Chương 116: CDM 2, Chapter 52: Background Check

I met Enforcer Chapman and Enforcer McDouglas in the RAID conference room. He wore an off-white polo today. I was still technically on leave, but I had been called in for additional debriefings of my D-gate experience. Chapman and McDouglas wanted to see me before that started.

"How you feeling?" McDouglas asked as I sat.

"Little sore, but fine."

"Maybe take a break from yanking on trouble's braids for at least a few days. Just a suggestion."

"I'll see what I can do."

"Enforcer Gray," Chapman began.

"We wanted the chance to prepare you for the day ahead. While you're not in trouble, you are about to be under a microscope."

"Okay…"

"In the last two weeks, 5 gates in North America have been recorded as having low-ranked mana readings but had upper-ranked encounters inside. Your experience was number 5. The European Union has seen 2, South America 4, and the African Federation of Independent Nations has seen 6. If Stage 2 is real and this is the sign of a new norm, we're not prepared. Reading the ranks of gates is the foundation of the whole crawler system.

If we can't evaluate gates reliably from the outside, protecting people from what's inside gets a lot harder." I nodded.

"These people you're going to talk to don't care about you personally," McDouglas added.

"All they care about is understanding what's changing and how we might predict it. They're going to drill into you on a range of things, and it will feel invasive, but they're going to offer you one of these before you start." He pushed a piece of paper for me.

"Immunity from prosecution? That sounds pretty serious."

"It is serious, but this is a legitimate government document, not a ploy or a trap. This acknowledges that you have been cleared of wrongdoing and that anything you share in the interview to follow cannot be used against you in any way." Chapman tapped on the paper.

"You can trust this. After your experience at the hospital, I thought you might be skeptical, so that's why we asked you here."

"When this is done, do I go back to work?" Chapman and McDouglas both shook their heads.

"Why not?"

"You're still not cleared," Chapman explained.

"By default, you get two weeks off if you were involved in any incident with a fatality. You'll have to speak with a CDM psychologist like you did after your nose was broken before you can officially return." McDouglas put his elbows on the table and leaned forward.

"Do you have any theories about what made this gate different? You've seen an above-average number of variant dungeons as well. Crawl for crawl, you seem more likely to end up in a worse dungeon than anyone else."

"That data seems pretty limited," I said.

"I haven't done that many crawls."

"It could be probability," McDouglas conceded.

"They're going to ask the same question."

"As if my presence could change how hard a gate is? It's not like I'm picking what gates I run."

"Can you think of anything that would make you unique from the other crawlers?"

"God hates me, maybe? I don't know." Chapman frowned, and McDouglas laughed.

"He's looking for anything to refute the idea of Stage 2 as an explanation," Chapman explained.

"Those are the kinds of questions you're going to get when you go downstairs in 5 minutes."

"Last thing," McDouglas said.

"The report I read said your party survived by tricking sea monsters to drown the ogres, that you hooked them and used dead ogre pieces for bait. Is all that true?"

"Yes."

"Ha! The quartermaster's report also said you burned your bowstring from drawing so fast."

"I didn't know that." Chapman interrupted.

"You really should get downstairs, Enforcer Gray."

"Yes, ma'am." Chapman and McDouglas were right to warn me. I spent 6 hours in a room with a rotating cast of CDM investigators, none of whom I had met or seen around the office. I got the impression they had flown in specifically for this interview. They were nicer than the investigators in the hospital, but they were invasive. We talked about everything from my sex life to the regularity of my bowel movements.

We touched briefly on my side hobby of hunting wild monsters, but the questions didn't go as far as to reveal that I was a Dungeon Diva. They took a note that I continued hunting wild monsters after my part-time EPA gig and moved on. At first, I was offended that I was being subjected to this scrutiny, but as the interview wore on, I realized how truly desperate they were. They asked me about everything because they had nothing. Of the 5 gate anomalies in North America, mine was the only one that didn't wipe.

