Incoming wall of text:
Last year, during my hiatus from writing, I went to a clinic in the hopes of handling a bout with depression. I was prescribed what I initially thought was a simple antidepressant; turns out, depending on the source of information to which you look, it was either an antipsychotic, a mood stabilizer, or a sleep aid. I needed, and was looking for, none of these.
After three weeks, realizing that I was sleeping far too much, I quit the drug and decided to work out my issues on my own. I've never really trusted antidepressants, and it felt better to trust my instincts and stay true to my beliefs, even if I felt like my life sucked. Since then, I've graduated from community college with three AA degrees, have transferred to a university in pursuit of a Master's Degree in English, with which I plan to teach, and have secured a position as a Congressional intern with a local office. I feel much better about pretty much everything in my life, since then.
All this is to say, I've thought a lot about depression and its related issues; I've thought a lot about "Big Pharma," as the pharmaceutical industry is typically called 'round these parts. And I've wondered how Seto would look at these same issues.
This chapter came out of these musings, as well as what I've heard in a Child Mental Health course I'm currently about to finish.
"All I'm saying is that he needs to consider it!"
"He won't go for it. You're wasting your breath."
Helen Aarden was a hard person. Her mind was honed to a razor's edge, and her tongue was sharper. She and Seto Kaiba clashed horrifically every time they spoke to each other. Which, paradoxically, was precisely the reason Seto found her valuable.
Usually, Roland Ackerman let them have their rather explosive debates without comment. On this subject, however, he felt it necessary to weigh in. Seeing the way that she was glaring at him—as though she were an ancient gorgon, wondering why he hadn't turned to stone yet—he decided to expound on his response and said: "You know very well that Master Kaiba doesn't base his opinions on a person's worth on whether or not he, or she, agrees with him. Which is why you still have a job. But this is a case where you'd do well to tread lightly. Master Kaiba is objective, cool and logical, on all subjects…except his brother."
Helen sneered. "If he cared about the boy as much as he'd like us all to believe, he'd strive to be more objective and logical with Mokuba than he is with anything else."
"I'm sure that a part of him agrees with you," Roland said, "but I'm serious, Helen. Don't rock the boat this time. It's too sensitive a subject, and he's liable to take it precisely the wrong way."
"I don't fear Mister Kaiba's opinion of me, Roland," Helen snapped. "If my expressing myself is grounds for dismissal, I don't want to work here. Thank you for your concern," she sounded so insincere that it was almost insulting, "but save it for someone else."
Roland sighed, shook his head, and waved dismissively in the direction of his employer's office. "Very well, then. Your funeral will be lavish. I know a very talented florist in the area. He can provide the decorations."
Helen shook her head. Knocking sharply on the door, she looked ready to break it down with sheer willpower if she didn't get the answer she wanted. "Enter," came a particularly irate voice from behind the barrier.
They entered.
Helen Aarden didn't believe in preamble. Before Seto even looked up from the folder in his hands, she said: "I have some concerns with the vice-president's behavior, and the way you've been responding to it."
Seto set the folder down and his cobalt gaze rose like a guillotine. "What behavior, and which responses?" he asked, slowly and methodically. Any number of his other employees would have bolted from the room at that look; Helen seemed further enflamed by it.
"I understand fully that his age, and his academic responsibilities, prohibit Mokuba from attending to his full position. However, he has been rather grossly neglecting those responsibilities to which he does lay claim. You seem fully content to let him. This concerns me a great deal, and I intend to know what you plan to do about it."
Seto considered the woman for a long moment before he said: "Nothing. Your concern is not mine. If that's all you came here to say, this conversation is over."
"Is Mokuba an employee at this company, or isn't he?"
"He is."
"And has he, or has he not, recovered adequately from his recent near-death experience?"
As Roland had predicted, the sheer mechanic way Helen referred to the von Schroeder incident struck a serious chord with Seto, who was suddenly fully engaged. He leaned forward, a fever growing in his eyes. "That, Miss Aarden, would depend entirely on how you define the rather arbitrary label of 'adequate.'"
"Is he fit to return to his responsibilities at this company, or isn't he?" Helen asked.
"He is not."
"By your estimation, or a professional's?"
"I attribute no importance to a 'professional' opinion on this matter, but in the name of completeness…both."
"Then why is he here?" There was a sick kind of fascination running through Roland as he watched the exchange, thinking that in some twisted sort of way, they were both enjoying this. The last time Roland had seen this kind of focus on Seto's face had been his final Magic & Wizards match with Yugi Mutou, some three years ago.
"He is at a stage where staying at home is a detriment to his recovery," Seto said. He was choosing his words meticulously, as though in court speaking to a judge. "I surmised that a return to his previous responsibilities would be a healthy step forward, and so I have permitted him to return to work on a probationary basis while he familiarizes himself with the workload expected of him at his new school. If it is determined that he cannot devote himself equally to both, then I will have him focus entirely on his studies for the time being."
