Chapter 43
After all, there were too many people coming and going from the theater, and Gogol's appearance and attire were too eye-catching—even though his performance was not yet scheduled, several passersby still wanted to ask for his autograph.
If it were someone else's thinking, they would probably reschedule with Dostoevsky and then go back to rehearsals on stage; at the very least, they would first apologize to the person in charge before leaving the theater with Dostoevsky.
But Gogol was no ordinary man.
After signing his two extremely messy signatures, Gogol waved his hand dismissively, leaving the person in charge who was about to wait anxiously behind. "Come on, Fyodor, let me take you to see that doctor right now! I'm really curious about what you're planning to do, that exciting experiment!"
His face wasn't painted with clown makeup, but he looked exceptionally lively as he walked, his silver braid with a red pom-pom at the end swinging from side to side, almost jumping for joy.
Dostoevsky readily accepted Gogol's guidance, but he didn't quite understand the fellow countryman's overflowing excitement, as if he had downed three large bottles of vodka.
He is usually calm and restrained, and prefers to act with elegance and a sense of ritual. Even if he occasionally experiences a significant emotional fluctuation, as long as he does not choose to show it, it is extremely difficult for others to detect.
Most of the time, he doesn't even experience significant emotional fluctuations.
A slight smile and polite manners, in a sense, are more like an externalized persona, an umbilical cord nurtured by the environment and values during growth, used to connect with others and social life—it is probably a part of him, but not necessarily all of him.
Russians, who live in extremely cold regions year-round, seem to have been frozen to the bone by ice and snow, giving them a natural air of melancholy, indifference, and negativity. They are not overly enthusiastic towards strangers they meet for the first time, and it is common for them to use honorifics and humble expressions, not to mention exaggerated smiles and hugs.
...Right now, there was a Russian silver-haired puppy, so sunny it was almost like a mutant, enthusiastically circling around him.
He tried to get closer, but Tuosi coldly pushed him away with the tip of his umbrella.
"Fyodor, Fedia, can't you just tell me what you want to do right now?"
Gogol forbade Fyodor to call him by his nickname—though Dostoevsky wouldn't either—but he himself called him that enthusiastically. "Stevenson is indeed a superhuman, but he's not a celebrity, not even a member of the [Clock Tower Attendants], and his resume, well, it's a complete mess!"
Gogol pulled out a large stack of papers from somewhere and started flipping through them with a flourish. He even pushed up a non-existent monocle on his nose, perfectly embodying his performative personality.
"Let me see... Hmm, Robert Stevenson, 33 years old, male, superpower: [Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde], lives at 62 Sen... something Balabala Road in Edinburgh, has no immediate family, his only distant relative is his cousin, his highest degree is a PhD in psychology, failed to pass the medical exam but still considers himself a psychologist, had an accident and then chose to stay in his little blue and yellow house for a long time without going out—wow, he's so cute."
Having finished his concluding remarks, Gogol flicked his cloak and casually retrieved the stack of blank sheets of paper. "So let me guess, is your purpose the same as mine, Lord Fyodor?"
Dostoevsky listened to the long introduction with little reaction, only letting out a cold "Hmm?" at the end, a stark contrast to Gogol's high spirits and strong desire to perform.
"I, cough, Nikolai Vasilyevich, am seventeen years old and have always questioned my own existence, striving to find the answer!"
Gogol didn't mind the other person's extremely uncooperative reaction at all. Instead, he took the opportunity to introduce himself as he led him to their destination.
"Magicians are very interesting. They can bring surprises and expectations to ordinary people with simple techniques. In the eyes of the public, they have become a kind of being closest to the gods."
He reached out to catch the fine raindrops before him, and when he spoke again, his voice suddenly lowered, as if he were a bard earnestly telling a story.
"I wanted to be a magician, but I didn't want to be a magician, so the clown became my defining characteristic."
"I want to be happy, joyful and cheerful, but my consciousness keeps trying to pull me down to the bottom of the sea, to make me obedient and quiet, because that's what the rules expect of us."
"When I see photos of murderers in the newspapers, and the brutal cases reported in the news, I feel both indifferent and indignant."
"I'd be willing to offer a beautiful bouquet of carnations, but I'd also like to tear them to shreds in front of the other person, letting the sap from the petals soak my hands."
"Which one is the real me? I want to figure out who I am and completely break free from this contradiction and tug-of-war in my consciousness."
On one hand, one tries to break free from the moral and rule constraints imposed by society, and on the other hand, one wants to submit to the generalized will and ideas instilled in one's mind. The inner contradictions will deepen with each day and night of tossing and turning, until one side is completely suppressed or the master of consciousness is driven to destruction.
But Gogol didn't let this cause him to internalize the problem and embark on the latter path. "So, so, whatever my consciousness wants me to do, I deliberately do the opposite, oppose it. Whew, this isn't something easily achieved, but at that moment, you can feel a kind of freedom, like breaking free from constraints, like a bird in flight—"
"Later, during a performance, it suddenly occurred to me,"
As Gogol finished his story, his voice softened, and his gaze gradually rose. "Perhaps, is it possible that I have a split personality? If the contradictions in my self-awareness are actually caused by two Nikolais fighting in my head, then that makes perfect sense!"