D-leveled crawlers against B-ranked monsters? That wasn't even a contest. Of the gate anomalies recorded in South America and Europe, all but one wiped. The inevitability that frightened my interviewers–and me, to be honest–was the prospect of a D gate surging by the simple virtue of being underestimated. A D party could go in, wipe, and then a secondary guild party or a CDM party like mine would get sent in to investigate. If the encounters were B when they expected D, they were likely to wipe as well.

We might not be able to mobilize qualified crawlers before a surge, at which point that D gate belched out monsters like the coastal ogres. An even worse scenario was the gate getting overlooked completely, like that sinkhole gate in Florida, at which point ogres pour into a city seemingly out of nowhere. By the time we finished, it was dark outside. I turned on my phone after hours of not being allowed to use it. Nathan had texted me:"man i know you don't need this right now but your dad is at the apartment."

"do you want me to call the cops?"

"No. I'm on my way home now. Is anyone with him?" If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

"didn't seem like it."

"Does Beth know?"

"nope. not unless he tried to speak with her first."

"Alright. Sorry about this. I'll be there in a minute."

"bro i'm good. me and lil dorion are watching a documentary about the evolution of high fashion design."

"Huh?"

"idk it was his turn to pick so i rolled with it." I found a parking spot and walked two blocks to my apartment. Six months ago, dread and fear would have filled every step of that journey, but that night all I felt was tired reluctance. I didn't want to speak with my father, but I also didn't care all that much that I had to. I wasn't so starved for love that his coldness could drive me to question my worth as a person. I didn't respect him enough for his judgment to hurt me. Not anymore.

I didn't have doubts about about my faith–or lack there of–that he could twist, either. If he wanted to be the monster in my life again, he would be disappointed. The monsters I feared now were far bigger and far more dangerous than he could ever be. When I was a kid, he was a colossus, but now he was a tired, old man from a life I didn't care to remember. He waited on the bottom step for me in faded jeans and worn work boots. Raising his hands, he said, "I'm not here to make trouble.

I wanted to talk to my son before I left. That's all."

"You can't do this to Beth."

"I don't plan to. This is a man's business. I promise. I'll never ask anything of you ever again."

"There's a Waffle House down the street," I replied. A few minutes later, we sat against the window with cups of tea between us. He looked even older beneath the bright restaurant lights. His wrinkles were deeper. His skin paler. His eyes more dim.

"How's your career with the CDM? Climbing the ladder?"

"It's been tough, but I'm making progress."

"I imagine the S gate kept you pretty busy." I nodded.

"Is that what you were doing today? Managing gates? Or do they have you doing something in the office?"

"Actually, I spent the day being interviewed about a gate I ran. One person died, and the rest of us came close." My dad shook his head.

"Do you feel responsible?"

"No. Ogres killed him. Not me. What did you want to talk about?"

"Packing up our life for New Eden got me thinking about fatherhood and about what I felt like as a son to my own father. He was hard on me, I was better for it, so I was hard on you. I know now that you weren't that kind of son. I pushed you too hard, and I broke something in you."

"Pushed? That's how you would describe it?"

"Yes," he answered.

"I wouldn't.

'Pushed' makes it sound like you wanted me to achieve something. All I ever felt was fear. My life was about doing whatever possible to not set you or mom off. That was my only goal. Every day."

"What you call fear, I call respect."

"Sure. Call it whatever you want."

"You'll understand better when you have kids of your own."

"I'm not doing that," I said.

"I'm terrified that I'll turn into you." He looked at me with mild disappointment.

"I knew you didn't think much of me, but I didn't think it was this little."

"Mostly, I try not to think about you at all."

"Now you're just being petty."

"Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?" I asked. Accepting a top-off on his tea, my father shook a packet of sugar, poured it into his mug, and stirred with a spoon.

"Even if you don't believe in it, I hope you can imagine how hard it would be for a father to know his children were going to hell."

