Chapter 77: Chrissy's Vision Reduction
Chrissy
The vision came while washing dishes—reality flickering for three seconds, showing decayed kitchen, darkness spreading.
Then normal. Just normal kitchen, soap bubbles, Steve's concerned face.
"How long?" he asked immediately.
"Three seconds. Mild." I dried my hands. "That's the first one in two days. They're getting rarer."
"Intensity?"
"Maybe three out of ten? Before the assault, they were nines or tens. Sustained, terrifying. Now they're just... flickers."
Steve's relief was visible. The corruption scars on his arms—faint black veins, permanent marks—caught the morning light through the window.
"Maybe it's connected to dimensional activity," he theorized. "Gate closed, Mind Flayer gone, less interference bleeding through realities."
"You really think it's that simple?"
"Probably not. But I'm hoping." He pulled me close. "Dr. Owens wants to run more tests. See if there's medical explanation."
"More tests. Great." I'd been poked and prodded for days. "At least they're not getting worse."
"That's something."
Dr. Owens
Chrissy Cunningham's brain scans showed patterns I'd never seen in normal patients.
"Your perception centers are unusually active," I explained, showing her the images. "See these areas? They're processing information most people can't perceive."
"Meaning?"
"You're dimensionally sensitive. It's rare—maybe one in ten thousand people. You can perceive boundaries between realities that others can't." I set down the scans. "Gift and curse, depending on perspective."
"Feels more like curse," Chrissy said quietly.
Steve stood beside her, protective. "Is there treatment? Cure?"
"No. It's neurological trait, not illness. But with the gate closed and Mind Flayer severed, you're experiencing less interference. Think of it like radio static—when dimensional activity is high, your brain picks up more 'noise.' With things quiet, the noise reduces."
"So as long as gates stay closed, I'm okay?"
"Mostly. You'll always be sensitive. But severity depends on dimensional activity levels."
Steve
The Walkman solution was proving reliable. When visions started, Chrissy hit play immediately—Kate Bush, our song, grounding her in present reality.
"It works," she confirmed. "Music pulls me back, disrupts whatever's trying to pull me away."
"Season 4 knowledge," I admitted quietly. "In the original timeline, music protected people from... something. I adapted the technique."
"Something? You don't know what?"
"Not specifically. Just that music helps dimensional sensitivity victims." I touched the Walkman around her neck. "Keep this always. Just in case."
El approached, having listened to our conversation. "I can look. See what connects to Chrissy."
"Is that safe?" I asked.
"Won't touch it. Just look."
Eleven
I closed my eyes, reached out with my powers toward Chrissy's mind. Gently. Not invasive, just observing.
Found the connection immediately. Thread of dimensional energy, faint but present, stretching from her consciousness toward... something. Far away. Dark. Patient.
Not immediate threat. But watching. Waiting.
"Something sees you," I told Chrissy, opening my eyes. "Far away. Not danger now. But aware."
Her face went pale. "What is it?"
"Don't know. Different from Mind Flayer. Older, maybe? But sleeping. Not active."
"Vecna," Steve whispered. So quiet I almost missed it.
"What?"
"Nothing. Just... naming the threat helps process it." He squeezed Chrissy's hand. "But El's right. Not danger now. Not for long time. We'll face it when it wakes."
Chrissy
The knowledge that something watched me from distance was terrifying and somehow manageable simultaneously. Like knowing a storm approached but was still miles away.
"How long?" I asked Steve privately. "Until it becomes threat?"
"Year and a half. Maybe more." He touched my face, corruption scars visible on his fingers. "Plenty of time to prepare, research, find weaknesses. And you have protection—music, El watching over you, me planning contingencies."
"You're always planning contingencies."
"That's what keeps everyone alive."
I wore the headphones constantly now. Walkman loaded with favorites, ready to ground me at moment's notice. The visions came less frequently—once every few days instead of hourly.
Bearable. Survivable. Manageable with the right precautions.
Dustin
Found Chrissy in Steve's kitchen, headphones on, cooking dinner while music played.
"You okay?" I asked.
She pulled one earphone aside. "Yeah. Visions are down to once every few days. Music helps."
"Steve figured that out?"
"Steve figures out everything eventually. Paranoid genius." She smiled fondly. "You hungry? Making enough for army."
"Always hungry. What is it?"
"Spaghetti. Bob's recipe. Joyce gave it to me."
The mention of Bob made us both smile. He'd survived everything, was marrying Joyce, had become unlikely hero of Hawkins. Proof that fate could be changed, death wasn't inevitable, good people could get happy endings.
"Steve did that," I said. "Saved Bob. Changed timeline. Proved impossible things are possible."
"Steve did it. We helped. Team effort." Chrissy stirred the sauce. "But yeah. He saved all of us. Multiple times. And almost killed himself doing it."
"Worth it though, right? Everyone survived."
"Ask him if it was worth the corruption scars and dimensional trauma."
"He'd say yes."
"I know. That's what worries me."
Steve
Watched Chrissy sleep that night. Headphones still on, music playing softly, protecting her from visions.
The dimensional sensitivity was permanent. The connection to whatever watched from far away was real. Season 4's threat was coming, just dormant now.
But today? Today she was safe. Sleeping peacefully, visions reduced to manageable flickers.
I'd changed so much—her survival, Bob's survival, Billy's redemption, Will's freedom. Major deviations from canon creating cascade effects I couldn't fully predict.
But they're alive. That's what matters. Deal with consequences as they come.
My corruption scars ached—phantom pain from severed Mind Flayer connection. Permanent reminder of the cost. But the pain was fading. Healing. Becoming part of me instead of fighting me.
Maybe I'd never be fully normal again. Maybe the scars would always mark me, the Phase 3 abilities would always make me slightly inhuman, the dimensional sensitivity would always let me perceive things others couldn't.
But I'm alive. She's alive. We're all alive. That's victory enough.
Chrissy stirred, reached for my hand in her sleep. I held on, anchor in present reality for both of us.
Tomorrow we'd start planning Season 3 preparations. Tomorrow I'd coordinate with Hopper on Russian surveillance. Tomorrow I'd resume being paranoid protector.
But tonight? Tonight we were just two teenagers who'd survived impossible odds, resting before the next battle.
529 days until Season 4. 309 days until Season 3.
Plenty of time. We've got this.
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