SAVE POINT 103
Loading A Problem & An Unexpected Hilarity...44%
[https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1102021402707628096/1141448306162139146/d44ec098-5e13-4a66-b15f-0e4ade906c90.png][https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1102021402707628096/1141448306556424262/e1ce0c9a-cef1-4c14-9a2f-224cdf612551.png]
Rosabella
"Your sister?!" I can't help but blurt it. The question—the exclamation coming off my sputtering tongue and dropping down, past the balcony railing, towards the strange army on the sandy shoreline, their smoke-spewing tank—tires laden with wet sand—and their slight-built, light-haired girl leader. ...Actually, she's rather short. Is she young or is it her stature? Her expression is just as confused and taken aback as mine probably is.
"Did I stutter?" she spits, "Did I mispronounce the words?" Her voice is hard and mean in a way that wounds me as though this is personal although I don't even know the girl.
I throw my hands down at my sides, more than frustrated. "I don't understand," I call louder, "Who's your sister?"
'And why are you not upset at me?' I want to say, but I let the words sit hostage on the tip of my tongue as my fist clench. She's clearly infuriated. How come that fury isn't directed at me? Everyone's upset at me right now... It's almost throwing me off. But that's nothing like her next words...
"She goes by EmeraldCity_88," the girl spouts, the wind getting the better of the ends of her shoulder-length, white-blonde hair, "Rumors are you have her here. Hand her over to me or else."
The tank lowers its massive gun barrel, clicking threateningly as it lines up with a tower in the east wing.
Shit, this girl's crazy. Where did she get a tank? Did she just create it with her creator magic? With no consequences? Oh my God, maybe what I have just done is terrible.
I scrabble backwards, my fingers fumbling for the door handle and my mind fumbling for some way out of this as my eyes glue to the edge of that damn tank, willing it not to fire again.
"Just—just hold on a sec," I tell her breathlessly, splaying both hands in the air—searching for air—jeez, that's why I'd even come out here. One suffocation episode to another... "Just hold on. Don't fire. I'll figure this out."
Not again. Not another thing to make a choice on—another thing to potentially screw up. Or have I already done that—already bulldozed this world in an irrevocable way that only I could manage? Shit.
I fling the door back inside open. My shoes scrabble on the slick tile, then, catapult me down the carpet runner, through the other doors where—
Joy and Mimi come up quick.
In my face.
I wheeze into their faces, pointing, "They have a tank—"
...Probably not the best, least-alarming thing to say.
Joy's face splits into immediate deal-with-this-shit, war mode. "Mimi, get Maude and take half the guards to circle from the west side. I'll take the east side and we'll meet in the middle—"
"She just wants her sister back," I pant.
That stops them short. The two girls turn, wide-eyed, towards me, a million questions reflecting back like I'm staring into a magic eight ball with queries instead of answers—
"She?" Joy starts.
"Sister?" Mimi asks, tilting her pointed chin towards me.
And I nod at both of them, "EmeraldCity, the green-haired girl we have locked in the basement—her sister is out there. She wants her free or else she'll continue to fire on us—guys, I can't have a war start, not right now—"
Joy's lips pull into a tightened frown, "We have to show them you're strong—assert dominance—"
If there ever was a thing Joy believed in, it has to be dominance.
"We have to make this go away," I counter instead, "You heard the complaints from the crowd in the throne room. If this gets out of hand and starts a chain reaction of violence right after I just claimed that this is going to stop the violence...it—it can't happen." I shake my head, realizing there's no decision to be made. It's obvious this time. My hands are tied. I have to give the girl her sister.
"You do remember that this is the same bitch who literally tried to kill us—right? The smoke? The hounds? Is it coming back yet?" Joy waves a hand in front of my face like that might revive some type of memory in me. Her sarcastic tone doesn't go unnoticed.
I batt her hand away, "Look, I don't like it any more than you but—"
BOOM!
An explosion rocks the floor under me, throwing all three of us forward.
Mimi yelps. Joy's pink hair flies over her face as she picks herself off the carpet runner. Her eyes blaze rage, "Where is that tank? I'm going to run it into the fucking ground."
This is exactly the mentality I was trying to avoid. The hate. The war. The battling all the fucking time for our lives. I made us all creators. We can create good. We don't need to create bad when we can create good.
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
"Mimi, bring EmeraldCity here." I bark quickly. "Joy, come with me." I grab the pink-haired girl by the arm, breathless with a strange, rushing anticipation flipping and spinning under the skin of my arms, "I have an idea."
----------------------------------------
DANK#Fanboi_240
BOOM!
Ringing in my ears.
Sweating.
Thrown out of bed.
Did I overdo it this time? Too much? Did I get some bad grass? Motherfucking guards; I knew they were too nice. ...Tryin' to make a trade and make a home here in this place, and they stiff the newbie... My heart races.
I clasp my hands to my ears and kick my feet up in the air, scanning the white folds of my boxers and the curls of my blonde leg hair which are—covered in blood.
Oh shit.
I scramble, kicking in the dark—freaking—
Oh God!
