Wine sloshing in my “gag gift” sized glass—the one I swore I’d never use—I lean heavily on the kitchen counter and chug.

I can’t believe him. I can’t believe any of them.

At this point it’s not the months of hard work lost—though that’s considerable—or losing all evidence of Dad’s last built or even that I can’t restart the project. It’s the why. What was the point?

“Just a game,” I mutter, and take another swig. That was fine and dandy for the lot of them. They had lives outside of the game. I assume, anyway. And maybe that’s not a fair assumption because Winston definitely spends more time online than I do. Justin doesn’t even have a real job.

I set the glass down a little too hard. Good thing it’s plastic.

“Get over yourself, Lexa,” I say into the silence of my apartment. Surprise, surprise—the boxes don’t respond.

Just like my bedroom, the living room is a wreck. Dad’s been gone a week and I haven’t figured out what to do with his things. Everything he’d had in his room, all his medical supplies, a wealth of random bullshit I’d found in a storage unit he’d been keeping. It’s everywhere. He’s everywhere.

Dealing with this mess should be at the top of my list, especially given my serious need to either move or find a new roommate.

And I just don’t want to deal with it. Not tonight. There were only two things on tonight’s agenda: finish the castle, and try the beta. Even though my feelings about said beta are mostly bitter resentment, the sad truth is that I have nothing else going on in my life.

It’s weird how these things snowball. One minute you’re in college. You’re surrounded by friends, getting hammered every other weekend, partying between mid-term crunch and final frenzy… I mean, if you call playing BattleStar while passing around a joint in someone’s apartment a “party.” Which, I do.

Then the next thing you know, you’re in thirty, living with your cancer-riddled father, playing office matron by day and nursemaid by night while your friends get married, have kids, move away. The few who still live in town are so consumed with their family life that the only conversation you’ve had in the past five years was when they accidentally butt-dialed you that one time. And now even your internet friends can’t stand your presence.

Way to fucking go, Alexandra.

I take another long drag of wine, wishing to christ I had something stronger. But Dad wasn’t supposed to have alcohol with the drugs he’d been taking. I’d only kept the one bottle of red on hand because he refused to touch the stuff.

“That’s something I can do,” I say to no one. “Tomorrow, I’m going to the liquor store.”

Becoming an alcoholic sounds like giving up. It also sounds like a fantastic idea, but only if I swap the word “alcoholic” for “lush.” That’s classier, right?

Of course, that doesn’t solve the question of what I’m doing tonight.

“To game or not to game. There’s the fucking question.”

Again, no answer. The apartment is as silent as any city apartment ever is—that is to say, I can hear my neighbor’s muffled TV on one side, and a toddler screaming on the other. And there’s another noise, a quieter, buzzing noise beneath it all…

My phone.

Which I left back in the bedroom. Maybe I should reconsider that subcutaneous thing.

Quickly, I drain the rest of the glass and leave it on the counter before jogging to the bedroom. It could be Lupe or Mom, calling to check up on me. And pigs could fucking fly.

The caller ID reads “Rob.” My heart pounds in my throat. Rob’s silence during the Wolves’ inquisition is like a knife in my ribs. I don’t know why he didn’t stand up for me. Then again, maybe that’s my own fault. I was the one who asked him to keep my business private, after all. If he couldn’t find a way around that roadblock, can I really blame him for holding his tongue?

Yep. I can, I will, and I am.

I hit ‘mute,’ and drop the phone back on its charger.

A second later, when he tries again, I turn the phone off entirely. Blocking his number would be more effective in the long term. It’s not a step I’m ready to take. Not yet. Fact stands, though, that White Knight Robert is the last person I need to hear from right now. Mikah would be better company, for all that I’m coming to hate him. At least there I’m sure where I stand.

Groaning, I flop onto the bed and stare at the LED light on my headset. Amber; still charging. Beside it, my clock glows forty past the hour. Beta’s open. The beta’s been open for a while.

