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ArabicArknights: How Did I Actually Become the Doctor? — Chapter 39
Chapter 39: Late-Night Conditioning
One day ago, deep within the temporary confinement block of the Rhodes Island Ursus branch.
Unlike Frostnova, who was permitted to wander the halls with purely symbolic handcuffs, or Patriot, who was currently acting as the Doctor’s personal VIP assistant, Mephisto enjoyed no such privileges. For nearly half a month, he had been bolted inside a maximum-security cell, treated exactly like the war criminal he was.
Passing guards would strike their batons against the iron bars with undisguised disgust. Whenever they delivered his meals, the trays were frequently and deliberately “accidentally” kicked over, spilling his rations across the dirty floor.
The suffocating dampness of the cell, combined with the freezing stares of his captors, made Mephisto feel as though he had been violently dragged back to his childhood.
He offered the empty room a self-deprecating smile. At least this time, he didn’t have to worry about someone prying his jaws apart, forcing raw Originium down his throat, and destroying his vocal cords.
After all, he had nothing left to ruin.
, watching the Doctor sit casually on a chair just outside the iron bars, feasting on a plate of steaming, freshly roasted Feathered Beast wings, still managed to ignite a spark of fury in his hollow chest.
“If you want to kill me, just do it,” Mephisto rasped, his voice raw. “Going out of your way to torture me like this—do you honestly think you’re any better than I am?”
The Doctor didn’t seem the least bit provoked. Instead, he casually waved a glazed wing in the air, practically showing it off.
“Remember that Feline guard who deliberately kicked your meal tray over yesterday?” the Doctor asked, taking a leisurely bite. “She went outside the base specifically to hunt this Feathered Beast down. She roasted it just for me, and even used up the very last jar of honey we brought from headquarters.”
Mephisto stared at him, entirely lost. What was the point of bringing up something so utterly irrelevant? Was this just another layer of mockery, pointing out how universally despised he was? Or was the Doctor just rubbing the sheer gap in their current living conditions in his face?
The Doctor bit off the tip of the wing, the cartilage crunching loudly in the quiet cell. “Do you know why she treats you so terribly?”
Mephisto let out a dry sneer. He turned his head away, facing the cold stone wall, determined not to give his captor the satisfaction of a reaction.
“That Feline lady was originally a singer. She was just about to make her grand debut. She only ended up joining Rhodes Island because of what happened to her,” the Doctor continued, his tone flat and narrative.
Hearing that, Mephisto’s breath hitched. He subconsciously clenched his fists.
“She was standing backstage, waiting for the curtain to rise, when your precious Herd ambushed the theater,” the Doctor said, his voice dropping a fraction of a degree. “Her throat was slashed. She was lucky to survive the blood loss, but she contracted Oripathy in the chaos. Just to earn a chance at treatment here, she is currently carrying a debt of tens of thousands of LMD.”
Through the smudged, blurry reflection on the reinforced glass wall, Mephisto saw the Doctor stop eating. The man turned his head, his hidden gaze locking onto the prisoner.
The glass was too filthy to make out the Doctor’s features, and the corridor lighting was oppressively dim, but Mephisto could feel the weight of that stare. He felt like the man was mocking him—mocking the absurd, inescapable cycle of his miserable fate.
Childhood memories violently surged up from the depths of his mind, carrying the phantom stench of damp alleys and cold, metallic blood that made his stomach churn.
He remembered a scarred Pythia boy clutching a dirty, scavenged book. He remembered leaning against that boy’s shoulder, two little beasts huddled together in the freezing slums for a scrap of warmth, completely devoid of disgust.
‘Sasha, everyone hates me because I’m always smiling.”It’s not your fault. You can smile.”Why? Why? Don’t you mind?”I don’t mind.”I can smile?”You can smile.”Eno, what’s wrong? The wound on your stomach…’The physical agony of that day had long since faded into a dull ache in his memory, but Mephisto could still vividly recall the twisted pride and fragile happiness that had bloomed in his chest.’Sasha, you told me I could smile, so I just kept smiling…”I’ve always been smiling…”Do you still want to hear me sing?’Then came the day Sasha gripped his hand, his eyes wide with absolute terror.’Eno, what’s wrong! Your back! Your… your throat!’That was the very first time he had betrayed his former self.’It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m fine.’Back then, Sasha was the only person left in the world who cared whether he lived or died.’Look, just a gentle blow, and it’s all better.”That man cut off my foot, but just a blow, and it’s better.”An old man slashed my back, but a caress, and it’s better too.”All of this is thanks to the Originium that woman shoved into my throat! Look, Sasha! I can do anything now!’
I can do anything now. Anything except sing.
The Doctor suddenly reached right through the iron bars and patted the boy’s head. While his hand was there, he casually plucked two white Liberi ear feathers from Mephisto’s hair and absentmindedly stuffed them into his coat pocket.