"Be that as it may," Helen said, "his behavior since his return has been unacceptable. I was given to understand that this corporation ran on high standards. Is it your intention to keep the vice-president involved in any projects while his performance is so sub-par, to say nothing of his attendance?"
"If you intended to say nothing of his attendance, you would have said nothing," Seto said. "Furthermore, I have a very real problem with your not discussing this issue of yours with Mokuba. He is, after all, directly under your purview."
"I thought you didn't like having adults bringing their concerns about his behavior to him directly. Did you not say that?"
"Yes. I also said that this rule of mine pertained to his behavior outside of a work-environment context, and that his performance in regards to Kaiba-Corp's projects was the primary concern of his direct supervisor. That would be you, Miss Aarden."
"Then I—"
"However," Seto cut her off, "his health is the primary concern of his legal guardian. That would be me. I have read your reports, and I have seen his work the past two weeks. It has, indeed, been shoddy compared to his track record. I infer from this that he should be placed into a position more suited to his current mental state. I will not force him to return to his previous level to the point that it will harm him, simply to accommodate you."
"If you're so concerned about his health, when do you intend to do something about it?"
"Do not presume to know what I have and haven't done in the name of my brother's welfare, Aarden," Seto growled, dropping all pretense of formality.
"Have you even considered that he might be suffering from a mental health problem? You refuse to put him in therapy, you won't allow him to take medication, so what are you doing?"
Seto closed his eyes for a long moment, and when he opened them again, he looked directly at Roland for a moment. Then he locked eyes with Helen again. "Everything else."
"Why are you so rampantly biased against therapy and medication?"
Realization dawned on Seto's face. "This is your real question. This is why you're here. You think my brother should be medicated."
"He's showing every symptom in the book for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."
A blind person could have seen the disgust pass over Seto's face. "Predicated by the belief that exhibiting stress as a result of a traumatic event is a disorder. One to which I attach roughly as much validity as the existence of the Easter Bunny." Seto stood. "He's reacting to his circumstances precisely the same way any healthy person would: badly. Whatever right you deign to have to speak to me about the psychological welfare of my brother is irrelevant. If his performance is such that you think he should be formally terminated, that is your prerogative. I will fight the decision, and I will win, but go ahead and fire him if it will make you feel better. Now get out."
"Well, aren't you just Billy McBadass?" Helen snapped. "An old-west cowboy in a thousand-dollar suit, don't take shit from nobody, by God. Apparently you are still a child."
"Fifty-thousand," Seto said.
"Excuse me?"
"I'm wearing a fifty-thousand-dollar suit," Seto said, in a deadpan tone. "I'm also uninterested in engaging in this discussion if you intend to turn it into a pissing contest."
"That's a lie, or you wouldn't be mincing my words. What you're doing to that boy treads dangerously on the line of medical neglect. Whether you believe in PTSD or not, he has it. And whatever you're doing to fix it isn't working, if the way he's been acting lately is any indication. I was under the impression that you were intelligent and objective. I was under the impression that you were dedicated to the vice-president's welfare, and that you would put forth an honest effort to care for him. The way you're acting right now doesn't prove either assumption."
Seto waited a moment, gauging, before he reached into his desk and removed a thin hardbound book, called Childhood Mental Health Disorders, filled with color-coded tabs marking certain pages. Another, much thicker, book: The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, similarly filled. And another: Lonely, Sad, and Angry: How to Help Your Unhappy Child. A multitude of other books in this vein followed the first three, covering topics from childhood depression and post-traumatic stress to holistic medicine, pharmacological interventions, and psychosocial therapy. He reached into another drawer and pulled out a three-ring binder filled with loose-leaf sheets. After it came a thick spiral-bound notebook.
Seto tossed these unceremoniously onto his desk and looked at Helen Aarden. "Since you're so concerned, here. This is my research. Consider yourself on paid leave as of right now. Your new job is to read this, and tell me what I should do about Mokuba. I'll pay you out of my own pocket. Study this, analyze it, find sources of your own, come to a conclusion, and bring it back to me."
Helen stared. "Are you…are you serious?"
"I never joke about my brother's health, Miss Aarden." Seto's anger seemed to have not just disappeared, but died. As Helen looked from the various materials back up to the man's face, she saw for the first time just how tired he looked. "I don't care if your entire motive is just to prove me wrong. Please. Prove me wrong. Prove to me that there's a better option."
He wasn't being flippant this time. He was desperate.
Helen Aarden analyzed the situation for a long moment before she finally squared her shoulders and leveled a clean, clear gaze on her employer.
