SAVE POINT 3
Loading City Level...77%...99.9%
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Rosabella
"Whatever your deal is," I growl into the group of three figures quickly approaching me on the street and the screen in front of them, plastered with Dad's picture, which blurs their faces, "give me my Dad back safe. Now."
I realize it's a big ask.
I realize my voice is shaking slightly as I ask.
And I'm a teenage girl.
Clutching my winter coat sleeves over my hands as the three men approach.
Adult-size shadows.
Black body armor clinging to muscles and solid, unafraid walks.
More black boots...
A clattering behind me makes me spin to see the girl who'd been chasing me slither down the fire escape—
And it's official.
I'm trapped.
A green dumpster to my side.
The minivan and mega-assassin to the back.
And the shadow of a smoggy city looming over me.
Unless there's a way through all these assholes...
Dad had always said to run—but his life is at stake here—
I swallow hard, feeling panic well up in my chest.
The figures keep advancing.
Long strides.
Swinging arms.
My eyes flicker to the dilapidated skyscrapers overhead. Ming's Chinese restaurant isn't on the street corner anymore—I just left there five minutes ago! ...And everything looks like it's stood in the same, crumbling location for hundreds of years.
A stray newspaper blows down the cracking street; the pavement is so faded there that the lines in the middle look white-washed. ...Where the fuck am I? And how is it just outside of our apartment window?
The megaphone shrieks to life again; I watch the man at the front of the pack raise it to his lips. His eyes are shimmering black even in the shadows.
> "I repeat: stay where you are. Don't attempt to run, or the man on the screen will die."
I flinch.
They are threatening to kill my Dad?
I'm surrounded. What am I supposed to do? I can't let him die.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Maybe there's some mistake? That's it, there has to be some mistake—
Fear thrums in my chest like a cello.
"What do you want from me?" I hiss loudly with far more spunk than I feel.
"Good question."
A girl's voice.
I nearly scream as a hand reaches out and spins me around.
It's the assassin.
The one who'd chased me down the fire escape.
I tense to dodge away from her, but she lifts a black helmet off her head.
Pink hair falls out as the corner of her lips and right eyebrow arch up in amusement. It's unfair someone so smug can be so beautiful. Is she around my age? She's about the same height—
"Welcome to The Game, Rosabella—" she sneers with extra emphasis on my name. She uses her pinky to direct a strand of bright hair away from the porcelain skin of her face, "Only took us fourteen fucking centuries to find you."
She has to be crazy.
What is she talking about?
Is this a dream? ...If it is, it's a nightmare—
"Where's my Dad? And what is this place?" I spit back, my jaw hardening. My hands are shaking.
A man's huge hand claps down on my shoulder.
I jump and try to spin around—
My frantic breath catches in my throat—
"Hold your horses, newb," a deep voice echoes.
I look and see that his other hand, limp and easy at his side, clutches the megaphone he'd used before. His hair is pepper gray with specks of the same bristling in stubble on his jawline. The outline of his body armor shows bulging muscles which look rather out-of-place for his age.
"You said to stay still, or you'd kill my Dad," I struggle against his incredibly firm hold, "I did what you asked, now let him go."
"Afraid it's not that easy with murderers—" he starts.
Murderers?
My jaw drops open.
I struggle harder.
"He's not a murderer!" I scream, "You have the wrong guy!"
"You have no idea, kid," he spouts with a chuckle. His hand twists to easily pin me against the nearby minivan.
I try to kick at him, which causes his eyebrows to pitch forward in annoyance.
"He's been glued to my side practically since birth," I snarl, trying to twist away with each biting word, "If he murdered someone, I'd have seen it—"
I watch the red bar over my head pop into view again, decreasing slightly:
"Listen, stop struggling. It's pointless. If you look at your stats compared to mine, there's just no match, okay?" The man with the gray hair thumbs two fingers, still holding the megaphone, in the air, swiping a glowing screen with two boxes into view. I crane my neck to see them, having to press my cheek into the cold metal of the van:
GAME MAKER ROSABELLA GAME WARDEN CALLEN Strength - 5/100 Strength - 65/100 Endurance - 15/100 Endurance - 75/100 Agility - 20/100 Agility - 85/100 Intelligence - 45/100 Intelligence - 65/100 Emotional Intelligence - 50/100 Emotional Intelligence - 90/100 Empathy - 45/100 Empathy - 65/100 Determination - 65/100 Determination - 80/100 Prophesy - 10/100 Prophesy - 25/100
Creator - 0/100
I gape at the boxes in the air. Like a video game...this looks like a video game...
He swipes them out of view again with a tired wave, "So stop wasting your health, will you? You'll need it where you're going."
My mouth is dry.
It feels like all the liquid there has evaporated.
"I'm not going anywhere," I mouth, not entirely convinced my own words are true.
What is happening? Is this some sort of hallucination or something? A joke?
"You are if you're so hellbent on saving that man you call Dad," he quips, raising an eyebrow.