Foundation battlemage Beatrice Ross comes to terms with the loss of her hand.
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Three Portlands
ICSUT Portlands
The cyborg and the sphinx stared at one another.
"No entry," said the sphinx.
Beatrice Ross pulled her alumni card out of her wallet and held it up for the sphinx to see. The Rose Cross logo of ICSUT glowed softly, proof of its authenticity. "Fix, you know me. I'm an alumni."
The sphinx harrumphed. "No, you're an alumna. And you are an agent of the Foundation. This campus is a secure facility of the Global Occult Coalition. No entry."
"It's a university!" Ross protested.
"Yes, and you are no longer a student. You need special permission to enter."
"I have an appointment with Dr. Vogel." Ross pulled her phone out and pulled up the email exchange with her former professor, then held it up for the sphinx to see. "Look, he said he cleared it with Dean Nike."
"Hmm." The sphinx peered at the phone suspiciously. "Very well. Answer my riddle and you may enter."
"I thought you weren't allowed to ask riddles anymore."
"Answer my riddle!" The sphinx raised herself to her full height and cleared her throat. "Always old, sometimes new. Never sad, sometimes blue. Never empty, sometimes full. I never push, but always pull. What am I?"
Ross thought about it. "The moon?"
The sphinx growled and nodded her head. "Correct. You may enter."
"Thanks."
Professor Hans Vogel was waiting for her in his office. Everything looked exactly as it had the last time she had seen it, 8 years ago, in the aftermath of the disastrous capstone challenge for her Evocation class.
Dr. Vogel smiled gently at her as she entered. "Ms. Ross, how have you been?"
She held up her hand, the prosthetic one, and flexed her fingers. There was a soft whirring noise as micromotors actuated.
"Ah. I see." Vogel pushed his glasses up his nose and looked at her sympathetically. "May I ask how you lost it?"
"Frostbite," Ross said. "Internalized backlash. I was in a tight spot and had to do too much to get out of it."
"A costly lesson," Vogel said.
"Very. The new hand is interfering with my evocation."
Vogel nodded, understanding dawning in his eyes. "This would be the difficulty that you mentioned you were having?"
Ross nodded.
Vogel started to reach across the desk, then paused. "May I?"
She nodded again.
Gently, Vogel took the prosthetic hand in his own hands and began examining it, turning it back and forth, brushing his fingers across the pseudo-skin, and whispering incantations under his breath. At a few points he closed his eyes to Observe better.
"Hmm." He released the prosthetic and stroked the end of his beard thoughtfully. "This is Foundation-make, isn't it?"
"Custom designed by our in-house R&D," Ross said. "I'm pretty sure they reverse engineered some of Anderson's gizmos."
"Not very well then," Vogel said. "The Gyrfalcon series is supposed to be compatible with thaumaturgy. Anderson's own prosthetics actually enhance his abilities."
"Yeah, that's not happening."
"What does happen?"
Ross shrugged. "Sometimes nothing — the spell just fizzles. Sometimes the spell works but I lose control of the backlash. Three separate times I've shorted-out the bio-circuitry of the prosthetic."
"The prosthetic," Vogel noted. "And earlier your said the new hand. Not your new hand. Why is that?"
Ross frowned. "It's not my hand."
Vogel raised an eyebrow. "Whose hand is it?"
Ross shook her head. "You know what I mean. I feel like Darth Vader."
"I see." He stroked his beard again, then nodded. "I believe I have a theory about the nature of your problem." He held up a hand to stop her from interrupting. "A theory, that's all. I am by no means an expert in this subject. This is just my best guess based on what I know of evocation, and of you."
Ross nodded and gestured for him to proceed.
"I believe you are too attached to your old hand."
"What does that mean?"
"It means that you still consider your lost limb to be part of you, and you are still subconsciously trying to channel through it. It's a type of dysphoric casting disorder — we see it sometimes in mages with severe gender dysphoria. The psychological turmoil from the mismatch between body and self-image is what's disrupting your casting, not your prosthetic. The fact that you rely so heavily on internalizing backlash has likely exacerbated the issue."
Ross frowned. "That's it? There's nothing wrong with the — with my hand?"
Vogel shrugged diffidently. "I don't believe you will ever be able to channel through it — your R&D department either didn't know how or didn't care to include the necessary thaumic circuitry to support that. But your hand is not at fault for your recent difficulties, at least not directly."
Ross slumped in the chair and nodded unhappily. "Great. It's all in my head."
"Most magic is." Vogel chuckled softly, then cleared his throat. "My recommendation? Dialectical therapy. And perhaps try going without the prosthetic for a while. It may make it easier to integrate the loss of your original hand."
"Fantastic. Therapy." Ross exhaled sharply. "I was hoping there would be an easier solution."
"I would hope that if you learned anything from me, Ms. Ross, it would be that there are no shortcuts when it comes to magic."
Ross nodded. "I remember." She sighed. "Thank you for your help, Professor."
"Of course. I wish you luck."
Ross waited until she was off the ICSUT campus and out of Three Portlands entirely before she pulled her Foundation ID card from her wallet. Flashing the three-lobed containment symbol around inside the free port was a great way to get ad hoc amateur dental surgery from a displeased resident.
There were several phone numbers on the back of the card, but the one she wanted was the third listed, right between "Containment Breach Hotline" and "Ethics Committee Contact".
Swallowing hard, she dialed the number and exchanged authentication counter-phrases with the robotic answering service.
"Identity verified, Agent Ross. You have reached the Office of Psychological Health Services. Please state the purpose of your call."
Ross cleared her throat. "I'd like to schedule an appointment with Dr. Aeslinger."