselor,” he went on. “State and local correctional facilities are often governed by their own regulations and standards, which can vary widely. But the Federal Bureau of Prisons mandates that federal prisons provide mental health services. According to BOP policy, institutions must offer mental health care, including counseling services.”
Hunter frowned, trying to process that.
“So, you’re telling me to ask Carpenter for a shrink? Yeah, fat chance. Have you seen how the place is run?”
Mort gave him the closest thing to a shrug his programming allowed him.
“Granted, the Happy Motel is a privately-owned, for-profit prison. Still, it would be worth your time to inquire about its counseling program.”
Hunter gave it some thought. He wasn’t opposed to the thought of seeking professional help. His highschool wrestling coach was an ex-marine, one of the toughest sons of bitches around. He was also a very vocal advocate for mental health. “Life’s like an endless series of wrestling matches,” he used to tell Alex and the other students in the wrestling club, “and therapists are like wrestling coaches. You still have to do the fighting yourself, sure, but only a fool would train without a coach.” Hunter had taken that to heart, though he never had the kind of extra money he’d need to get professional support.
“I’ll ask Carpenter, sure,” he told the bartender. “Isn’t there anything you could point me towards in the meantime?”
Mortimer frowned, as if considering what to say next.
“While I’m not a therapist myself, sir,” he finally said, solemn as ever, “there is a method that could be helpful. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, or CBT.”
Hunter raised an eyebrow. “CBT? What’s that?”
Mort cleared his throat and got into lecture mode.
“CBT is a form of psychological treatment that helps individuals understand the thoughts and feelings that influence their behaviors, sir. It’s based on the concept that our thoughts, feelings, and behaviors are interconnected, and that changing one can change the others.”
Cause and effect, then. That made a surprising amount of sense.
“How does that work?” Hunter asked, his curiosity piqued.
“The idea is to identify and challenge any negative thinking patterns and beliefs that are causing you distress,” Mort explained, his tone calm and patient. “By doing so, you can change the way you feel and behave. For instance, if you often find yourself thinking that you're not good enough, CBT would help you to challenge that thought and replace it with a more balanced, evidence-based perspective.”
“That sounds… useful,” Hunter nodded slowly, digesting the idea. “But how the hell am I supposed to do that? Where do I start?”
“A popular and proven way to start is by keeping a journal,” Mort suggested. “Write down any distressing thoughts you have, and then try to identify patterns in your thinking. Once you’ve identified these patterns, you can begin to challenge them. Ask yourself if these thoughts are really true, or if there’s evidence to suggest otherwise.”
“I see,” Hunter said. “And what if the thoughts are true?”
“Even if there’s some truth to your thoughts, it’s important to consider them in a balanced way. For example, if you’re worried about a specific event, you can try to think of all the possible outcomes, not just the worst-case scenario. This can help you to feel less overwhelmed and more in control.”
That gave Hunter a lot to think about. He finished his beer, then asked Mort for another. He tried to think about his current situation. What were the sources of his emotional distress?
That wasn’t a hard question to answer. Two came immediately in mind; one, Fawkes was acting weird and being distant, and two, he was the worst among the Aspirants by a considerable margin.
For the first one, he realized he’d already done most of the work. Fawkes was going through a rough patch, and it had nothing to do with him. She was grieving Reiner’s death. That wasn’t his fault. That wasn’t about him. All he could do was to be a good friend to her, give her the time and space to do her grieving, allow her to come to him when she was ready.
And if she found it hard to trust and rely on him because he was Transient, that wasn’t his fault either. She was struggling to come to terms with loss, and he… well, his presence was fleeting by nature. That wasn’t his fault, either. Again, all he could do was to be a good friend to her.
Worst case scenario, Fawkes would decide she wanted to be on her own, after all, and take off. Would that make him sad? Yes. Would he survive? Also yes.
And that was only the worst case scenario. Which was to say, hardly the most likely one.
As for the other thing, the fact that the other Aspirants left him in the dust…
“Would you mind helping me with this CBT thing a bit, Mort? As you said, I’m finding myself thinking I’m not good enough compared to the other Aspirants. Can you help me challenge that thought?”
