[ti]solo[/ti]The Three Things

Since she'd gotten this body, Chryssa Glasgow had learned Three Things.

More things went unlearned. Secrets. Memories. A never-ending cycle where she always died at the end, enraged by her seeming misfortunes while simultaneously ungrateful for the things in her life worth celebrating. Died, and died young. Always. Well— all except this time.

That was what God wanted her to think.

God wanted her to be grateful, because this Chryssa Glasgow wasn't dying— not in any way that instruments would show, anyway. She had no disease, no fatal heart condition, no contract with dark powers-to-be. She was simply trapped in a half-life in her father's manor with no agency, no ability, and full dependence on the charity of "real adults" like her uncle to even get her hands on a VR console.

Knock knock. "Chryssa? You're in there, aren't you?"

"You may enter," came the breezy reply, and Chryssa's father entered the room to see his daughter sitting on the side of her bed, innocently polishing one of her antique sword replicas. Her WorldScreen was stowed inside her pillow, still cooling down from its recent use. "Hello, <my father>."

"You don't have to call me that, you know," he said, brows raising quizzically, and sat down on the corner of the bed next to her.

Chryssa didn't look up from the blade. She held it up, watching the sliver of his face reflected in its surface. It was an earnest face, bearded and well-trimmed and looking at her with well-meaning in its eyes. "Oh, I'm just practicing in case the cameras are on. How else will people know what our relationship is?"

He chuckled. "Family resemblance? Context? You crack me up, kiddo." Still in the reflection, she saw him look down at his hands. They seemed worn, wrinkled, weary. Too real.

This man was supposed to be her father. Chryssa Glasgow knew better. Her father never had a name— he was a background character, a figment with no face or hands or history. She shared nothing with this person— if he had sprung into being only moments ago before he walked through her bedroom door, she would never have known the difference.

So Chryssa regarded him with suspicion, for he was surely only here to deliver the next plot point. She'd been waiting for years— almost as long as she'd been wheelchair-bound. What's next? What 'interesting' new development would lead to her demise? What unexpected occurrence would plunge the family into poverty? What "fun" outing meant to expand her horizons would place her in the path of an oncoming ice cream truck, or a golf cart, or a herd of escaped bulls?

"What are you thinking about?" her father asked quietly.

"A herd of escaped bulls," Chryssa answered lightly. He sighed.

"Sweetie, nothing like that is going to happen."

"It could," Chryssa said, turning ghost-gray eyes on him directly for the first time. She didn't blink. Her tone was almost pitying. "I'm afraid anything could happen. You just lack imagination."

I.

Imagination— and Faith.

That was one of the Three Things she'd come to understand in this place. Just because you weren't dying didn't mean you wouldn't die. It was inevitable. If not today, tomorrow, this year, next year. Normal people didn't understand that. Oh, they said they did, but they didn't really understand. Privately, secretly, they still thought if I do everything right, nothing bad will happen.

If I eat healthy food and go to the dentist and look both ways before crossing the street, nothing bad will happen. If I avoid the bad parts of town and don't smoke and lock my doors every night, nothing bad will happen. If I keep my daughter inside where it's safe and forbid her from playing largely-untested games that might trigger numerous brain and health conditions, nothing bad will happen.

Ordinary people had faith in statistics. Statistically, nothing would happen. Statistically, it would be just another ordinary day.

Chryssa had faith in finality.

Real. Tangible. Unavoidable. And all-powerful, compared to the whimsy of everyday life. Apart from that fact, the world was her to shape as she pleased. Apart from that fact, she could do anything she set her mind to. But for how long? That was the question.

It didn't matter that she wasn't dying right now.

"Nothing bad will happen," her father said firmly, as if echoing her thoughts, and she turned away.

II.

The second of the Three Things was that Chryssa could never be satisfied. Unlike the first of the Things, this was not necessarily something that was true for everyone. Chryssa was sure there were boring people out there who were perfectly content with their farmhouse lives, or— conversely— perfectly miserable in their misfortune.

Chryssa was not everyone. Chryssa was the Precipice Shrine of people— bottomless and vast. Any good fortune was dwarfed by the darkness of her dissatisfaction. No matter how much God gave her, how little suffering she experienced, how many chances at happiness fell into her lap, she would never be satisfied until she won it for herself.

It wasn't enough to live a comfortable life. She had to tear that life back from the brink. She had to fight for it, to make sacrifices, to cut down anyone and anything in her path. A peaceful life she hadn't earned, through blood and tears and bitterness?

Chryssa rejected it. She didn't want it. She didn't want to just be alive— she wanted to live. That was why Morgana played. That was why Morgana kept playing, despite the dangers, despite the warnings, despite her father's fear. He was not her father, and this was not her life.

Her life was something she would build, and tear down, on her own.

"I'll go ask Martha if dinner is ready," her father said, breaking her reverie. The bed creaked as he stood up and Chryssa came back as if from a trance, blinking. She could barely focus on him. Was it just her, or did he already look fuzzy around the edges? "...You look like you need to rest."

"That's it?" she asked, unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice. A familial visit? It seemed she'd have to keep waiting a little longer for her fill of misfortune. That was fine— she was used to it. Biding her time, waiting for the world to turn on her. She had a whole WorldScreen waiting.

"That's it." He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. "Love you, kiddo. Come on out when you're ready." He left, and left a strangeness behind him that spoke of unsaid things.

III.

The last Thing was something that Chryssa, no matter how hard she tried— in the game or out of it— could not remember. Her thoughts skated around it, avoiding a secret truth. A book. A rod. A dark, door-shaped absence in her mind. A door...

Had she gone through it?

And if she had, which side was she standing on?