SAVE POINT 12

Rosabella

My eyelids fluttered open, and something above me blurred into view—a four-post bed? The ornate pillars of wood wobbled and distorted as I tried desperately to focus on them...

And pink.

The ceiling was painted a soft pink, and light danced—almost blinding to my tender pupils—off the glinting glass of a chandelier. —Chandelier? Where the heck was I? I struggled, momentarily, with the plethora of heavy comforters that apparently aimed to pin my flailing limbs down. Either the covers were incredibly fluffy, or I was incredibly weak...

“System, what’s my HP?” I muttered, my hand going, first, to my head and, then, to my side where my wound was bandaged. It didn’t hurt like before: was I better? And was I back in The Game or still in NYC? My question should answer both—

[System Understands Query…Loading Response…]

Ah, so I WAS in The Game…

[System Answer: ROSABELLA, GAME MAKER 9 / Current HP: 70/89]

That’s when I remembered the passing out part. But I didn't remember this room…

I was pretty sure I hadn't ever been in a room to rival it—or anything close. The bedroom was enormous—more of a suite than anything else. Huge windows lined one side, adorned with plentiful, maroon drapes that fell to the floor and danced gold tassels across the mahogany hardwood there. The ceiling was carved—hand-painted?—with swirling, sweeping designs that could keep my eyes occupied for hours. And I did lay in a canopy bed. Even as I struggled to sit up, I noticed pillows piled high behind me: gold, pink and white. A snow-like comforter laid, crumpled by my bare feet where I'd kicked it off. Past the edge of the bed extended a pattered rug and two, stylish, tub chairs facing a grand fireplace. Was that a marble mantle with fresh flowers on top? It couldn't be REAL marble, could it? If it was, I didn't have the money to afford this place. There’d been a mistake...

Then, the reality hit me like a ton of bricks as my heart skittered to a stop in my chest. Oh my God. I'd died, hadn't I? I'd died and gone to Heaven—

Two knocks on the door shattered my already-earth-shattering realization.

And the far door swung open to display—

Wait...Sparo? Sparo wasn’t dead too. ...Was he?

I must have had a heck of an expression smeared over my sleep-ridden face, because the dark-skinned man yanked up his low-riding jeans with an uncomfortable clearing of his throat and slid his sunglasses down his nose to peer at me. "You look like someone stole your pony," he stated matter-of-factly.

"I—" I stumbled over my tongue.

It felt like someone had stolen something from me, but it wasn’t a horse; I’d never had one to begin with. ...Or was that what I was grappling with? ...Never having this before? ...This opulent lushness in my life?

Sparo raised an eyebrow as he looked around the room, finally taking off his ridiculous glasses and tucking them in his back pocket. "Too grand for your preferences?" he asked. I noticed that he was shuffling some kind of plastic bag in his hands but didn't pay much attention. I was wrestling, myself, with something. Was this place too grand?

"No," I told him quietly. "I just don't usually...fit in places like this," I admitted.

The room felt like a shoe that was too big—like, if I turned my head too quickly or made a sudden move, it all might slip off...and away. Lost somewhere behind me.

But the man wasn’t really listening. He fished a hand in his bag, muttering, "Okay, so I might have overdone it a little bit, but I figured you'd be hungry when you woke up, so I went a little crazy and got us gas station, convenience store, cheesy fries. To share. I mean, of course, you'd share with me."

That sideways smile made me want to laugh almost immediately. Wait…what? Fries?

And he wasn't joking about the sharing size—I saw that as he pulled a large, square Styrofoam container out of the white, plastic bag. And the toe-curling smell of delectable grease and comfort plowed right into my nose. Apparently, I was starved. I reached my fingers out to grab a strand of cheesy goodness even before he'd fully hoisted it next to me on the comforter.

"Ladies first," he joked, while I had the fry already halfway to my lips. If he only knew how much I was drooling...

Perfection.

Absolute perfection.

My stomach growled as I reach for another, letting the fry melt on my tongue.

"Well, someone's hungry," Sparo remarked, grinning.

"Thank you," I mumbled, way too gratefully around a mouthful of fries. When I thought better of it, I asked, "How long have I been out? ...And what is this place?"

"It's crazy in here, right?" Sparo held out both hands, palms up, in admiration of the room around us, "Damn, and I thought I had the penthouse in Somergot Prison!" He laughed, his head tilting back. And his laugh looked and sounded so...free.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

A strange twinge of jealously raced through me because...I wanted to feel like that—light, unburdened. But my chest felt tight and clogged and my limbs...heavy. Because Goran was dead, and I was here and…well, it felt like I’d been run over by a bus even if my HP was better than it’d been…

"This is The Higher Place, the traditional residence of Game Makers," Sparo told me, his eyes darting around, "The whole place is gorgeous—like a palace or resort, and we're right on the water. It's like a picture! You've been asleep for a little over a week. You blacked out, and we made Prickgada give us a health pack for you, but, afterwards, she ran for it before we could grab her. She's probably somewhere four worlds away by now. We had to come here to get you health supplies."

"Health supplies?" I crinkled up my face in confusion—was I just still in a daze or did I hear him wrong?—"I thought you said you gave me a health pack. Why would you need more health supplies—?"

"Well, that's just the thing..." Sparo shook his head, looking down at the bunching covers like it was his only shelter from my stare, "The health pack worked for a minute but, then... Then, it started decreasing again—your HP. We don't know what would cause—"

"It's okay," I interrupted him, stirring a fry in the cheesy sauce to distract myself from the fear coiling in my stomach, "I do."

"You...what?"—now, the dragon-non-dragon looked confused.

