SAVE POINT 47
Loading Abandoned Gas Station / Trading Portal Level...75%
[https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1102021402707628096/1111407323294998589/Gas_Station_2.png][https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1102021402707628096/1111407322959458415/craiyon_153522_circular_portal_swirling_with_magic_and_showing_the_reflection_of_New_York_City_skyline_inside__glowing.png]
Rosabella
I don't know what my creator magic was supposed to do to it, but the place looks like a shithole.
"That's it?" I gape, feeling sweat trickle down my forehead even as I hurry to wipe it away. Dormouse's idea of 'a hike' was more like a sprint—the kid is fast! Even with my increased stamina, I'd fallen embarrassingly behind and am still catching my breath. My chest heaves up and down with the effort I've been trying to hide as I follow his stringbean strides into the noon sun that's become too hot for my liking. I about to peel this body armor off. I've probably sweat clean through my t-shirt underneath!
This seriously can't be the place.
It's a gas station and convenience store that's clearly been abandoned for years. A rusted canopy and matching, dilapidated and antiquated, fueling stations stand like the only thing the weather in this valley hasn't been able to knock over. The rest of the place is a jumble of parts laying where the wind has blown them, and the sun has bleached them. Tires are stacked and leaning against a corner of the convenience store building. Trashcans are rolled on their side, empty and banging against the nearby telephone poll.
How is this a trading anything? ...Trading portal? What had Dormouse called it?
It looks abandoned—left to die here in this arid pocket of the mountains for years now.
"It looks the same," Dormouse replies, shrugging as he slows his stride...finally.
No shit.
The place was clearly mowed over by disuse too many years ago to count. The darkness didn't have to do anything to it.
"This place is some kind of portal?" I ask disbelievingly, mostly just excited to have my breath back after that jaunt and to be here—wherever here is. ...As long as we can stop walking...
"Wait till you see," Dormouse flashes a wicked grin at me—kinda startling on his thin, innocent face. It's intriguing; it's the first time I've seen the boy so convinced of something since his ego-rattling side mission.
Now, I've got to know.
"Race you!" he blurts, launching into a gallop that I literally cannot follow.
"Hey—wait up!" I sputter, limping after him, but he's already too far ahead to hear or heed my plea.
My body complains way too loudly when I finally stumble past the dispensers, drag the soles of my boots over the dirty concrete pad and heave my weight against the storefront door which, somehow, still has a bell attached to it. The little, gold thing jangles overhead loudly as I enter, almost startling me. What startles me more is that Dormouse sits on the counter, his long legs swinging childishly where they don't touch the floor.
He grins at me again, "Slowpoke—"
"Winner winner, chicken dinner," I gripe, pretending to do a low bow.
He cocks his head—why does he look so much like an eager golden retriever like that? Youth and innocense glimmer in his eyes, "So, I get those fries after all?"
"Would you tell me what the fuck we're doing here instead?" I protest, interrupting him.
He nods, sliding off the counter with a flourish and landing with a clomp and both feet on the linoleum floor. I glance around, realizing that all of the shelves in the cramped convenience store have been swept clean—stripped of any goods; there's barely a cardboard box in the place.
But the kid's already switched into information mode. He gestures at a red button mounted on a platform in the middle of the store. It looks out of place there, like an addition added far after the use as a store...particularly as it sits squarely in the middle of the open space in front of the counter.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
...What is it?
"Trading portals are set up for easy access and use. Any Gamer, hypothetically, should be able to use it. This is how some people in these harsher climates survive. They go use the portal to go into Earth's reality and barter their goods. It's a lifeline, and the Grand Dragon made it easily accessible for Gamers for that reason. You just hit the button," his flat palm smashes down on the red disk, "And the portal opens."
The hiss of static cuts him off as a glowing circle flashes into view.
A portal.
Very similar to how I remember one looking before when the Game Wardens transported me back to the apartment in New York. ...But this time we're going for a different reason. Then, I'd been looking for freedom. Now, I'm looking for someone who thinks their freedom means blowing up The Game.
I grit my teeth.
"How does it know where to drop us?" I want to know.
The dark-haired boy grins at me, "Magic."
I shove him in the shoulder, "What kind of answer is that—".
"No, for real," he insists playfully, "magic. It reads your mind, so think New York, would ya?"
And I do. I close my eyes, and I think of honking horns.
And people brushing past me.
And the smell of fresh baked donuts in the morning.
And the city skyline gleaming like a thousand twinkling stars at night.
And it fills something in me because...well, I'm imagining home.
...What used to be home, anyway...
All of a sudden, a force picks me up. My fingers and toes tingle. My hair blows in my face. I bat the strands back into place, take a gasping breath and—
***Game Maker Rosabella & Game Warden Dormouse Have Left The Game***
We're in Central Park.
The realization hits me like a double-decker bus.
What?
Dormouse and I are calf-deep in snow in Central Park. I gasp a little at the temperature now freezing at my toes through my boots as I stare up at the expansive New York skyline stretching before us. We're here? We're really—
"Okay, cue lostness," Dormouse mumbles turning stiffly in the snow and looking all around, "This does not look like a place with internet—"
"Oh, come on—" I grab the boy's arm, hauling him through the snow and towards the bustling road. My boots kick up white stuff with every step. My breath crystalizes in front of my mouth with each exhale as we both stomp onto the concrete sidewalk, race past blaring horns and gasoline which burns at the back of my throat. When I spot the Dunkin Donuts coffee shop, I know I can drop the kid's arm.
"This way," I tell him, remembering.
We plow past empty planters overflowing with piles of snow and the people who seem to be rushing at us in hordes—what time is it?!—to duck under an orange awning and into the shop. The sharp scent of coffee beans assails my nostrils as heat warms my hands.
Dormouse takes one look at the place and tries to brush past me towards the counter, "I'm starved and freezing. I'm getting something—"
I attempt to stop him, "With what money exactly? I left all mine in the apartment."
He throws down his hands, "I want a coffee...something warm or something to eat. Do you know how hard it is to survive off a little bit of beef jerky, canned goods and birthday cake for months?! I'll ask the guy in front of me if he can spare some change or something. I can't work on an empty stomach. Not after everything we just went through."
I'm surprised by the emotions edging his tirade and the desperation in his face. Jeez. I didn't know he was that hungry...
I let my hand slide off his arm. "Okay, alright then," I relinquish the control.
He's gonna do what he's gonna do—I need him to find Goran. ...When did I become everyone's mother, anyway? I try to tell myself to take a backseat, scanning the cramped shop for a seat and finding an unoccupied table with two chairs in a back corner. This controlling thing only came about because everyone's been putting so much pressure on me to save the world. I don't want to control things. I just—
I just want to find damn Goran.
I slink towards the table and chairs, vaguely aware of a dark-skinned man at the pickup counter who takes an enormous bite out of a breakfast sandwich.
"Now, this," the man lectures boisterously around a mouthful of egg and bagel, "THIS is what we call victory folks! Mmmh. Gooey cheese, tasty sausage, toasted to perfection..."
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Dormouse make his approach, moving to tap the man on the shoulder with a pale finger and his question about sparing some change on his lips, "Excuse me, sir?"
His action goes unnoticed, so the boy tries again, "...Sir?"
And I watch the man turn, using his arm to wipe sauce and cheese from his lip—
And I nearly fall over.
Is that...
"Sparo?!" I blurt.