SAVE POINT 32

Loading A Joyride (haha, get it?) Into One Grim Dimension...100%

[https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1102021402707628096/1105097041656430652/0936938f-2e4d-4f1f-8da5-332735ccbad5.png][https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1102021402707628096/1105094309327417354/1d3d31e7-3a9a-4edd-889d-a79a27299843.png]

Joy

If I wasn't so damn sick, I'd joke about who's baby I'm having. I'm so nauseous that I can barely stand. I clutch at my stomach as the trees whirl overhead. I bite my lip, but even the pain doesn't steady me. The group takes another break, boots thudding to a slow halt in the dry dirt and grass as they try not to make it look like I'm the reason for the slow down...again. But they're getting impatient. Rainer raises a confused eyebrow at me, but I turn away before he can say anything.

Damn.

Normally, I'm leading this herd of spineless fools. Today, I can barely trail them.

...And, then, there's the issue of the black dots covering my skin... Maybe I shouldn't have integrated the prophesy upgrade after all...

"I'll be right back," I yell over my shoulder, pretending I'm going for a piss by tramping off into the thick underbrush, but, when I reach the shelter of two larger trees, I just squat there, heaving in air and trying to steady myself by staring at the brown dirt and entwining roots by the toes of my boots.

Why the fuck do I feel like this? ...How am I going to hide it when we have a full day's trek to the temple Callen's hellbent on reaching to streamline Rosabella's newfound prophesy gifts?

I can barely walk a few feet without getting winded.

Fucking Rosabella is in front of me with her low stamina levels—it's embarrassing.

I scratch at my head and pitch my gloved hands down in front of my angled knees in frustration. Squatting there, I notice that, through the rips and tears in the fabric of the gloves, my skin is coal-black underneath.

My breathing grows even more ragged with fear.

What the—?!

I throw the gloves off like they might burn me—watch them fall, limp, to the ground.

And, then, I stare.

At my hands.

Scaly black.

...Even the palms, covered like I've dipped my hands in dark ash.

—Itching like wildfire with a trail of dots leaving the wrist and traveling up my arms.

...Just like the rash on my neck...

This shit is scaring me.

I do what I always do when shit scares me. I immediately cover it up. My heart thunders in my ears as my fingers fumble in the dirt and grass for the gloves, pluck them up and yank them back over my hands—

"Joy."

I whip around, but it's too late, I can tell. Rosabella leans on the tree over me. Her eyes snap to my hands—my arms—

She's seen.

"Leave me alone," I huff, standing too quickly for my spinning head and trying to brush past her, "What does a girl have to do to get some privacy to take a piss—"

"You're hurting." In one, swift movement, Rosabella reaches out and catches my arm. ...Can you believe that? The little shit finally gains some reflexes in this exact moment?

Her eyes rake over the diseased skin there. I recoil from her, trying to pull away as her fingers dig into the tender cells there, "Get off me!"

But, somehow, she hangs on.

"You can see this? The black dots?" she whispers, her pale face contorting slightly in confusion, "...I couldn't see it before the prophesy integration, but now—"

"I stole the prophesy cheat code, is that what you want me to say?" I snap, "Yes. I did it. So sue me." I glower at her. I hope she can feel the fire of it.

All I want is to be left alone. Honestly, all I want is time—it's ironic, isn't it? After all I've been through that I finally just want more time to live? When, my whole life, I've been wishing it away? And, yet, this damn darkness is going to kill me. Maybe it's just my excellent karma kicking me in the ass again...

"I can help you," Rosabella insists, her fingers still on my arm.

And I have to laugh.

I have to chuckle at that thought.

Because, although it's my one main wish right now, the thought of the newb doing anything helpful is far beyond me at this point.

"You can barely even kill a dragon," I hiss, "Why should I believe you?"

The girl's wide eyes flicker to mine, and, somehow, stop me in my tracks—stop the disdain in my voice just for a second. She doesn't know it, but I desperately need her to counter my sarcasm. I desperately need her to tell me that I'm wrong—that she's going to prove me wrong.

I've never needed to be wrong so ardently in my life.

"I can help you," the girl repeats, her gaze steady, "I don't know how I know, but I think I can."

And I watch her close her eyes.

Feel her clutch at my arm—clasped tight there in her fingers.

And I close my eyes too—

My breath draws in sharply when my eyelids flutter open.

Because we're no longer in the forest. Wetness mists over my cheeks and hair. My boots stand firmly on the dark asphalt of a soaked street...and the looming silhouettes of city buildings stretch up overhead. An alley? We're in an alley? ...Wait, I know that sign...

