Book 3: Chapter 45 - The Myth of Narcissus

What are the pitfalls of practicing law in the apocalypse?

Well, that depends...

To whom?

Neither the police nor the average prosecutor seem bothered by the end of the world.

In fact, they seem to like the change.

Before—in the old world—there was a lot more red tape.

Now they can be as reckless as they want; they just have to clean up after themselves.

To citizens and defense attorneys, however?

Well...

They aren’t really pitfalls; they are chasms.

“Law” is even more of a lie now than it was before.

—Brandi Theodora Topia, Interview

The interrogation room was cold and emotionless. Three steel chairs, a folding table, and a door. It didn’t even have the mirrored window from the old movies. It was clean, at least. The floor was carpeted, and there was beige paint on the walls. That last detail was perhaps more of a power play than anything. A true cage would be lined with crystal, ensuring privacy and protecting against damage. A restaurant in the red district was more protected than this room. 

The lack of soundproofing was obvious as well. Every conversation, lumbering footstep, and closing door could be heard from inside. Many buildings covered the crystal insulation with something more aesthetic. Bright colors could quickly tire the eyes otherwise, and it was often more comfortable to present something like the old world. All of the noise made it clear. This room wasn't like that. Instead, it was simple drywall and wood. A design usually only found in the smaller settlements far from Prism City.

The messages behind that choice were clear and varied. First, it meant that a suspect’s privacy was no longer valuable. They weren't simply in custody—they were more vulnerable than they'd ever been before. And second, it communicated a total lack of concern. A prison had cells of thick, visible crystal so inmates wouldn't attempt to run. This interrogation room dared its inhabitants to try.

The cuffs suspects wore while in this room were threat enough. Cyan, and flooded with more clarity than entire buildings in some districts. Anyone at cyan or below would be cooked from the inside out if the cuffs were activated, and that barely took more than a breath. They were a compact and low-level variant on the violet chains. Rare tools designed to suppress any blue or violet who decided they were too powerful for society.

The cyan cuffs weren't quite so dangerous, and they were maybe a third the size. But they were effective all the same. The room didn't need to be secure. Because no one imprisoned inside would survive an escape attempt. Even more than that, such a mistake was actually encouraged. Activating the cuffs would be far easier than proving guilt in court. The police had designed this specifically for people like Koral Kiln. Arrogant monsters who might just be tempted enough to run. And when they did? Well. Their death was their own fault at that point.

It either helped to keep suspects entirely off guard, or it actually worked, and justice was served with far less red tape.

John Knight suppressed a sigh as he glanced wistfully at a beige wall. He couldn't show it, but he was annoyed. Neither tactic seemed to have any effect at all. Koral was openly unimpressed with the implicit threat, and she obviously regarded the entire room with mild disgust. 

John had been sitting across from her for some time. Maybe twenty minutes, flipping through files and looking as bored as he could. He'd hoped Koral would break and speak first if he gave her enough time. He needed her to slip up somehow, since he only had circumstantial evidence. He'd had a key witness, but Koral had somehow known. Lyle was supposedly investigating how the man had been killed, but John already knew who was responsible. The man who’d described this girl to a T had been murdered soon after. And the same night that Caleb Shepard—the girl's likely collaborator—had been questioned about her. It wasn't rocket science to connect those dots.

John should have arrested Koral as soon as he’d had her name. Caleb, too, if Lyle's theory was right. Then Demetri would still be alive. 

Instead, John was wasting his time in a tiny room with a teenager who refused to speak. She was much more likely to let something slip if she spoke first. He'd hoped she had some sort of excuse ready for him. Offering it up before any questions had been asked would have told a story all on its own. But Koral refused. The girl sat in silence and regarded him with contempt.

She didn't have a talent on record that would keep her calm under pressure, but John suspected she had found a way to misrepresent her calling in general. He didn't know how that would even work, but there was simply no way this girl was a Category Red. Of course, he knew she was a psychopath. That would have the same effect as any talent. 

Unfortunately, she'd also likely seen through his facade of disinterest. She did have a known talent for that. For diagnosing physical and emotional state, to a certain degree. In the right hands, that might’ve been something like a lie detection talent. And his resistance would protect him, since it was meant for medical purposes. 