“Certainly, sir,” the bartender said. “Your physical performance and skill with weapons is currently inferior to that of the other Aspirants. That’s not a thought. That’s a fact.”
“Gee, thanks, Mort.”
“Let me finish, sir, please. Feeling self-doubt or comparing oneself to others is a common thought. And yes, perhaps there have been moments where you've struggled or failed in certain tasks. It's natural to feel inadequate during those times. Now, let's consider the evidence that contradicts this thought. Think about your accomplishments, the skills you've developed, and the progress you've made since you began your journey in Elderpyre. You've survived numerous challenges, gained new abilities, and forged meaningful connections with others, like Fawkes. Is that not a fact, too?”
Hunter gave it some thought.
“It is,” he said finally. “No matter how you see it.”
“Exactly. It's also important to consider other perspectives. How might someone else view your achievements and efforts? For instance, Fawkes, despite her grief and stoic exterior, relies on you and has seen your capabilities firsthand. What might she say about your worth as an Aspirant?”
“She actually commented on that. She said she’d seen how well I can handle getting surrounded by low-dwellers, but not how, say, Yuma would.”
Hunter felt his chest swell. They weren’t rocket surgery, these realizations. They were things he already knew. Seeing them under that light, however… It was as if he already felt a bit lighter. Mort saw that too, and he continued the impromptu faux-therapy session.
“Now use that evidence to reframe your negative perspective into something more balanced and realistic,” he said. “Instead of thinking, ‘I'm not good enough compared to the other Aspirants,’ you might reframe it as, ‘I have strengths and weaknesses, just like everyone else. I've achieved a lot and have the potential to grow even more.’ Say it.”
“Uh… what?”
“Repeat after me, sir. ‘I have strengths and weaknesses, just like everyone else. I've achieved a lot and have the potential to grow even more.’”
Hunter felt a bit silly, but he did so anyway.
“I have strengths and weaknesses, just like everyone else. I've achieved a lot and have the potential to grow even more.”
It felt good to hear him say it out loud, he had to admit. A few hundred times more, and he might even believe it.
“Very well, sir,” Mort offered Hunter a slight smile. “Of course, some might say this is the self-reflection equivalent of holding hands around the fire and singing Kumbaya. That’s why I will present you with another perspective, one even more practical and grounded. Why did you become an Aspirant in the first place?”
“Ugh… To climb the ladder of Ascension?”
“No, sir,” Mort shook his head. “Why did you become an Aspirant?”
Hunter gave it some thought.
“To have an adventure,” he finally said. “And to spend more time with Fawkes.”
“...neither of which has anything to do with how well you measure against any of the other Aspirants. The tests you have agreed to prepare for are not contests, as far as you or I know. In fact, sir, I would go as far as to say that success itself is irrelevant. Even if you fail to ascend to the Iron Rung, worst case scenario, you will still have had your adventure and you will still have spent more time with Fawkes. Which, again, is the worst-case scenario, though far from the most likely one.”
Mort was right; Hunter had to concede that. It would be nice if he managed to prove himself and ascend to the Iron Rung. It would be nice to kick Yuma’s butt in a sparring match and wipe that arrogant look from his face. But at the end of the day, none of that was a must-have. At the end of the day, all he set out to do was have an adventure with his friend.
That was easy; that, he was already doing.
And even if, for some reason, something went wrong, well… He’d survive. He’d be alright. Disillusioned, maybe. Or sad. But definitely alright. He’d been through far worse, hadn’t he?
At the end of the day, to a Transient like himself, what was Yuma, or a low-dweller, or even It That Whispers compared to things like the unemployment rate, or the ever-increasing inflation?
Nothing.
“Thanks, Mort,” Hunter said, draining the last of his beer and preparing to log out. He had a lot to chew on. “For an accidental, informal counselor, you’re doing a bang-up job.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” Mortimer replied, ever solemn. “Anytime you need, I’ll be right here.”