I don’t need to be first in the gate. I’m not a streamer, and after tonight there may not be any point in playing. Sure, I’ll miss the game. I won’t miss the griefing and harassment.

I will miss building. Maybe it’s silly, given I’m not an architect of any kind in real life, but making bases in game has always felt like...like I was accomplishing something. It gives me the sort of feeling I imagine artists have when they’re sketching, or mixing paint, or sculpting. There’s something almost zen about mining for materials to finish your garden wall, or taking a hike into the forest to find the perfect wood for a new bow. There’s fulfilment in DUSKFALL, the sort I can’t seem to find in the real world.

And that’s probably the surest sign I should stop playing. Find something IRL that gives the same high. But again, what’s the point? Does the dubious reality of where I found fulfillment negate that it was found? Does being digital make that world any less real?

I glance at the boxes piled high around me. Despite the dim light, the dark etching on a sheet of graph paper stands out. I pluck it from where it’s curled over the side of a nearby box, and hold the drawing of Dad’s castle above me.

It was a fantasy mixed with real medieval architecture; the sort we could never have made in this day and age. Spec’d for the bluffs above Fulnedebi village, the towers seemed to grow from the cliffs themselves. The massive keep stood even higher, looking over the valley below like a proud and protective parent.

Dad never made a distinction. He’d spent his career designing buildings all over the greater Los Angeles area. They weren’t anything special. Apartment complexes, office suites, a few small clinics. But between us, we’d erected masterpieces to rival the cathedrals of old. Thanks to DUSKFALL, he’d seen fantasy after fantasy come to life. Sure, that life was presented to him through a TV screen. Though he’d tried VR at my behest, it gave him vertigo like highrise scaffolding never did. But every time I played, he was watching through my eyes, listening through my feed. Every finished build made him light up with pride and contentment, right up to the end.

The last thing he’d wanted was to see the Castle finished. His opus. I’d almost made that happen, too. If I just hadn’t waited…

That’s what I’m doing right now. Again. I’m waiting. Hesitating, even though there’s still time. DUSKFALL isn’t gone; it’s just different. And I have all of his specs right here. There’s nothing stopping me from trying again. Nothing except my own self pity… and that a single MMO server means limited building space.

The thought is like a brick to the head.

Why hadn’t that occurred to me before? DUSKFALL’s always had a predetermined map. It has boundaries and restrictions. That’s why PVP sucks: it forces people into close proximity of each other, putting building space at a premium. You have to be first in the door to get a good spot, or be willing and able to kill over it.

My hesitations about a PVP game pales next to the notion that if I don’t act fast I might never be able to claim the bluff. Unless MANIK PIX-E completely overhauled their map—and I don’t see any reason why they would this late in development—that’s the only area in the game where the castle would work as designed.

The thought is like electricity in my veins. I sit up on my knees, bracing a hand on the filing cabinet that serves as my headboard and reach for the headgear and controller charging on their stands.

I disconnect the charging cord from the stand, intending to plug it directly into the headset, then pause.

There are a lot of rumors that using the headgear while it’s charging can give you cancer, or various other neurological issues. None of it’s backed by any science I can find, but I know firsthand what cancer looks like. It isn’t pretty...

Screw it. I plug the device in and put it on.

VR headgear runs off a combination of vocal and neurological commands, not a controller. When it asks for my authentication code, I say, “A lo hecho, pecho.”

A bright, cheery riff confirms my authorization, and a moment later I’m in a small, round room lit with an orange ambiance that lessens the glare off-white walls. Hung around me like portraits are various icons; some for games, others for movie theatres or chat lounges.

There aren’t any lobby avatars, and no ability to walk around. The visual is more for keyword references, and to give the user a sense of familiarity.

I center on the DUSKFALL icon, noticing that though the keyword hasn’t changed with the updated program, the artwork has. What used to be a simple square with a grey-to-black gradient and pixilated stars is now an icon of a full moon, framed against a silhouette forest with blinking red eyes hidden in its depths.