This approach was a waste of time. If he couldn't count on her to react out of fear or worry, he needed a new approach. He'd arrested her quickly after Demetri's death, determined to prevent another similar incident. But he wouldn't be able to keep her based on the train records. Not even knowing she was a diagnosed psychopath. There was a serial killer in the room with him, and he needed to trick her, or she'd be allowed back on the streets. He hated his job sometimes. 

He realized there was only one approach that might work, whether she could tell he was lying or not. He would need to make her angry.

“You're pretty pathetic, you know that?” he finally asked. He put the file down and met Koral's sharp blue eyes. They sent a chill down his spine, confirming her guilt as clearly as any confession ever could. “Maybe the most pitiful child I've ever met.”

Koral didn't answer. She sat completely still, her cuffed hands folded on top of each other on the table. She was shorter than John, and her seat was a little shorter, too. It also had one bent leg, so it would wobble beneath her. Yet she remained steady, and she somehow managed to look down her nose at him. It was impressive, honestly. The way she was able to literally look up but maintain the demeanor of someone above him.

It pissed him off.

“Did you kill at Caleb Shepard’s orders, like an obedient child, or was it simply a total failure of self-control?” he tried.

Koral had the audacity to roll her eyes, and John’s blood started to boil. She would know it got under his skin, with that fucking talent of hers. That knowledge felt like needles under his fingernails. 

“Do you think it’s safe to refuse to answer my questions, Miss Kiln?” John tried, a quiet danger in his tone as he did. “Have you been watching too many movies? Reading too many books? Because the old world is dead. There is no lawyer coming to tell you what to say. No one cares about you. No one has any sympathy. All you inspire is disgust and loathing. Everyone can hear me speaking to you. And I don’t care. Because everyone in this station wants you dead. And if that’s what we have to resort to? Well. We’re tired of finding bodies, so I wouldn’t discount the possibility. The safest thing to do is to answer my questions, so I can throw you behind bars instead. Do you get it? Can you tell how angry I am? How much I hate you? I know your talent helps with that, right? Does it seem like I am lying about this?”

Koral’s jaw tightened, and she curled her hands into fists. The contempt in her eyes only grew after the threat. John could see how she’d been responsible for so much blood. She really did think she was above everything.

“Let me try this again. Did you kill at Caleb Shepard’s orders, like an obedient child, or was it simply a total failure of self-control?” he repeated.

“Are you stupid?” Koral asked. The insult didn’t bother him in the slightest. Koral had finally responded. And once she’d done it once, John had won. He now knew she’d do it again.

“Is that what ‘sane’ looks like to you? Stupidity? I guess you had to invent a lot of little personal interpretations like that. Otherwise all your shortcomings are just that. You being a bit worse than everyone else. No. I’m not stupid. I just want an answer to my question,” he replied.

Koral rolled her eyes again. “Let me answer your question with one of my own,” Koral suggested. “Do you pull your cute little khakis down and take a shit in the middle of all public parks, or only the ones in the blue district? If you are going to ask a loaded question, you have to make some effort to hide it, you moron. I’m not going to confess to crimes I didn’t commit just because you only offered a multiple-choice quiz.”

John leaned back and crossed his arms. “Fair enough,” he agreed. “I suppose we need to start with facts we agree on and ask questions within those parameters, yes? So how about this? Is it true you believe you are superior to everyone you have killed?” He let the question hang for a moment, then smacked his forehead with one hand as if realizing something. “Oh, sorry. You haven’t confessed to that bit yet. I meant all of the Cruel Ivy Killer’s victims. But I guess we should just avoid confusion altogether and broaden the question. Is it true you think you are better than everyone you meet?”

Koral released a long-suffering sigh and offered John a flat look. “I think I’m better than you, at least. But if that’s a crime, I doubt you’ve ever met an innocent person in your life,” she intoned.

John smiled. “Sorry, I am failing to speak in clear enough terms for someone at your level, aren’t I?” he asked. “Maybe you can ask a few questions that should be easier to answer. For instance. Why would a harmless little schizo like you ride the train to the site of nearly every murder right before they happened?”