"So that's why they kidnapped Robert Stevenson?" Dostoevsky asked.
"He was the therapist I found, but not the first one... Can you believe it? They all said I don't have a split personality, I am who I am!"
Gogol, with his face puffed out, was showing his anger through his actions—he even stomped his foot.
Dostoevsky: "..."
"Then, then, I suddenly had another idea! If a regular psychologist can't help me, then I'll just go find a [superpowered] psychologist to solve the problem!"
Back at the hotel, Gogol did not take Dostoevsky to his room, but instead walked through the lobby and continued forward.
As the theater's cash cow, even limited editions receive excellent treatment.
The hotel they booked for Gogol was very large, with a resort-style design that included a huge swimming pool and an open-air hot spring, as well as a secluded cellar for storing expensive red wines.
"But the psychologist with superpowers that I finally found also said that I don't have a split personality!"
Speaking of this, Gogol was so angry he almost jumped three feet high. "He actually said my personality was perfectly normal! That's outrageous! How could he use his own personality as an analogy for me?"
Robert Stevenson, who called himself a psychiatrist, himself had a dual personality.
Or rather, his superpowers are related to this—which is why Dostoevsky specifically came to England to find him.
If asked to see a regular psychologist, Dostoevsky would completely disdain it.
In terms of theoretical knowledge and psychological manipulation, Dostoevsky is even more proficient than those psychologists who just sit in their offices and talk eloquently.
Unlike Gogol, who was muttering and cursing the quack doctor beside him, Dostoevsky, who had personally experienced several consciousness switchings, was not bothered by the question of whether he had a split personality.
"So, what were your considerations in taking him away from the room?"
The location became increasingly remote until we stopped at the entrance of a warehouse that the hotel had built alone in a corner.
Is Robert Stevenson imprisoned here?
"Of course it's because he's lying to me."
Gogol went to the terrace in front of the warehouse, turned around, and politely bowed to Dostoevsky.
At the same time, he opened his cloak with one hand, as if it were some kind of specially designed elegant closing gesture—a silent, golden halo instantly extended and expanded beneath Dostoevsky's feet.
call out.
Dostoevsky, who had fallen from the halo, staggered a couple of steps to regain his footing and found himself in a cellar filled with wine barrels. The space was small, the temperature was comfortable, the ventilation was good, and there were warm yellow lights illuminating the walls on both sides.
The innermost part of the room was cleared out and simply furnished with two wooden chairs, a table, a bookshelf, and a few other essential household items.
Robert Stevenson was sitting there.
Upon hearing the familiar sound, his voice immediately became even more complaining than Gogol's, "I've told you I'm not lying to you, you don't have a split personality at all, you didn't before, and you definitely don't now—how many times do I have to tell you before you understand?"
Under the dim light, one could see a few striking strands of silver hair mixed in with the black hair—it seemed not to be caused by hard work or worry, but rather it was natural.
His deep brown eyebrows were furrowed impatiently, and his clean-shaven face was quite handsome. His suit was not exactly crisp, but it was very neat.
"Hello, I am Fyodor."
Dostoevsky introduced himself to him, and only then did Gogol make his triumphant entrance.
"Ta-da! Nikolai's reverse escape magic show—showing you how to get into this cellar without prying open the locked metal trapdoor—is a huge success!"
With a flick of his wrist, Gogol shook the cloak that had transported him and Dostoevsky together, and clapped his hands in approval.
Dostoevsky and Stevenson watched him silently.
"…………"
"Are you a psychologist too?"
Stevenson turned his gaze to Dostoevsky, whom Gogol had brought here. "Please, have some mercy and persuade him quickly, or force him to reveal another personality."
“…I’m sorry, I’m not a psychologist,” Dostoevsky replied.
Stevenson let out a huge sigh.
God, this is the first time in his life he's encountered a bastard who insists on being diagnosed with dual personality disorder even though he clearly doesn't!
“It’s all Stevenson’s fault. If you had used your powers on me earlier, everything would have been solved,” Gogol said, adjusting his magician’s hat with an urging smile. “If you don’t agree, I’ll keep you locked up here forever.”
"Everyone says I really did use my powers on you!" Stevenson was so angry he almost slammed his fist on the table. "You don't have multiple personalities, how could my powers possibly work on you!"
"Hmph, you were just pretending to use your powers on me so you could get rid of me, right?" Gogol wagged his index finger. "What a cunning psychology PhD, huh? Too bad I don't believe you."
Based on Gogol's previous self-analysis, he actually believed Stevenson's conclusion, but he insisted on going against his own consciousness, and thus turned into refusing to believe it.
Stevenson was speechless at that statement.
"And what about you? What are you here for?"
He decided to ignore the silver-haired jerk and turned to ask Tuosi, "Are you also here to get a diagnosis of whether you have a split personality?"
If so, then he'd better explain himself reasonably.
“I’m not bothered by that,” Dostoevsky said slowly, reaching behind his back with his free hand. “However, I might need to ask you for another favor first.”
