Strategic Apoptose

During her afternoon therapeutic session with 23, Me recounted her weekend adventure at the concert with the enthusiasm of an anthropologist who had just returned from studying a previously unknown tribe. She described the unexpected kindness of the young people, the generational differences that had felt like visiting a parallel universe, and her growing realization that community could emerge in the most unlikely circumstances.

23 listened with her usual patient attention, occasionally nodding or asking clarifying questions that helped our heroine process the experience more deeply. The tobacco shop had become their informal therapy office, where complex social interactions could be dissected and analyzed until they made some semblance of sense.

"It was remarkable," she explained, settling onto her usual stone step with a cigarette and the satisfied expression of someone who had successfully navigated an unfamiliar social environment. "These young people just... took care of me. Without expecting anything in return. Without making it into a complicated transaction."

23 smiled with the expression of someone who found her surprise both touching and telling. "That's what community is supposed to look like," she said gently. "People looking out for each other because it's the right thing to do, not because there's something to be gained."

But as their conversation continued, Me found herself returning to a puzzle that had been bothering her for decades—the mysterious dynamics of workplace interactions that seemed to operate according to rules she had never been taught.

"I don't understand how humans function," she said with the frustrated tone of someone trying to solve a complex equation without knowing the underlying mathematical principles. "Particularly at work. They always seem so confrontational and impolite, even when I'm trying to help them."

She took a long drag from her cigarette, organizing her thoughts with the methodical precision she applied to all confusing social phenomena.

"I can see that they're not able to achieve the same results I can," she continued, "but I always take time to teach them exactly how to do things. Sometimes I even produce results for them when they're struggling. But instead of appreciation, they just take credit for my work without even acknowledging my contribution, and they keep being rude to me as if teaching them is some kind of obligation on my part."

As she spoke, she watched 23's expression carefully, trying to read the subtle changes that might provide clues about what she was missing. 23's face went through a series of micro-expressions—understanding, concern, and something that looked almost like pity.

"Oh," 23 said softly, her voice carrying the weight of someone who had to deliver news that would fundamentally alter how someone understood the world. "You don't understand what you've been doing, do you?"

Me felt a familiar sinking sensation, the same feeling she got whenever she realized she had been operating according to incorrect assumptions about how human society functioned.

"What do you mean?" she asked, though part of her already suspected she wouldn't like the answer.

23 leaned against her doorframe with the patient expression of someone preparing to explain a fundamental principle of human nature to someone who had somehow missed this crucial information.

"People at work aren't your colleagues," she said gently. "They're your competitors. You've been teaching your competitors how to solve problems, and then you're confused when they use that knowledge to advance their own careers instead of giving you credit."

The words hit Me like a revelation that was simultaneously illuminating and devastating. She had been operating under the assumption that workplaces were collaborative environments where everyone benefited from shared knowledge and mutual assistance. The idea that her colleagues might actually be adversaries competing for limited resources had never occurred to her.

"But that doesn't make sense," she protested weakly. "If we all work for the same organization, shouldn't we want the best possible outcomes? Wouldn't everyone benefit if the work quality improved?"

23's expression suggested she was witnessing the collapse of a worldview in real time.

"That's not how most people think," she explained with the patience of someone teaching basic survival skills to someone who had been wandering through a dangerous forest without realizing the predators existed. "They're not thinking about what's best for the organization. They're thinking about what's best for their own career advancement. When you teach them how to solve problems, you're giving them tools they can use to get promotions, raises, or recognition—recognition that might otherwise have gone to you."

"Your autism makes you think systematically," 23 continued, her voice taking on the tone of someone providing crucial survival information. "You see problems and you want to solve them efficiently. You assume everyone else shares that goal. But neurotypical people are also running social calculations about status, competition, and self-advancement that you're not even aware of."

Me felt her understanding of decades of workplace interactions suddenly reorganizing itself like puzzle pieces falling into a completely different pattern. Every time she had generously shared her expertise, every occasion when she had helped struggling colleagues, every moment when she had prioritized project success over personal credit—all of it had been strategic suicide in a competitive environment she hadn't even realized she was in.

"So when I teach them how to do things better," she said slowly, "I'm essentially giving them weapons to use against me in a competition I didn't know I was participating in?"

"Exactly," 23 said with the sad satisfaction of someone who had successfully diagnosed a chronic condition. "And then they treat you rudely because they see you as either a threat they need to neutralize or a resource they can exploit. Your willingness to help makes you seem naive, which makes them respect you less, not more."

Me sat in stunned silence, processing this information with the thoroughness of someone whose entire understanding of professional relationships had just been revealed as fundamentally incorrect.

"But that's so... inefficient," she finally said, her voice carrying the bewilderment of someone discovering that humans had collectively chosen a suboptimal strategy for achieving shared goals.

"It is inefficient," 23 agreed. "But evolution didn't optimize humans for efficiency. It optimized them for individual survival and reproduction, which often involves competing successfully against other humans, even when cooperation would produce better overall outcomes."

She paused, studying Me's face with the concern of someone watching a friend realize they had been playing a completely different game from everyone else.

"Your autism makes you think like a scientist," 23 continued. "You want to solve problems and optimize systems. But most neurotypical people are thinking like politicians—they want to advance their own position relative to others, even if it means the overall system performs worse."

"So what am I supposed to do?" Me asked, feeling like someone who had just learned that the instruction manual she had been following her entire career was written for a different species.

"You have a few options," 23 said, settling into her role as survival instructor. "You can continue being generous with your knowledge and accept that it will be exploited. You can become more strategic about what information you share and with whom. Or you can try to find work environments where collaboration is genuinely valued over competition."

She took a thoughtful pause, considering the complexities of offering advice to someone whose neurological wiring made certain social strategies nearly impossible.

"The important thing is to understand that when people treat you badly after you've helped them, it's not because you're doing something wrong. It's because they're operating according to competitive social rules that no one ever explained to you. You've been playing chess while thinking it was a cooperative puzzle-solving game."

Me finished her cigarette with the slow, deliberate movements of someone processing a paradigm shift. The workplace dynamics that had confused and hurt her for decades finally made sense, but the understanding came with the bitter realization that her natural inclination toward helpfulness and knowledge-sharing had been systematically exploited by people who understood the competitive nature of professional environments better than she did.

"It's not fair," she said quietly, not as a complaint but as an observation about the fundamental structure of human social organization.

"No," 23 agreed with the gentle firmness of someone who had long ago accepted that fairness wasn't guaranteed by the universe. "It's not fair. But understanding the rules, even when they're stupid rules, gives you more choices about how to respond."

As Me walked home that afternoon, she carried with her yet another piece of the social puzzle that had been missing her entire life. The revelation was simultaneously liberating and depressing—liberating because it explained decades of confusing interactions, depressing because it suggested that the straightforward, collaborative approach she preferred was essentially incompatible with most professional environments.

She was learning to navigate a world designed for a different type of mind, one strategic disappointment at a time.