Game 3: Trash Character
When the haze lifted, and the warm glow of fire and velvet faded, Kyle experienced a sudden jolt: He wasn't Kyle anymore. He was DeKalb.
The realization hit him in the chest. For a moment he was unable to breathe, as though his body were rejecting the truth. He swallowed hard but his throat was dry and rough, almost like swallowing glass.
"DeKalb," he whispered, running the name around on his tongue. He hoped it would go away when spoken aloud, but it didn't. The term was bitter, as ash and iron, and stuck to him, heavy and indisputable.
He pinched his arm hard enough to leave marks. The sting was real, but the pain didn't rouse him. If this was a dream, it would not allow him out.
This is not real. It can't be. I was in the hospital, where I was supposed to die, not here.
He turned, scanning the room, looking for anything that might break the illusion. Nothing changed. Serpent curtains. The golden mirror. The weight of the room. All of it solid, all real.
He staggered over to a side table. His body was heavier and slower but stronger than it was before. An ornate crystal orb waited. When his fingers touched it, the surface rippled and text burned before his eyes.
A status window appeared.
For a moment panic eased. He'd spent years with Travellers, knew the menus and systems and numbers of the game. Seeing interface was like a life line.
Then he saw the stats:
[Name: DeKalb von Lythop]
[Age: 14]
[Elemental Affinity: Affinity for Darkness]
[Stamina: 2]
[Strength: 6]
[Speed: 7]
He blinked and rubbed his eyes, but the number remained at two. Just enough to get up a set of stairs without falling.
"No…" his voice cracked. "No, no, no - don't do this to me again."
He scrolled further down. Each line cut deeper:
[Negative Traits:]
Void
Revelation
Terminally Ill
Curse of the Weak
Frequent Sickness
[cold hands, cold feet, irregular fevers, dizziness, weakness in limbs]
His breath came out in ragged exhalations. His knees gave way and he fell on the velvet bed, sinking like quicksand.
He went through the list again, slower, hoping the words would change. They didn't. They burned into his vision.
Void. Revelation. Terminally Ill. Curse of the Weak. Frequent Sickness.
It was the same cruel build he had once made for fun, of cursed-fragile character, a reflection of himself. And now it wasn't just numbers on a screen, it was his blood, his marrow, his breath.
"This is the build," he whispered. "The one I made… that night."
The memory hit hard. Two years ago, slumped at his desk, surrounded by pill bottles and papers, too tired to move, too tired to hope. Chemo had hollowed him out. His bones had felt like glass. His skin was yellow, his lips cracked. His body failing while time ticked away.
He remembered sitting in front of his flickering monitor, hands trembling on the keyboard, opening Travellers not to win, but to breathe. It was the only place left that didn't hurt.
That night, a voice inside him had whispered: make a character like yourself. A terminally ill genius. Someone doomed but brilliant.
So he had. He'd picked two genius traits, desperate for brilliance he'd never had in real life. The game demanded a price for that power. For every gift, a weakness. He'd chosen the weaknesses. The illness. The curse. The fragility.
It had felt poetic. If he couldn't outrun his cancer in the real world, at least he could give that pain to pixels and force the game to live with it, too.
But now, sitting in this room with a heart pounding in someone else's chest, he understood the weight of that choice.
He had created DeKalb. And now he was DeKalb.
Kyle let out a bitter laugh that cracked halfway into a sob. His fingers dug into the sheets, knuckles white.
"Dying in real life wasn't enough? You dragged me here just to kill me again?"
His voice rang off the chamber walls, raw and angry. He placed a palm to his chest, feeling his heart beat erratically, too fast. It pulsed harder than his real body ever had, poisoned from the inside-a tree growing from rotten soil.
One year left.
That is what the status window said. That was all DeKalb had before illness took him. One year before the story was over.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to slow his breathing, but his thoughts were out of control.
Why did I do this? Why develop a character such as this? Why?
The memory of that night struck him harder this time. The flickering lamp. The empty room. The blurred, disappointed faces of his parents. The scribbled notes, the syringes, the un-eaten meals. The loneliness.
No one had been there for him. Not his family. Not his friends. Only the game. Only the cold light of the screen staring back at him.
In that haze of despair he whispered: If I have to die, then let my character die too.
It had been a bitter joke - a test, a question: what story could come out of a hero who was never supposed to live?
Now that joke was the reality.
The fire cracked in the hearth. The golden clock ticked. The serpent crest above him glimmered. It all pressed down like a coffin.
His mind screamed: Escape. Wake up. Find a way out.
But his body didn't move. His breathings were shallow, each bordered with fear.
Then a ripple of light went over his vision. New words appeared before him, sharper and colder than the status screen.
System Notification: