Sporemageddon

“Mom?” I asked.

She slapped the papers onto the table. “I’m not stupid,” she hissed. Her eyes were locked onto me, and what I saw in them had my stomach twisting up into a knot. There was anger there, sure, but her eyes were filled with tears, and I had the impression that she was on the verge of crying. Then she took a deep breath through her nose, and the anger and sadness receded. What was left was an emotion that I couldn’t read. “Your fath-- Roger was a smart man. He always told me that our little mushroom wasn’t just a normal child. That you were smarter than anyone else’s kid, and I know that’s true.”

“Mom, I’m sorry,” I said. “But--”

“I wasn’t done,” she muttered.

I stopped. I had half a dozen social skills. Some of them were decently strong; I practiced them and tried to make them grow. And yet I was suddenly quite intimidated.

“You have your own business. You deal with those Union people, but you sell food to normal folk. You made friends across the city. I’ve met people that know of you, at work and elsewhere. Some people think that you’re going to be one of those great geniuses one day, if the city doesn’t crush you. And I know you went to that school, disguising yourself like a boy. I didn’t like it, but I was still proud.”

I nodded, slowly.

“Did you destroy the dungeon?”

“It’s not that simple,” I said.