“First of all, don't fucking call me that. Second, I have used the train into town maybe three times since I started attending this school. Four, including this baseless arrest. I have no idea where you came up with that theory,” Koral answered. She was faking genuine confusion well. It only showed up in her eyes, as the rest of her face wore the same haughty expression she'd had all day. She was a terrifyingly good liar.

“Fascinating. You managed to miss the glowing door that records you every time you enter or exit. I see why you're so full of yourself. Well, if you won't answer that, how about this? Why do all witnesses to the killings describe you exactly? To include the one you kept in a storage unit for weeks? The composite sketch he made could easily be a photograph of you,” John pushed.

Koral blinked, pausing for a moment. Then she shook her head. “I don't know anything about that. Where did you get the school train records, anyway? Isn't Mr. Bouvier all over the news for withholding that information?” she asked.

“Didn't expect me to actually have evidence, huh? You're a bit dim, for someone with such inflated self-esteem,” John prodded.

“So you don't even know if they're real, then. Great,” Koral groaned.

“Are you really stupid enough to think you can sell this lie? All the evidence is fake? It wasn't really you? You have an evil twin? You really are pathetic,” John laughed. He knew she wouldn't answer the questions, but they were making her nervous. And if she was both angry and afraid, she would crack in no time at all.

She sighed. “Look. I know you think you can injure my pride enough to control me, but that mostly only works on people who are used to having their pride protected. You know. Petty people in positions of power. Men like you, you could say. To me, you are simply another dog trying to impress everyone with how many leaves you can bark at,” Koral dismissed. She really did seem bored with his attempts, but he didn’t believe her. He’d read her file. 

“So you admit you regularly regard other people as subhuman? I see why you have no trouble killing them. I’m glad we have one fact established,” John quipped.

“I made a metaphor about dogs, and your immediate response is that you can understand killing them? I wouldn’t kill a dog, either, asshole,” Koral countered. 

“But you wouldn’t feel all that guilty if you did, would you?” he pushed.

Koral leaned back in her chair and stared at him with weary eyes. “Can you just get to the point already?” she spat.

“That’s what I thought. You’re not really capable of shame, are you? That would require empathy, which you completely lack. Because you’re a certified psychopath. A narcissist who doesn’t care who they hurt so long as you feel good about yourself. Isn’t that right?” John accused.

Koral flexed and unflexed her fists a few times, regulating her breathing and closing her eyes before answering. John was winning. “I am not a ‘psychopath,’ no. I do have narcissistic personality disorder, yes. I struggle with empathy, yes. You know all of these things. You read my file in front of me. But no. That does not mean I am incapable of shame. In fact, it means I am especially susceptible to it. I hate failure. I am well aware of my diagnosis. I meet with my therapist five times a week because I understand narcissism and the effects it has on me. I work very hard not to let it control me. I can identify when it is the source of how I feel. I have been doing this for years, and I am extremely good at it. You, on the other hand, simply looked it up in the archives and believed the first movie you saw,” she corrected.

“Oh? So you’re a narcissist, but it’s okay because you’re the very best at being a narcissist?” John mocked. He was definitely getting under her skin.

“I have a condition and a treatment plan; it’s not rocket science, you child,” Koral snapped. She stopped herself, then took another deep breath. “And if NPD was controlling me as thoroughly as you believe, I wouldn’t be capable of anything you’re accusing me of. Murdering multiple people several categories above me? Did you bother reading about the disorder at all? One of the things I struggle with is risk. I hate to fail, and it takes an immense amount of effort to actually attempt anything where it is a possibility at all. It’s one of the most common symptoms, or didn’t you read that when you were assigning a dozen heinous murders to me? You think I would risk fighting a Category Green? I am smart, and I will advance quickly given the opportunity. But I know I can’t lift a continent, and I know I can’t compete with a green yet. Confidence is not the same thing as stupidity. I wouldn’t risk it, and my NPD is why. You fucking imbecile.”