I try to rub the liquid off my legs, but it just gets worse. Red. Vibrant red. Staining my shorts. Staining my hands and fingertips and the wool rug. Wood floor—solid on my back and painful as I roll over—but nothing feels solid right now.
I gasp for air like a sinking ship.
Panic laces through my limbs.
I'm...I'm dying! Oh my God, I figured out how to jump into a fantasy world only to die a short while after?! What will they write on my tombstone? Will I have a tombstone? My filthy ex-wife won't even get to hear my accomplishments or preach a bunch of lies at the funeral—
Shit—
Shit!
"Help!!!" I scream, thrashing further.
There's just so much red. Pooling fucking everywhere. My breath hurts as it scrapes up my throat, "Someone help! Fucking please—"
My voice cracks on the last word.
Somewhere far away—close?—a door bangs shut. My vision's going in and out now—the world spinning and meshing and pulsing, fading at the corners. 'Don't pass out', I tell myself frantically. 'Don't pass out. Think conscious thoughts. Think fucking conscious thoughts—'
A door hinge creaks, and a shadow falls over my face as someone kneels next to me. Thank the living Lord!
"Fanboi?"
A man's voice. The face is blurry.
I try to focus, but I've lost too much blood. My body's shaking so badly that I can barely lift a hand to rest it on the man's arm. "I—"—my tongue is shaking? This is for real right now?!—"I can't see you—" I blubber.
"It's Peter," a timid voice blurts, "NotPeterPettigrew#960—"
"Peter!" I sit up, my voice raspy as I gasp for air.
I know the guy—a little too squeaky clean for my tastes, but an overall solid cover guy if you need help in a video game assault situation. Conservative with the trigger, but solid.—like a freaking oak. He's probably an accountant or a driver's ed teacher on the weeknights. And I sit up because there's something I need to do—a sudden, burning need I have to fulfill. I may be mortally wounded. I may be on my final journey in Narnia, but that doesn't mean I have to let the rest of the world suffer without. I need to pass on my legacy. They need to know what I stood for: creativity, freedom—my lifestyle.
So, I reach up and shove my hand in under the mattress, feeling the blood and color run out of the limb.
My fingers close over the smooth surface of my prized possession.
The final.
Last piece of me.
The only thing not bloodied.
Not shattered.
I put it in his hand—wrap our fingertips around it together in a ball of trust and bond and brotherhood.
"I want you to have this, Peter," I struggle with the words and the tears that are already rising from the ragged breaths in my chest, "Man, I need you to treasure this as much as I did. When I'm gone"—I get a little choaked up on that bit—"Remember me, bro."
And I press it into his heart.
He's sobbing, faintly, now. "Aw, man, I—dude, don't die on me," his red beard trembles.
But I insist. I swallow the lump in my throat 'cause I can feel it—this strange fluttering sensation...this faintness washing over me...
It's my time; I have to face it.
It's my time to go.
I watch the man unfurl his fingertips. I watch him realize that it's my best bowl he's holding. Damn, weed was never as good as it was from that Jiminy Cricket. Guy who sold it to me told me it was blown glass—one-of-a-kind. The blue and green swirls have always given me the best high. I wish the same for him, solumnly.
I shut my eyes.
I let myself go.
...
Fingers.
Shake me.
"Bro, you still there?" NotPeterPettigrew's worried voice.
And a click sounds.
And I open my eyes to blinding light.
"Who the fuck turned on the light?!" I rage, "I'm dying over here! Can't a dying man have his peace?!"
But there's only a chuckle from the doorway.
And I crane my neck to see Dormouse standing there, giggling to himself—holding a hand over his mouth to try to keep the noise from busting through. Has he been watching this whole time? Doesn't he have any dignity?
The dark-haired kid's eyebrow tilts upward in amusement, "Man, you fantasy-nerd types take it to a whole different level. Your bowl...seriously?" He guffaws again, leaning against the doorpost for support like his small frame isn't enough to hold up such hilarity.
I frown.
He's screwing it up.
He's messing up my final, dying moments with his indecency!
"Excuse me," I bark sourly, "But we're having a thing—"
But the kid won't give it up.
"You do know that's red paint...right?" he asks, pointing down at my blood-splattered legs. "There's some girl with a tank outside and they busted up the art room next door so..."
And I glance up.
To see a gaping hole in the drywall of the bedroom, surrounded by paint splatters...specifically, a red river flowing right to my legs.
...Paint?
...Paint and a panic attack?
I'm...I'm...okay? My red-tinged hands pat down the firm sides of my legs and waist. Oh shit. I am okay. He's...right—the dork's right... It's not blood it's...red paint.
"Next time, turn on the lights, 'kay?" Dormouse winks at me before turning on his heel and ducking down the hall.
And I sit there, staring at NotPeterPettigrew, kinda glad that he's not the last face I'll ever see and, yet...feeling like a total wet-the-bed, toddler jackass. I grab my bowl back—snatch it right out of the man's hands.
'Cause it's a one-of-a-kind piece, you know?