"I know what's wrong with me," I said, swallowing hard and hating how his incredulous stare punched holes in my forehead, "The Grand Dragon told me."

"The Grand Dragon?!" The man's voice climbed from disbelief to full-on shock. His eyebrows were nearly up in his hairline, and a fully-loaded fry paused in the air between the container and his mouth like he was suddenly frozen.

"When we were in the church," I insisted bluntly, "The Grand Dragon said I took on the darkness from The Game when I repaired part of it. That it made me sick..."

Silence filled in the holes between us for a minute, and I bit on the inside of my lip, realizing I shouldn't have eaten so quickly. I kind of felt like throwing up, and it had nothing to do with the fries and everything to do with what I'd just said. Because, as I looked down at the insides of my arms, resting on my cross-legged legs, I realized that the skin there looked ashen.

Transparent.

Like, if I squinted really hard, I could see black running through my veins—darkness. What would it do to me? How did I stop it? My head was so heavy. What if I just laid it down on the soft pillow again and shut my eyes?

"Did the Grand Dragon tell you how to fix it?" Sparo whispered finally.

I shook my head at him—no.

And his lips drew into a somber line. "Well, some of the healers here have a temporary solution, at least," he told me, sighing like he'd put all his effort into the gust of wind leaving his lungs, "There's this root they've been crushing and stirring in the water we give you. It helps, but the dosage is every few hours—"

"Did you change me?" I blurted suddenly.

First, I was dying to change the topic—this was downright depressing right now—and, second, I'd just realized I was no longer wearing my body armor but a pair of very fuzzy pajamas. That was before I realized what I'd just insinuated—that Sparo might have seen me naked—

That Sparo—oh God! Why did I just SAY stuff like this???!

I blushed 20 shades of scarlet.

"No, no," Sparo rushed, waving both hands insistently between us, "that was all Mimi, I swear—"

[System Query: Would You Like to Flirt with SPARO, RED VODYARACKA SKYDRAKE, DRAGON 15? Use 30 Baddie Points to Flirt?]

[Yes, Flirt] [No, Thank You]

The neon prompt jumped into view almost as quickly as I swatted it down. Fire lit my cheeks. Oh my God, not this again—

"Knock knock..." a sing-song voice echoed from the open doorway. Speak of the devil... "Good morning," Mimi smiled genuinely at me, inclining her head over her slight, willowy form although, by the angle of the light streaming in the windows, it was clearly later than that. "I hope you don't mind, but I helped you out of your armor when we got here. They had all these old lady nightgowns in the drawers"—the bridge of her freckled nose shriveled up in disapproval—"I made a special trip to get you those pjs."

I knew she was an angel. The fabric of the pants was pillow-soft against my legs. Wait...this room...those nightgowns... Sparo had said we were in a place that was a residence for the Game Makers. Had my parents seen this room? Were the old-fashioned nightgowns my mother's? My mind spun. I had a million questions, including—

"Wait, no offense, but what are you doing here?" The jumbled words directed at Mimi came tumbling out before I'd meant them to. She’d just been tagging along to find Goran. Now, that he was dead—now, that the taxicab had run him over—I’d thought that maybe she’d just…

But the petite girl didn't seem phased. She landed a tiny, casual hand on her hip, waving towards me with the other one. "Oh, after hearing what went down with Goran, my bosses reassigned me," she stated breezily.

"To…what?" I blinked at the girl.

She ducked her head a little, "As Chief Protector of the Game Maker."

Oh no, no, no. Suddenly everything came crashing into place—crashing over my head.

This place? It was a palace, and they'd been calling me 'Game Maker' over and over.

‘Chief Protector of the Game Maker?’ A bodyguard? I had...bodyguards???? It sounded like I was a ruler—like I was squarely where I didn't want to be from the start of all this. I had to admit it, I began hyperventilating on the spot.

Sweating.

Seizing.

Because Goran had been wrong about many things, but, maybe, he'd been right about this. Goran...

Oh my God, the green Charmus-thing had—EATEN him.

I clutched at the nearest bedpost, willing myself not to fall. My face must have been ashen, because I watched Mimi and Sparo exchange alarmed looks.

"I'll go get her the next dose of medicine," the dark-skinned man rushed, "Mimi, have the servants take her to the bathhouse, and get her to relax."

The girl nodded, snapping her fingers so that two, black-and-white-clad maids appeared in the doorway.

"Can you help Rosabella to the bathhouse, so she can bathe?" Mimi chirped at them in a high-pitched, clipped voice.

And the women—probably not much older than me—nodded and moved towards me to grab my arms, a flutter of white, doily aprons and puffy, black sleeves.

"Here, miss."

"Come with us, miss. We'll get you all cleaned up and feeling better."

"Anything for the Game Maker."

"You saved us all, miss."

But I couldn't take it. Not the respect in their eyes. Not the corresponding system pop-ups:

[System Reward: You’ve Clearly Impressed The Gamers Back Home! +14 XP, 962/1000]

[System Reward: Talk About Honor and Respect; You’re Basically A Celebrity! +25 Baddie Points, 670]

I couldn't let them take me.

I wasn’t a ruler.

I didn't deserve the respect in their eyes or their bobbing heads. I was just a girl—just a girl who did what was required of her.

I struggled, trying to get them to let go, "Sparo? I'm not—I'm not what they think—"

But his eyes in the doorway were only kind when I looked up. And accepting. "Yes, you are," he said with unshakable certainty. When I blinked back helplessly at him and very much unconvinced, he waved me off, "Oh, give them a break. You saved their world. You fixed it. They're entitled to be a little thankful. Take it."