SAVE POINT 114

Loading A New Viewpoint & Two Different Kinds of Fear...88.88%

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Rosabella

"I just—I just need a minute," I breathe, stepping—falling—back from Prickgada and her massaging hands on her stomach. That conceited, smug gleam in her eyes makes me want to hurl. Of course, she would use this situation to her benefit. What does she want from me—safety? Shelter? What do I want—her child to live? Both of them to just disappear so I don't have to deal with this right now? Not another thing. Not another card to place on this house of cards which is already stacked to topple over and crush me like a leaning, dilapidated skyscraper.

The world spins. The floor under my feet seems that much less stable than before. Like someone's tugged the carpet out from under them. And here I am fighting for my life again...all of our lives...

...What? Would Prickgada's child be a cousin? A sibling? ...All this after seeing that message from Skipper? About how she's going to kill all the kids? I can't believe the nerve of the witch—coming here, now, with that secret smile. Almost like she'd planned this. ...It's just too much—too much at one time.

I gasp for air and find I'm barely able to get any in my lungs. I turn; huge, elephant ear plant leaves slap me in the face and arms as I stumble past them. In this conservatory filled with air and sunlight, my world is, suddenly, suffocating and dark? The clear ceiling and the plants overhead and surrounding me blur.

I hunch over on my knees.

I sit down on an overturned bucket, attempting to slow my breathing.

I have breath into my shuttering lungs.

Everything's okay. That's what I tell myself—whisper to myself fervently over and over again.

Everything's going to be okay. I'll figure it out. I always figure it out. I'll make sure those kids aren't harmed—not the little girl I'd saved or the boy EmeraldCity had...not even Prickgada's kid... Oh man, I was going to have to have Dormouse reprogram the code. I was going to have to take the creator magic back from the entire population I'd given it to—and what? All to please some spoiled brat of a crossbreed between The Game and EmeraldCity's younger sister? This is a mess—

A warm hand lays gently on my back, and I know who it is before glancing up: Sparo.

I watch his concerned brown eyes narrow, squinting at me as he squats beside me, peering into my face.

"Hey, girl," he whispers, "You got this. And I got you."

And he rubs his large hands up and down repeatedly over my back, and, somehow, it starts to calm the panic inside me. Because he's right. For once, I don't have to face this alone. His lips tighten into a grim line that understands my swirling thoughts.

I've got him and he's got me.

For once—for always?—we face this together.

Revision53_Skipper

The Game Maker won't let kids die; that much is a guarantee. Am I willing to bet my very existence on it? —To bet all of our existences on it? The Gamers? The Beasts?

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Yes.

Yes, I most certainly am.

I shake my head, trying to shake away the words amassing there and watching as the blunt ends of my white-blonde hair skirt over my shoulders, looking frayed but there. Hair. I have hair, even after everything. I don't care if it lays flat—it's my real hair...back again. And, yet, for some reason, I can't get numbers out of my head. My mind spins, uncontrollably—like it has a mind of its own. ...Like it has a rage of its own...

Odds are something controllable—something concrete. And, for once, it is looking like the odds are in my favor.

"Shut up!" I blurt, rubbing my hands over my face. Is it weird to get aggravated at the voice in your own mind? —The one that keeps pestering me day and night? The reason I have bags under my eyes and all I can think of is...revenge? I feel like...a monster. Apparently, the guys seated on either side of me in the tank belly aren't in a judgey mood. I feel their stares sweep over me, but they dissipate just as quickly, and I'm just left with an unsettled feeling twisting at my stomach...and it only gets larger when I attempt to shove it down. For something to do, I prop the thick soles of my combat boots up on the metal ledge across from me, crossing them, and I slouch backwards against metal that also protrudes, cold, into my back. My eyes and body are so heavy. But no matter how I lay here, sleep isn't in my near future even when I have the chance. Who am I kidding, my mind won't let me rest anyway...

"We're almost there," the bald man at the tank controls beside me drones. I wonder at the reality that his voice is nearly as deep and dry as the tank mechanics churning and humming underneath us, jostling our bodies back and forth in a lulling rhythm as loud as a battle cry as we move over The Game landscape.

In fact, this is my battle cry—this forward movement...every step that I take closer is a win against everything that's stopped me to this point. And I won't lose—not this time. Victory is mine. Control is mine—

I clutch my hands into fists. Will the pain of my nails in my palms crush these obtrusive thoughts? I can fight them back. I can force them to stop—

"I don't get it, how is the girl going to even find us?" complains the gunner. His nasally voice and repeated pessimism in my plans is starting to grate heavily on my nerves. "We're moving away from them—"

"Don't underestimate the Game Maker," I cut him off sharply. The words slice forward and off my tongue without my bidding. And I swallow, feeling defensive, unbridled anger squatting there in my throat. And unbridled anger alone would be fine—my unbridled anger if I was upset or mad about a situation but...well, I have no reason to be mad. No reason to be defensive.

And, yet, the emotion ripples through me in waves. Where is this coming from? I don't even know this Rosabella girl personally...

I'd already done that; I'd already underestimated the Game Maker once. I won't again. That's why I have this plan. That's why I'm going to take her out of the picture. It hadn't been hard to concoct. In fact, my own sister had actually inspired it all: the way to finally take Rosabella down.

You see, guilt is a pretty big motivator, and I am going to exploit it to levels that haven't been seen before.

The voice—the wash of euphoria tripping over me—I can't stop it this time. I can't control it. Am I crazy? Why does it feel like I'm crazy? There has to be an explanation for this voice in my head—

"The waterfall's up ahead, my Queen," the tank driver spouts, "I have visual. Should I go around it?"

And I feel it gripping me then—tearing me apart. Well, tearing who I was apart. And glee fills in the cracks almost like something within me is laughing maniacally, tilting its head back—almost like it's just been released. And that regular, numbness that I've been fighting tooth-and-nail fills me. ...And it's not me anymore...

Somewhere...

Somehow, I gave it control.

Or it took it.

"Don't go around the falls, go through it." The words hiss out from behind my teeth. And I watch the driver's eyes dart, uncertain, to my face.

"—Through it, my queen?"

And I nod.

Because I'm the only one insane enough to drive a tank through a waterfall.

And I'm, also, the only one sane enough to know where it is: the thing that mortals with regrets yearn for and the thing the world never gives.

A second chance.

The cup of second chances.

And Rosabella will have all the second chances this world or any other could give—an overflowing amount she can't even drink enough of. And I'll make sure she stays ensnared in them forever while I take her place here in The Game world. And that sounds like winning, doesn't? It sounds a lot like winning to me.

"Have you ever been in a dragon's mouth, Rosabella?" I whisper, mockingly, smiling to myself.

She will be very soon.