“If you’re actually Category Red, anyway,” John mused. Koral was rolling her eyes again, but John pushed forward before she could start ranting about her illness again. Everyone knew what a narcissist was. Trying to explain that they were secretly too insecure for evil was pointless. The girl clearly thought John was gullible as hell. “So tell me about this girlfriend of yours, then. Did you tell her you have no empathy for her, ever? Did you let her know you were a psycho before you asked her out? Or is that more of a one-year anniversary thing in the schizo community?”

The ice emanating from Koral was nearly enough to freeze each hot breath she released. John actually shivered. “Aubrey knows about my NPD, yes. I told her immediately when I realized I was interested in her. I met with my therapist about it for weeks before I asked her out. We both met with him, and he walked us through every pitfall we might run into. We established boundaries, coping mechanisms, and rules. Like I have been trying to tell you. It is something I have to fucking deal with every day. And I am doing that,” she explained. 

“Ah. I didn't realize there was a manual for relationships with jealous, murderous psychos. I was always just taught to avoid dating narcissists. But I guess if you have rules, then it's all fine. I mean, I let all the other killers and criminals in Prism City go, so long as they give me a pinky promise not to do anything bad. I guess you're free to go,” John taunted. She was close to breaking. He could feel it. It was vile, the way she defended her abuse. The way she played pretend like she was a normal person, all while she had oceans of blood on her hands.

Koral looked like an eruption waiting to happen. John was certain he'd won, but her next words weren't as incriminating as he'd hoped.

“That’s really all the evidence you have, isn’t it? You are happy to throw me in prison, or kill me, or leave the real killer in the city. Because of unverified records and one word on a piece of paper. You saw the word ‘narcissist,’ remembered watching a crime drama from the archives, and decided you had the killer. Never mind that I don’t have any talents related to ivy. Never mind any alibi I might have. It doesn’t matter that I lack motive, or the attributes necessary for these deaths. You just saw that one word, and you made up your mind. And I’m not even who people mean when they use it.”

“Narcissists aren’t who people mean when they talk about narcissists? That’s an interesting theory,” John chuckled.

“No. They really don’t. And I’m not particularly likely to be violent or dangerous because of my disorder. That perception is just me paying the price for the reputation you earned me,” Koral lectured.

“Me? I’m not responsible for your illness. I’m perfectly healthy, and I’ve never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it. Maybe the reputation was earned when you started hunting innocent people for sport?” John suggested.

“You've been called one more than a few times, though, haven't you?” Koral accused. “A narcissist?”

John tilted his head and slightly narrowed his eyes. “You really are sure of yourself. No. I haven’t,” he lied.

“Bullshit. Someone has used the word on you before. I'm certain of it. People like you never avoid it for long. That's what's so goddamn frustrating,” Koral insisted.

“What? You don't want the title taken from you? Is that why you've been on a killing spree? You're out to eliminate the pretenders?” John sneered.

“It's an insult,” Koral continued, ignoring the provocation. “It has been since long before I was born. Synonymous with arrogance and abuse. It's a go-to word to describe the evil and the dangerous. But not because of me. Not because of anyone who actually has to wrestle with a disorder every day. It's too rare for that.”

“If it weren't rare, I'd have a lot more suspects. What's your point?” John pressed, boredom clear in his voice. She wasn't going to slip up here, but that was alright. She was angry now, and she'd make a mistake when he let her leave.

“Not that,” Koral intoned, rolling her eyes yet again. It was a miracle she kept them in her head with how often she did that. “When people use my disorder as an insult, they never mean me. They mean you. When people throw the word out as an easy jab, they don’t mean people diagnosed and treated for narcissistic personality disorder. They mean any random arrogant shithead they don’t like. As if being self-impressed was unique to a few vanishingly rare personality disorders. They didn’t research mental health first. They didn’t check any symptoms or the incredibly specific diagnostic criteria. They never once considered that it actually exists and they aren’t psychologists. They saw a movie once, and latched on to a noun. Because it feels harsher and more impactful than the adjective they mean. And they are talking about you, not me. Arrogant, self-satisfied pricks who gleefully abuse everyone around them.”