"I'll get started right away, sir."
"I have to ask you a question, Master Kaiba."
Seto glanced at his assistant and quirked an eyebrow. "Which is…?"
"There are so many adverse effects attached to psychiatric medication, especially in children, that there's no particular reason for me to question your decision to keep Young Master Mokuba off of it," Roland said. "But in every study I've ever seen, therapy is almost always the clear winner because even if it doesn't work, there aren't any downsides. So I have to ask…why haven't you pursued therapy for your brother?"
Seto looked at Roland for a long time before he finally answered. As was typical when he was giving a "real" answer—that was, when he wasn't using any of his typical intimidation strategies—it was quick, curt, and unapologetic.
"I can't."
"Why?" Roland asked. "And please don't tell me that you don't have it in you."
"I'm speaking literally, Roland. I can't." Seto sighed, drumming his fingers on his desk. "The crux of psychosocial intervention hinges on one thing: honesty. Any therapist whose degree is worth the gold-stamped paper on which it was printed would insist on total honesty. What do you think a therapist would ask him, Roland? He, or she, would examine his life, his thoughts, his feelings. Were I a licensed psychologist, I would ask him how his other abductions—Crawford, Ishtar, Amelda—have affected him. What is he going to say, Roland? That Crawford stole his soul and put it into a trading card? That Ishtar could control people's minds with a hunk of gold from Egypt? That Amelda had a glowing green hexagram on his forehead?"
Roland frowned. "…You worry that he'll be diagnosed as mentally ill."
"Roland, by all standards I was ever taught, he is! He believes that Yugi Mutou's body was the vessel for a king who died almost five-thousand years ago! He believes that I am a reincarnated priest! He thinks it's possible to resurrect the dead using a computer system my predecessor kept hidden in the basement!"
"Don't you think that means he should be helped?" Roland asked, in a low, steady tone of voice that did nothing to calm the panic rising in Seto's face.
"Helped by what, Roland? A padded room? A cocktail of antipsychotics and mood stabilizers? Mokuba isn't stupid. He knows well and good that he can't be completely honest with anybody about what he thinks has happened to him. He barely brings up the subject with me. He'd hold back anything from his past involving magic or any other fringe theory he believes. No matter who the therapist was, he'd never come to trust him or her to the point where he'd talk about those things. He'd be worried that people would blame me for it, and that we would be separated. 'For his own good.'"
Roland slipped his hands into the pockets of his slacks, leaning back against the wall and staring up at the ceiling. He had had a front-row seat to some of the crazier goings-on in the Kaibas' lives. He remembered Malik Ishtar and his siblings all too clearly, and had long harbored a suspicion that he needed psychological help himself.
"You worry that he would be taken from you."
"I don't care how this would affect me!" Seto all but exploded, shooting from his chair and looking like he was ready to fling his desk across the room. "Goddamn it, man, how is therapy going to help my brother if he has to walk on fucking eggshells?"
Roland found that he had no answer to that.
"If Mokuba wants to believe the rhetoric he's been taught by Mutou and his cronies," Seto said, reining in his sudden fury, "who the holy fuck are we to tell him he's wrong? Rational, level-headed adults? People who 'grew out' of such nonsense? We're not any better. We just moved on to believing in organic food and homeopathy. We don't believe in Santa Claus, but we believe in God. We don't believe in unicorns, but we believe in Bigfoot. We don't believe in Tutankhamun's Curse, but we believe extraterrestrials built the Egyptian pyramids. I have as much tolerance for 'adult' society as I ever have, Roland. The vast majority of adults are judgmental, biased, hypocritical sheep. I'm not going to let any of them tell my brother that he's 'mentally ill.'"
A long, tense silence.
"…Okay. Fair enough. I simply wanted to make sure you'd thought this through, sir." Roland held up his hands. "I had to make sure this wasn't a simple bias on your part. That your reasoning wasn't selfish. Part of my job is keeping your brother safe. That means from you, as well as anyone else."
Seto smirked, looking amused in spite of himself.
"Good."
Seto is a sounding board for a rather intense, extreme form of skepticism. He trusts no one, and nothing. Well, almost. While I try to portray him as the intelligent, capable young man that he is, there are a number of belief systems I believe he holds that go far beyond objective logic.
That isn't to say I think he's a quack; nonetheless, I should point out that the notions I've covered in this chapter are not my own. They're my interpretations of how these characters would view them.
I've made the mistake before of attributing my beliefs to my characters. I don't intend to do it again. If I am to do these characters, and any other characters, any justice at all, I have to remember that they are living, breathing people.
Just because they're fictional doesn't mean I shouldn't listen to them.
It's my job as a writer to listen to them. The less I say in any given scene, the better. They aren't my medium of expression. I am theirs.