The neon one flickering in the distance.

Oh my God.

Are we...

***Welcome GAME MAKER ROSABELLA & GAME WARDEN JOY to the Side Mission***

SIDE MISSION: Find the key.

Side mission?

I turn towards Rosabella who is inspecting our surroundings with similar confusion.

"Is this New York City?" she asks, her face scrunching up, "I don't understand. This isn't my street..."

"No, it's not," I remark quietly, swallowing hard, "It's mine."

The girl whirls on me, a piece of her brown hair getting caught on her mouth which she pulls downward, hesitation written in her face, "...What?"

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

"Is it so inconceivable that a monster like me could also be from your hometown?" I ask, leaning into the sarcasm in my voice. Yes. I'm from New York City too...with one huge difference that I will never vocalize:

Rosabella escaped from The Game to NYC.

I escaped NYC to The Game.

Just seeing this place makes my stomach clench with dread.

"But there was a game pop-up?" Rosabella asks, "When I was in NYC before, it said I left The Game—"

I nod, "That was reality. This is still The Game. The program is smart. It feeds off your creator magic and my memories. You've created an alternate dimension within The Game. It's a side mission. They're supposed to fast-track our progress and growth as Gamers. I guess this one is for me. Maybe it can somehow help lessen the Darken rash...maybe you were right that you can help..."

The admittance tastes bitter on my tongue, but I have to consider it. I chew on the inside of my lip, looking down at the skin of my arms. ...Where no dots are anymore...

"Okay," I watch Rosabella turn this new information over slowly in her head as she starts to speak, "So...if you're supposed to grow, just show me your stats and we can figure out which areas you might need to build up—"

No way.

There is absolutely no fucking way I'm letting Miss Shirley Temple, Goodie-Two-Shoes into my code.

Nope.

"Wow, and people say my people skills are bad," I mutter. "Us Gamers have this thing where you try talking to a girl to get to know her. It's called conversation." I sneer.

"From my experience, that's not exactly one of your strongpoints," the cunt sneers back.

Toche.

Maybe I've finally taught her something.

A small grin trails up my lips, but not for long because we have a job to do here. If you fail a side mission, you, often, don't get that same opportunity ever again. If this mission is, somehow, going to help heal me, I have to make the most of this challenge. Now.

I swipe the mission box up again, to make sure I remember it right:

SIDE MISSION: Find the key.

Find the key.

...But this world is as close to modern reality as it can get. I can't remember using a physical key for anything...even the apartment had an electronic card to unlock the door since it was a former hotel which had been converted into efficiency units...

That's when it hits me.

A memory of a key in my hands.

I'd had a key to lock up the Wicked Cross at night—the nightclub down the street where I'd worked. ...But the manager had had me hand it back in after they'd fired me...

I take off down the street, sprinting—my pink hair flying past my shoulders in the wind as rain pelts me in the face.

Just determination.

And speed.

All nausea gone.

I hear Rosabella squeak in surprise and, then, trot after me. "Hey! Where are you going?!"

"Maybe in your parallel dimension, I can get my fucking job back," I yell over my shoulder.

And I know my words make no sense to her, but—well, this side mission is all about me, isn't it?

I stop short under the neon sign. I'd always, not-so-secretly, loathed the place even though it was pretty much solely responsible for all the food I put on the table in those days and Mom's medication. The pink glow of the neon strips overhead light my face as I pace by the overflowing smoke stand, piled with cigarette butts, and yank open the steel back door. Rosabella's right behind me in an almost Velcro-annoying way. I nearly elbow her in the stomach, trying to open the heavy door.

...And the familiar dim lights greet us as I step onto that nasty linoleum that no one's cleaned in probably two years because the mop boy is usually just making out with one of the server girls in the closet while on payroll...

"There's a bathroom over there, put this one," I tell Rosabella, shoving a handful of black fabric I'd just stolen from a nearby locker in her direction and nodding towards a grimy back door.

But the girl has to look.

Of course, she fucking has to look.

She unravels the black material, squinting at me when it's all too clear it's a corset and black shorts.

"This isn't a strip club, "I spit. "It's the uniform for the nightclub. If you're going to judge, you can stay in this back room while I—"

That gets her moving.

Finally.

Sending a quick glance at the doorway to make sure no one's coming, I slip my body armor off and quickly lay the fabric of the corset over my bare middle too, pulling it tight at the back. I slip the shorts on as well and, regretfully, leave my boots and swords in a pile in the corner to slip on a pair of borrowed, black pumps from another locker.