“That’s on the nose.”

“Vocal command not understood.”

Right.

“Launch: DUSKFALL.”

The same music riff plays, and the world…

Is replaced by a Terms of Service agreement.

For a second I stare, uncomprehending at the document hovering in front of me. Why didn’t I expect that?

Part of me—the part that works in office management and doesn’t appreciate people who can’t be bothered to read contracts before they sign them—wants to sit here and read every word.

But not tonight. Not after the day I’ve been having.

“Accept.”

The first difference is the music. Gone is the JAWS-esque opening sequence that always felt like MANIK PIX-E trying just a touch too hard. They’ve replaced it with a soft, haunting melody of strings and an instrument that sounds like nothing so much as moonlit fog. An oboe, maybe? I was never great at identifying instruments.

Either way, it’s a touch more “fantasy” than horror. So is everything around me. Slowly at first, but with gathering speed, a blue light emanates from the floor; swirling in clouds of mist that ebb and flow at the base of dark, solid-black trees.

I’m standing in a small meadow surrounded by pillars of void. It must be just a short while before dawn but… shouldn’t there be an avatar creator?

Is this a glitch?

A fresh wave of disappointment clutches at my chest. I tamp it down with a deep breath of cold, wet air. It’s a beta test. More importantly, it’s MANIK PIX-E. There were bound to be a few glitches.

I frown. Cold and wet…?

SNAP

I whirl toward the sound, distracted from my own thoughts by a rush of pure fear. Demons? This would be the place for them, but—

No. There’s nothing there except a massive oak tree with a full length, oval shaped mirror encased in its bark.

“This is definitely different,” I mutter.

With nothing else to do, I fumble for the controller before realizing it’s not there. There’s nothing in my hands—my hands do not exist. Panic rises momentarily in my throat—but, wait. The neurological controls? Did they get them working?

Taking another deep breath, and trying to ignore the oddity of feeling lungs in a body I can’t see, I try to take a step forward. One step becomes two, and three, and the mirror slides ever closer. Or, I slide closer to it. Without a body it’s disconcerting as all hell.

The mirror is foggy with condensation as I approach, but the closer I get the more it melts away until I’m left facing a—Oh hell no.

I frown at the pale, reedy, masculine form the mirror reflects. Looking down, I find the same form attached to myself, now. Where it came from, I have no idea, but sensation prickles all over the skin that is now mine. I can even feel the cold-shriveled penis which is just weird.

“At least the graphics are better,” I grouse.

They aren’t just ‘better,’ in fact—they’re a massive improvement. When I lift my hand to my face, I’m shocked to see miniscule textures on the skin; pores, faint discolorations, veins at its wrist. I wiggle its fingers. They move precisely like I’d expect; no lag, no stiffness. I can even feel the way the skin tightens and bunches at the knuckles.

“Woah.”

This is a step above and beyond; impressively so. Whoever gave MANIK-PIXI the money to stay open clearly believed in their investment.

Lowering my hand, I focus on the old man staring from my reflection, and sigh.

“This isn’t going to work for me.”

Immediately, the glass fogs over—like someone breathing across the surface—and letters appear one by one across the surface: “What would you like to change?”

“Yeah, that’s not creepy. Um. Everything?”

Nothing happens.

“Gender?”

The mirror fogs again. When it clears, it leaves behind a list of body parts and pronouns. Hesitantly at first, and with growing confidence, I touch each appropriate selection, marveling at the way the glass feels clammy and slick against my finger. It feels real.

The fog recedes to reveal the same body as before, minus the penis and adding a few other things. Two said things are utterly clownish in proportion.

“This again,” I mutter, instinctively putting my hands over ‘my’ breasts in an attempt to alleviate the backache inspired by the very sight of these monstrosities. Why anyone thinks double-Ds are a good thing is beyond me.

They shrink as my hands close around them.