“Oh, I'm arrogant? You are so full of yourself you can’t even go on a date. You need someone to hold your hand and tell you how to pretend you're not looking down on your girlfriend. And I'm arrogant? Fascinating,” John replied with a chuckle. “You don't think that maybe your lack of empathy and remorse might have something to do with it? You want me to believe you are innocent because you are a narcissist? That makes you harmless, does it?”

“I didn’t say it made me harmless. If it were harmless, I wouldn’t have to work so goddamn hard to make sure I didn’t hurt anyone! I have to agonize over every single thing I say. Every time I’m upset, I have to ask myself why before I respond. I understand that it is something that can cause pain if I ignore it and don’t seek treatment. But those dangers are far from unique to narcissism. I mean, you have no problem processing empathy. It comes naturally to you. But you pick and choose who deserves it like you're deciding what to eat for lunch. You’re not even unique about that. As far as I can tell, very few people feel a shred of empathy for almost anyone. It's usually a privilege reserved for a few friends they specifically like. But it certainly doesn’t extend to anyone with a number assigned to what happened to them. Not because of a disorder. But because of convenience. 

“You really think NPD makes me a killer? Because I fight for an emotion that you actively choose to ignore? Please. The impulse to kill is entirely a feature of fiction, and not something I’ve ever struggled with. However convenient that fantasy might be for your career. Your own impulse to extort, threaten, and exploit? The every day self-assurance that put me in this room before you had evidence? That is almost always what actually motivates murder. Personal gain for normal people. Stop making assumptions based on books you read and start actually investigating.”

“I think you're a killer because you kill people, you sick fuck,” John rebuked, his voice calm yet violent. “Now I'm tired of you wasting my time. If you want to excuse yourself for your insanity, you can do it from your cell. I promise that's the best option available to you. This is your last warning.”

The threat was clear, but it was obvious Koral didn't care. She was above it. “Narcissists aren't evil by nature. I am not evil. And the most terrible people in the world aren't narcissists, sociopaths, or any other word you've co-opted as an easy label for villains. Look at you. Finding the first girl with a convenient disability and choosing her as your scapegoat. That's what evil is. It's the casual disregard. It's the apathy. It is the active choice to hurt people for your own gratification. You hate me because of a spreadsheet and a scary word. I hate you because you want to destroy my life on account of a disorder. 

“Evil isn't the same thing as mental illness. The average person who snarls and drools and uses words like ‘schizo’ for every killer they meet? People like you? They are far worse than people like me. The insult you are basing these accusations on exists to describe your reckless hate, and it is entirely unrelated to me or my NPD. If you want to find the Cruel Ivy Killer? Maybe start looking to your peers and employers. Their power is far more dangerous than my mental health.”

Koral had obviously lost track of the conversation. Her words felt like a memorized journal entry. Something she'd wanted to say for a long time, and John had given her the excuse. But he wasn't interested in sanitizing the insane, so she'd wasted her breath. She was a literal narcissist, and she thought he was worse? Because he'd stopped her murder spree? Well. It added up, at least. Audacious as the attempt had been. 

In any case, John had given his warning. It was time to do things the hard way. 

“Very well. If you are going to refuse to answer. You are free to go once we're done processing your paperwork. But I don't know if I'd recommend it,” he said.

Koral sighed. She looked frustrated, like she'd really believed her bullshit speech would help her get away with murder.

She was wrong.

John was never going to let her kill another person again.

“Can you just spit out whatever your threat is already? I'm growing anxious to see which mentally healthy plans you have to hurt an innocent teenager,” Koral chided.

John smiled. “I don't plan to touch a hair on your head, sweetie. I can’t just yet. Because you refused to cooperate. So instead, I'm going to let you go right back to school. But I wouldn't go out hunting again in the near future. There are a lot of people who want the Cruel Ivy Killer dead, after all. A lot of people who hate and fear you. Who’ve been fantasizing about tearing you apart like you did to your victims. If they could find you, I have no doubt that is exactly what they would do. That’s why I already have a press conference scheduled to announce your identity, as well as all of the evidence I have against you,” John explained. “The entire city is going to know who you are. Let’s see if you can survive when you’re the prey and the city is the one,” he gleefully threatened. “I told you. Just confessing would have been easier.”