“Stop, stop, stop,” the Doctor interrupted, waving a hand to dispel the heavy atmosphere. “This really isn’t the time for a villain’s tragic redemption flashback, is it?”
Mephisto blinked, entirely derailed by the sudden loss of his feathers.
“Unfortunately for you, concepts like ‘betraying your past self’or’evil getting its just desserts’ aren’t my department,” the Doctor said, wiping his hands. “Moral judgments have never been within my job description.”
With a sharp click, the heavy electronic lock disengaged. Mephisto spun around in shock. The Doctor, completely unguarded and turning his back to a known murderer, twirled the key ring around his index finger. “Follow me.”
Mephisto’s mind was in a state of utter turmoil. Combined with the sheer physical exhaustion and starvation of the past few days, the thought of resistance didn’t even cross his mind. He followed obediently, stepping out of the cage like a ghost.
Outside the confinement block, the night-shift lights had already illuminated the base. None of this warmth belonged to him. Fortunately, it seemed none of it belonged to the Doctor leading the way, either. The two of them moved silently through the darkened corridors, handling solely by the faint, blue glow of the PRTS display terminals lining the walls.
With a sharp snap, the Doctor flipped a wall switch. They stepped into an operator recreation room. The previous occupant had clearly left in a hurry, leaving a scattering of sheet music and a polished brass saxophone resting on the bookshelf. The automated fireplace flared to life, the crackling flames quickly driving away the biting chill of the Ursus night.
Mephisto stood frozen at the doorway. He was suddenly terrified to take a single step inside, gripped by a paralyzing fear that the filth clinging to his boots would smudge this pristine sanctuary.
A long, long time ago, Sasha had told him stories about places exactly like this. Golden instruments, warm fireplaces, and audiences looking up at the performer on stage with expectant, shining eyes.
“What are you staring at? It’s not prepared for you!” the Doctor snapped irritably. He turned away, muttering under his breath, “Why does the enemy side always go into full angst mode the second their HP hits zero?”
Internally, the Doctor sighed. In any standard 2D game, a villain like Mephisto wouldn’t even be considered a unique archetype. And honestly, the Doctor himself had no right to play the moral arbiter—he didn’t even know what kind of war crimes his past self had committed before waking up in that sarcophagus.
He was only targeting the boy now because the people Mephisto had broken belonged to Rhodes Island. They were his operators. They were the ones whose eyes sparkled when they mentioned his name, the ones he had already drawn safely inside his protective circle.
The Doctor suddenly tossed a heavy metal object through the air. Mephisto caught it on pure reflex. It was a thick metal wristband, stamped with a dark red, inverted triangle.
“I won’t kill you for now,” the Doctor said, his tone shifting into something cold and absolute. “Simply because I’m curious to see how far you can go now that you’ve walked out of that obsessive state. But until I make my final decision, you will stay by my side. You will stand in the vanguard, taking the most dangerous position on the battlefield.”
The Doctor spread his hands, offering a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Once I’ve seen enough, your ultimate fate will be handed over to your victims. Oh, and a fair warning—that collar on your wrist is rigged to inject high-concentration active Originium fluid directly into your bloodstream within 0.01 seconds. It guarantees you will die quickly, but in the most excruciating pain imaginable. And…”
The Doctor leaned in slightly. “The trigger condition might just be that I changed my mind.”
He then tossed a small, sharp combat knife onto the table between them. “If you’d rather commit suicide right here to atone for your sins, feel free. I guarantee your death won’t affect Faust’s release from prison.”
Mephisto looked down at the lethal wristband in his hands, then at the knife gleaming on the table. His gaze wandered for a long, agonizing minute before he slowly looked up. “You dare to threaten me when there’s no one else around? Aren’t you afraid I’ll just kill you?”
Why does every single villain ask me that?
Outwardly, the Doctor’s face remained a placid, unreadable mask. “Are you sure about that? No matter what you choose tonight, Faust remains completely safe and sound—unless you pick the option where you try to touch me.”
Mephisto’s gaze shifted uncomfortably, the fight draining out of him. “I was foolish. But I remember that when this started, you didn’t have any intention of wanting me dead. What made you change your mind?”
The Doctor fell silent for a long moment. He stared into the crackling fireplace before finally speaking. “…I don’t know either. I really don’t care about grand ideals or justice.”
If he absolutely had to put it into words, it was probably because those victims felt too intensely real.
They didn’t have legendary, turbulent backstories. They didn’t possess tenacious, unbreakable wills that could withstand any pressure, nor did they harbor grand ideals to change this scarred land.
They didn’t love with absolute, flawless sincerity, nor did they hate with absolute purity.
They were just ordinary. Just like the crowds of people he used to watch walking down the street in his past life, trying their best to survive another day.