“Oh, what the shit!” I jerk my hands away. Even though I wanted smaller boobs, there’s a certain element of body horror involved in watching them recede before your eyes.

“Wait…” There’s no way. They couldn’t— They wouldn’t—

Hesitantly, I pull on my breasts and they grow bigger again. Push them in; they shrink.

Oh.

My.

God.

They did.

Laughing all the while, I try the same trick on my ass, then my thighs, calves—even my feet. Over the next hour, I mold my avatar’s body to fit my taste.

There’s a temptation to make myself a replica of what I envy about prettier girls such as my sister, Lupe. She’s thin, her nose is smaller, and her hair is straighter. But apart from the Freudian weirdness that would invoke, rolling a traditionally “pretty” female avatar is a bad idea in an MMO. At least, in my experience.

There’s a certain freedom that comes with the imperfect, particularly when everyone expects you to take the chance to be a supermodel. They might notice me for looking like myself, they might even be cruel, but the teasing wouldn’t be any worse than what I’ve heard IRL. Hell, in a moment of Sarah-McLaughlin irony, I’ve found people are more likely to believe my femininity if my avatar doesn’t look like I stepped from someone’s wet dream. Go figure.

When I’m done, I’m facing an ever-so-slightly “improved” version of myself, pear shape and all. The arms are slightly more muscular, and the skin is clear of my otherwise perpetual blemishes, but I’ve modeled my large nose, the roundness of my face, and the size of my ass pretty well. There are “love handles” on my hips and my thighs touch just like they do in real life.

It looks weird being ghostly white.

“Skin tone,” I say to the mirror and, sure enough, the glass replaces my reflection with a sliding scale of natural skin hues and undertones. I adjust them until my face is properly brown again, then set the undertone to it a golden pop. “That’s much better. Eyes?”

The selection changes again, and I spend another moment finding just the right shade of brown. Whiskey brown, Dad used to say, and after a second’s consideration I add some sparklets of amber gold to help with that imagery. My avatar isn’t me, after all; even if I am more comfortable with realistic-ish avatars than, say, cat girls with purple hair.

Speaking of hair, I ask for that next, expecting an assortment of styles and colours to choose from. Indeed, a colour selector appears, followed by a pictorial list of... textures? Great attention to detail, I guess, but definitely unique in the world of video games.

After pointing the slider to the proper blackish-brown, I take a second to look over the list. There’s a scroll bar on this menu, and I flick through to find they have everything from 1A to 4B. Impressive. Still no styles, though.

When I reach the bottom, though, I find two sliders: length & thickness.

“Seriously?”

I scroll back up just enough to select 2B, before hesitantly touching the length slider. As I bump it forward, the type selections disappear to reveal my avatar’s face and, more importantly, the hair growing at time-lapse speed from the top of my head.

With expanding incredulity, I stop the slider when my hair reaches my waist, and then bump the thickness up, marveling at how my hair volume—and weight—grows.

With my free hand, I touch my hair to find it pliant, and just slightly on the coarse side. My fingers knot into the thick mass exactly as I expect they should.

“How are they doing this?”

Bemused, I bump the hair thickness back down to a manageable level, and settle my hair length an inch past my shoulders.

I try a few more commands after that, finding that while there are selections for “body hair,” “scars,” and “deformations,” there is not a makeup section or species selector. I guess character creation was already too complicated without adding in elves or orcs or eyeshadow.

“DLC material for sure,” I mutter as I finish adding a few imperfections, like a network of faint stretch marks across my wide hips.

“Okay, so. How do I accept this?”

Immediately, the mirror fogs again. When it clears, the reflective quality is gone revealing what looks like a doorway into a orange-and-red bathed meadow. I touch it. My hand passes through, greeted by a cool breeze on the other side.

“Here we go,” I mutter, and step inside.

I have just enough time to register the feeling of dewy grass beneath my feet before the world drops out from beneath me. Everything goes black.