SAVE POINT 59

Loading a New Kind of Threat :/ ...100%

[https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1102021402707628096/1116351820961419377/0de513d6-28b5-41ca-9690-dfb58ae29932.png][https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1102021402707628096/1116357708468191242/41ea547b-b0b7-4fc9-a2fe-e3058f1df138.png]

Rosabella

"Don't you look like something!" Maid #1 dribbles in excitement—her grin stretching all the way to her eyes and her thin fingers wiggling in the air, hovering above me like she's just iced a cake and is ecstatic about it. She moves to angle the floor mirror so that I can see my refection while I reach under the scratchy skirt to scratch my thigh...

Again...

All this tulle is killing me, snagging on my skin.

I frown into the mirror, watching the uncomfortable line solidify on my face like a raisin in a middle of a sundae.

Sure, I look like...something.

I just don't look like...me.

I look like a poof.

It's the first thing that crosses my mind. I look like a poof: a fancy hedgehog...a pufferfish...a poof. A black poof. Ebony lace and tulle stands out from my middle, layering down in black, mohawk-like circles to the floor. The top of the gown is a rigid, sweetheart neck—no sleeves, all corset—and it pinches just tight enough to create that wince on my face. My brown hair has been layered around my face in swooping curls and hairsprayed into place so much so that I'm scared to turn my neck and upset it. My lips shimmer red and my eyes, blue from a sparkly eyeshadow. Long, black gloves complete the ensnarement of the outfit.

I look like a made-up Teresa Barbie doll in desperate need of some sweatpants.

"At least this one is all black in case you hurl again," the second maid adds unhelpfully, sharply reminding me of what had happened to the first dress.

"Don't you like it?" the first chimes, still dancing on the balls of her feet, "Of course, you like it!"

And I find two pairs of eyes, blinking at me.

Waiting.

For some kind of bubbly exclamation that I can't seem to muster.

And, maybe, they sense my lack of enthusiasm because the air blurs and wobbles around them. Their faces contort, and a high-pitched shriek starts, clawing at my eardrums—

What is happening? The two maids don't seem to hear anything. Their eyes are still blinking at me—narrowing like there's only expectant silence between us, then, bulging.

And the scream—

How do I make this stop? It's immobilizing! It's unbearable! It's—

"I love it," I breathe, feeling like I barely can—like the lie sucks the very air and life out of me from the inside out—"I really love it."

And the screeching stops.

And the air snaps back to clear. And the maids' faces are righted again.

"You're probably nervous for your speech," one of them says, nodding.

"Yes," I blurt. And I don't have to lie about that part.

What does the speech have to be about again? My palms start sweating nearly immediately at the thought.

Loading...1 Hour Later...100%

I'm still not sure; I'm still not sure what my supposed speech is about even as I drift numbly through the crowded ballroom, mixing root powder (that's supposed to relieve the effects of the darkness) into a tall glass of cola and trying to breathe even though the corset of my dress seems determined to prevent it. This place and this crowd look like a hotel, business function where they've made an acute mistake and, somehow, accidently invited me. Tilting my chin back to catch the expansive, tray ceiling and glimmering chandeliers tells every bone in my body to run—or shrink. Like I intrinsically know I don't belong here and, yet—

And, yet, all these noble-looking people dressed to the nines in tuxes and gowns keep nodding at me, their gazes lowering in respect, admiration and acknowledgement.

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Like I do belong here.

...Or else I'm having a vivid hallucination.

Food always helps.

I all but dive towards a waiter, shoving one of those stupid, little breads topped with chopped up tomatoes (that most definitely have a fancy name and aren't real snacks—those) into my mouth.

"Whoa! Catch a breath, there, tiger!"

Sparo catches me just as I leak a bit of tomato down the front of my dress with my cheeks too chipmunk full to say anything.

He looks me up and down quickly, lifting his sunglasses to examine my attire.

"You look...nice." His white teeth flash in a smiling grimace against the contrast of his pressed tux. I've never seen the guy so dressed up.

I pout back at him, spotting his lie from a mile away; he's about as transparent as a fish tank. "Be real with me, Sparo," I lecture, unamused and squeezing both hands down by my sides in the layers of tulle that make them itch again.