"I'm not going to hell."

"The Bible is crystal clear about how that works," he replied.

"If Jesus isn't in your heart, an eternity of suffering in hell is what you'll get."

"I'm not going to hell because it's not real."

"I don't understand how you could ever believe that. Demons invade our world every day, coming from a place we can't access or explain, and you think heaven and hell are far-fetched? If they're coming into our world, it's ignorant to believe that connection is only one way."

"We've gone in this circle before," I said.

"We don't need to repeat it."

"But you can imagine my pain, right? You're my blood. It's my job to protect you. Can't you accept him into your heart for the sake of your parents? What does it hurt? If you're right, then it doesn't matter. If I'm right, then you get to join us in heaven."

"I don't think an all-knowing, all-powerful god would fall for a just-in-case believer."

"When did you become so hateful?" he asked.

"I don't know," I admitted.

"I wish I wasn't."

"What do you have to be angry about?"

"Are you serious?"

"I am." I took a drink of tea to collect myself. It had gone cold.

"I'm angry because I fell for it. I fully believed in it, all of it. When Mrs. Weiss told us in kindergarten what hell was like, I spent recess that day begging for Jesus to enter my heart. The faith of a mustard seed can move mountains. Remember that? They told us that was literal, and if it was, I would have moved them all because I had no doubt in my mind that God was real and that scripture was his literal word.

"I bought into the values too. Love your neighbor as yourself. Be charitable because the rich won't get into heaven. Help the poor and the sick. I still believe that shit."

"If you still believe that, why did you run?"

"The church doesn't actually do any of that," I explained.

"We can't give the homeless housing because handouts don't really help anyone. They need to learn the value of hard work. That's also why we can't end hunger or fix schools. If the poor get something for free instead of working for it, they're just going to do drugs and screw. We can't support universal healthcare because it's not fair to expect doctors to work for free–which isn't how that would work to begin with–and if they do, then the care for all of us would suffer.

"You know that the church lobbied to vote down any program that would guarantee levels for everyone? Capitalism was the Lord's way, so that had to be earned like everything else, except for when the church needs it. Proper Christians deserve to be the exceptions so they can level." My father sighed.

"You're right about going circles. I've tried to explain all of this to you before, but you've never wanted to listen."

"You're the one who won't hear me. I'm telling you that I wish the church did what Jesus said to do."

"So you're some perfect picture of morality? What are you doing to help the poor and heal the sick, huh? If those values are so important to you, you must be practicing what you preach."

"I'm not," I admitted immediately.

"And that makes me ill, so I feel guilty every time I pay my rent or buy myself food. I'm being selfish. Other people have so much less. And I'm still looking out for myself instead of the less fortunate. Fuck dad. I spent two weeks on a billionaire's yacht recently. He could solve world hunger for what to him is a rounding error in his expenses, and I feel guilty because I splurged and bought name-brand potato chips? I don't get to enjoy my life because I care about other people. Every day is guilt, guilt, guilt."

"You can't blame the church for that."

"The church taught me to be this person and then made me feel crazy for questioning why so little of what I read in the Bible was put into practice."

"You never said if you could imagine how I felt," he said.

"Can you not imagine the pain a parent would feel knowing their children will suffer?"

"In heaven, there's no sadness, right?"

"That's true, but that-""Then you won't remember us."

"Of course I will."

"But remembering us would make you sad."

"I'm not getting sucked into one of your debates. All you do is twist things."

"I'm just saying that you won't suffer forever. Have you said what you needed to say?" My father shook his head.

"I hoped this would go differently, but since it didn't, I wanted to give you your freedom."

"I don't understand."

"You're not my son anymore. I don't claim you as one of mine. You don't have to worry about your parents bothering you again because you don't have any. That's what you've wanted out of this, right?" I rubbed my eyes.

"Yeah, dad. Sure. That's exactly what I wanted."