Just as Stevenson was about to ask what was going on, he saw the other man's hand, which had been behind his back, fall to his side again, revealing a Tokarev pistol held in his palm.
"...!!"
This semi-automatic pistol was made in Russia and only has a half-fire safety, meaning that when it is in the chambered state and the hammer is not deliberately cocked, it can be fired simply by raising the Dostoevsky pistol and aiming it at the target.
In other words, this guy was running around with a pistol tucked into his waistband that could go off at any moment, and he didn't show the slightest bit of worry or fear...!
Bang!
Without blinking, Dostoevsky pulled the trigger. The violent recoil caused the entire muzzle and forearm to rise, but it didn't affect the result.
Even though the dim wall lamps made the cellar poorly lit, the bullet still hit Stevenson with perfect accuracy.
Unlike his previous encounter with Sutter Bernhardt, Dostoevsky's firing this time was uninterrupted. Before Stevenson could even register a look of terror, he was about to die from the bullet aimed at his head—
The rippled golden halo flashed by so quickly that it almost made one think it was an illusion.
But the bullet did indeed vanish into thin air, just as Dostoevsky's shooting never happened.
Stevenson never expected to escape death. His instinctive backward leaning posture, which he had tried to dodge, remained frozen for a good ten seconds, leaving him looking somewhat dazed.
"Phew, I really didn't expect Fyodor to suddenly fire. That was close."
Gogol pretended to wipe the sweat from his temples, then snapped his fingers at Stevenson, "Nikolai's emergency escape magic show was a great success this time—assistant, give me a round of applause!"
Stevenson, who was called his assistant, raised his hand blankly and this time actually patted him twice.
"The enemy, the enemy family?"
Gogol's special ability—[Cloak]—allows him to connect the cloak he wears to any object in the distance, with an operational range of approximately thirty meters.
If he hadn't intervened in time to remove the bullet from Stevenson's forehead, the man would have been on his way to heaven.
"Not at all, I'd like to trouble you for help."
This tactic didn't work as well as it did last time, so Dostoevsky casually tossed the pistol aside, letting it slide on the ground with obvious noise until it hit something and stopped.
Stevenson, whose heart belatedly began to pound wildly: ……………
Is this how you ask someone for a favor?
That's even worse than that silver-haired bastard!
"As far as I know, your superpowers only work on patients with multiple personality disorder."
Dostoevsky pulled out one of the wooden chairs and sat down opposite him—his hand, which habitually reached for his cloak, missed its target and casually put it back on his lap.
"Its function is to forcibly awaken all the personalities of the target, causing the consciousnesses of these personalities to coexist simultaneously, even to the point of being able to devour each other." He asked politely, "Is that correct?"
"...That's right, but my ability can only be activated, not deactivated. If we look at this ability from the perspective of curing patients with multiple personality disorder, it might be useful, but it's quite useless, and there's no going back."
"Because the consequences of multiple personalities existing simultaneously and being unable to merge can be terrible, and I am a prime example of that."
Stevenson pointed to his temple. "Even when I try to keep my mind calm, my head is always filled with a constant chattering noise, which is another [evil] me roaring inside my body... Once my consciousness can no longer suppress it, it will run out and take control of my body."
“I wanted to forcefully devour him, but I couldn’t. His consciousness was equally powerful, and he refused to merge with me, only wanting to take control of this body.”
"So in front of others I become a strange, withdrawn madman, behaving erratically, talking to myself, and being moody..."
"The only good thing is that I will no longer cause irreparable disaster. No matter how manic, cruel, and empathetic my dark side may be, I will be able to recognize it when it tries to cause harm and fight back to take back my body."
In other words, if the personalities can coexist peacefully and share the body in a cooperative and respectful manner, that's fine; but if one personality is evil and uncontrollable, it will constantly try to devour the other personalities, vying for control of the body and refusing to relinquish it.
After listening attentively to Stevenson's explanation, Dostoevsky nodded slightly. "Please use your powers on me, Mr. Stevenson."
"Even so, you still insist on starting the war within your body? Fine."
Stevenson took a deep breath, about to mutter a few complaints in his mind, when suddenly he thought of something.
If this black-haired boy really has multiple personalities, then the ruthless person in front of him who can shoot and kill without hesitation... isn't he the one who belongs to [evil]?
Does he intend to devour the [good] main personality and completely seize control of the body?!
Compared to Stevenson, who was so shocked he didn't know whether to continue, Gogol, who was watching from the sidelines, was biting a handkerchief that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, and his expression became very aggrieved.
"What? Fyodor, who actually has a dual personality, has kept this from me for so long? It's so heartbreaking, like being abandoned by the world..."
He had only known the other person for less than an hour and didn't even know their full name.
"Please, Mr. Stevenson."
Ignoring Gogol, who was constantly trying to perform, Dostoevsky focused his attention on Stevenson—though he was merely being stared at, Stevenson felt an extremely terrifying sense of mental oppression, which even silenced another incessant roar in his mind.
"…………"
"Special ability, [Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde]."
— Accompanied by a severe headache and dizziness, Ye Yihe opened his eyes.
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