His nose crinkles for a second, "You look like a poof."

"Exactly what I thought!" I exclaim, throwing down my hands in a strange kind of relief that only comes from being understood.

"No, but, seriously," Sparo amends, "you don't look like yourself. You're paler." He uses a finger to prop my chin up towards him, and little sparks dance like firecrackers along my skin where he touches. He doesn't seem to notice. Lines form in his forehead as he thinks, "Have you been taking your medicine?"

I hold up the Coke. "Literally, right now," I tell him, taking another giant slurp which probably leaves me with a fizzy mustache. I quickly wipe it away with the back of my hand.

I look around and catch a woman watching me. Her eyes narrow in judgement at my face wipe and the air wiggles around her, distorting, twisting... Her head looks larger than her body. I can see every detail of her gaudy, pearl earrings—

"Agh!" I nearly bend over, clutching at my ears as the high-pitched ringing ensues.

"Rosabella?" Sparo's hands instantly fly to my back, "Hey, what's wrong?"

"That—ringing!" I sputter. "That—"

But the man's face crunches up which can only mean one thing... He can't hear it?

What did I do last time to stop it? What do I need to do?? I gave in. I appeased the maids. I'd told them the dress looked nice. What did I have to do now? My limp hand slaps shakily down on a nearby table-clothed tabletop. The red napkin there is soft on my fingers—real fabric. I bring it to my mouth, blotting.

"Ahh!" I straighten with a jolt.

As the air rights itself around the woman as she smiles at me from a few steps away.

And, completely breathless, I turn to—

Almost knock into a completely bewildered Sparo. His eyes flash concern in all but caution-yellow, "What the hell was that?" he sputters.

And I wish I could tell him—I really wish I could. My heart is still seizing. I place a hand over the organ under the stiff neckline of my dress, trying to calm it. "I don't know," I whisper, honestly, "It happened earlier too. It's new. Maybe something with the darkness?"

"That medicine should get rid of all symptoms," Sparo nods at the glass I'm still clutching, "drink up... and give it twenty minutes to kick in, okay?" He says it so kindly. I'm about to nod—to open my mouth to respond when feedback from a microphone squeaks into vivid order. I clap my hands over my ears, and see I'm not alone in my response this time as others around me do the same.

"If I can have your attention, everyone."

I whirl at the voice to find a squat, wrinkled woman at a podium up front.

"If I can have your attention, please," she continues—her dry voice far too amplified by the technology.

As if on auto pilot, the crowded room quiets.

"Today, we celebrate the return of the Game Maker to this hallowed place. After many a years of struggle, we finally see the light. Welcome back, Rosabella," she smiles grandly at me, unfortunately gesturing in my direction when our eyes lock, "We are honored and thrilled to have you back in the halls that your ancestors walked. We thank you for your dedication to The Game and saving all of us."

Applause starts then, to my utter horror and surprise.

Loud.

Jarring.

Kind of overwhelming.

And I try to fight the urge to slink back up against the painted wall behind me, but it only partially works.

"Save me," I mouth to Sparo who chuckles a little.

"Game Maker, if you'd like to respond?" —The old woman's voice again.

And no.

No, I wouldn't like to respond.

Because that's when my heart clams up. And my feet stick to the marble floor. And my throat loses any liquid it had two seconds ago.

And they're all staring at me...

And the woman's walking the microphone to me—

Shit.

I'm going to die. The girl who's faced dragons and zombies and armies and giant spiders is going to die after being asked to give a speech—

But a dark hand reaches out, wrapping around the microphone before it can get to me. And a familiar voice speaks into it instead...

Sparo.

"You know, I think we'd all agree that after what she's been through, the Game Maker is pretty damn—er, darn—" he catches a disapproving look from the lady, "tired. We outta let her rest, don't you think? Don't we owe her that much?"

And something strange happens then.

Because people begin to clap.

First softly—politely.

Then, some, with extra vigor, yelling, "Yeah! Yeah, we do!" And pumping their fists in the air.

I gape at them, and I gape at Sparo.

"Thank you," I whisper to the man, knowing those two words will never do his action justice.

He nods at me and gestures back to the hall, "Why don't you go get some rest? I've got things here."

And those words?

Damn, I've never wanted to hear anything more.