Not borrowed—I'm keeping these. They fit my feet like the sexiest of gloves. Whichever girl I'd just robbed was going to have to deal like I'd had to all these years.

Rosabella ducks out of the bathroom, holding an armload of her clothes to her chest to cover up the corset she's in. The sight of her almost makes me want to tell her to change back...or laugh. I'm not sure which. Her enormous, innocent eyes shine like scared full moons in her face and her stringy, brown hair lays flat against her cheeks from the rain. Feeling strangely sisterly for all of two seconds, I move closer to fluff it over her shoulders for her.

But we don't have the luxury of time. We'd better move before someone sees us.

I shove a pair of heels and a round tray at her.

"Put these on, act busy and..." I falter, looking her timid form up and down, "Look older."

If I had some eyeliner, I could have her doctored up in two minutes, but I don't have my bag. This is going to have to do.

"Blend," I hiss again as we duck through the doorway and out into the bustling pub. The place is hopping tonight. The neon lights pulse over a crowded bar as servers, dressed like the both of us, weave in and around customers, their black trays held high over their heads as colorful drinks wobble in fancy glasses there. The music is so loud that I can barely hear myself think—

"Well if it isn't my favorite pink-haired lady!" a man's throaty—and clearly intoxicated—voice bellows from the bar. I locate the owner of it quickly, honing in on a familiar, red-faced, middle-aged man with a ginger beard which looks like it hasn't been combed in over a year.

Not this shit.

Not fucking Pirate Pete when I really don't need this.

The inebriated man's sausage fingers point directly at me as he continues, loudly, "There she is! You used to mix the drinks strong. I knew it was because you had special liking for me."

He tries to wink.

And fails.

Just like he does at nearly everything else.

He almost falls off the stool.

"Don't flatter yourself," I growl, "It was only so you'd pass the hell out on the bar and not punch a hole in the drywall of the men's bathroom again."

A hoot of laughter bubbles up from around the bar—those within earshot of my comeback. One guy raises a beer in a toast. "You tell him, sweetheart!" he whistles.

But Pirate Pete's eyes have gone dark—his lips ripple into a frown. "Last I heard"—he says, blurrily raising a furry eyebrow—"you was thrown outta here. Quite the spectacle. Got thrown outta here and drowned yourself in the bottle if you know what I mean..." I can't escape his dark stare.

I know.

His words hurt; they burn my soul. ...Because he's right. I'd lost it that night. I'd lost everything. That night that Mom died, I couldn't hold anything back anymore. It was like a dam opened up inside of me when I'd seen her ashen face in the bed and known I'd missed it. I cared for her all this time, and I'd missed her death—hadn't been there to save her. She'd slipped away in the middle of the night, tucked underneath covers as gray as her face. The cancer had eaten her from the inside out and, no matter how many extra shifts I worked, I couldn't buy enough medicine to fix it.

...Everything had seemed meaningless after that.

Without her.

Meaningless and dark.

And I'd taken it out on this place—on this stupid nightclub that hadn't ever been enough. Just like I hadn't been—not enough to save her—my one job.

I'd split open.

In half that one night.

I'd drawn a pocketknife on a rude customer.

Worse, I'd thrown him across the bar.

Broken a full bottle of top-shelf brandy and—I think they'd said—seven cocktail glasses.

They'd thought I was drunk.

But that wasn't till later.

As I sat on the cold, tile bathroom floor of our apartment with only a bottle for company, staring at the caulking connecting the stained bathtub to the wall and floor...

Only a bottle.

A gun.

And a decision.

And I'd almost fully made it too—I'd almost fully decided to make it. I grit my teeth, remembering.

Till—

Well, till the Game Wardens saved me.

All the memories well up in my eyes, stinging there. And, suddenly, I want nothing more than to wrap my hands around what had reminded me of them and kill it—squeeze the life out of it.

"I'm gonna kill him," I mumble under my breath to Rosabella, "If I kill him here, will he die in real life?"

"We're looking for a key," Rosabella reminds me, yanking on my arm as though she can see that I've only got one foot in this reality and the other buried and lost somewhere in my past, "We have to focus. He's just a loser. Let's get the key."

Her words seem to steady me.

I latch onto them.

Key.

I need to get the key to this place back from my boss; I need to find the man. He's probably in the back at his office...

And, just like that, I leave Rosabella to fend for her fragile self and I try to leave my past too as I twist behind and around the rows of men smelling of alcohol and girls vacuum-sucked into their dresses... But the past is all around me. How can you hide from something you're living?