SAVE POINT 61

Loading a Nighttime Snack...100%

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Rosabella

Apparently, when you go to bed at 6:30pm after being graciously kicked out your formal responsibilities and a ridiculously formal gathering by the guy you're crushing on, you wake up wide awake at 2am.

I sit up in the dark bedroom, letting the covers slide down beside me. Blackness makes the huge windows look like mirrors, and the room is drenched in coal-colored shadows that keep creeping up on me the harder I try to go back to sleep. The black pillars of the bedposts loom over me like sentries keeping silent watch and the curtains look lumpy and black—not grand like they do in the daytime. And I realize two things at once: 1) I'm not going back to bed and 2) the itch is too great.

I've already tried ignoring it.

Tossing.

Turning.

But it won't go away.

That itch to explore—to have the freedom to wander the halls of this huge place without anyone breathing down my neck. ...Also, I'm kinda hungry; my stomach rumbles under the tank top I'd thrown on for bed. Is there a kitchen around here?

I slip my feet into the gloriousness of the leopard-print slippers waiting for me at the foot of the bed and secretly thank those good-for-nothing maids or whoever thought to put them there for me. Maybe they are good for something after all...

My feet feel the soft carpet even through the bottoms of the slippers and, then, the hardwood as I move towards the door. The doorknob clicks, the door groans and—

Just like that.

I'm free.

The breath wooshes out of me like a whisper in the echoey hall as I make my way down it. Careful steps. Wandering eyes—taking in the white-painted, ornate ceilings and the hundreds of doors...one would seriously need a map to get around in this place. Where does it all go?

I catch sight of a silver cart piled high with stacked, white-china plates and make an educated guess. Kitchen is this way!

My steps quicken to a skip as I push through the swinging door that most definitely is a kitchen entrance—err, back kitchen entrance, by the look of it. A commercial-sized cookhouse stretches before me—looking like I've just, unknowingly, stumbled into the set of every cooking competition on TV. Holy—

—Cheese Whiz.

I stop to take it in. Massive, stainless-steel appliances are inset in glossy, white countertops. The entire place is sparkling, smelling sharply of lemon cleaner which stings at my nose. I lean forward and find that my outline nearly reflects back at me in the white tile floor it's so shiny. Damn! This place IS a hotel. ...The question is, does this hotel have snacks? I'm betting on 'yes'.

I cross to the massive, built-in fridge with three, quick steps, and yank open the colossal door which probably weights more than I do.

Food.

Fucking everywhere.

The clear shelves are packed with lettuce and fruit and platters of ham and sausage and...everything you can think of. Sauces and bottles line the door. I find a bottled Pepsi there and yank it out, twisting the cap to hear that satisfying sizzle and crack. Caffeine at 2am? I wonder to myself. Screw it; I'm sort of on vacation. I tilt the bottle back over my head with a ravenous gulp. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I shut the fridge door and continue my mission.

My fingers reach curiously for the next door. I find a walk-in pantry this time.

Oh my God.

My mouth falls open because it's like the leftover gods have smiled on me. The shelving here is filled with cakes, pies, pastries... Wait are those—

I reach to lift a heavy, glass cover sitting over the plate, and the scent hits my nose.

Fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie scent.

Damn.

I know what I want. I take two, squinting and turning the cookie to see that they're topped with iced, swirling letters reading 'Welcome Back GM'. Game Maker. They must have been from the party last night. ...I mean, that's me so...

I sink my teeth into the chocolatey goodness, not caring how big of a bite I take since no one's watching—

Buzz.

The lights flicker on, nearly blinding.

Shit.

I whip around, attempting to hide the evidence of my cookie (cookies—let's be honest) behind my back.

And it's the prune-faced woman who'd introduced me at the Welcome Back event. ...And she's not smiling. I immediately pray that I don't have chocolate smeared on my lips as her kitten heels click towards me on the tile.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

"Typically," she hisses—the nasal quality of her voice dominating her already dominating form—"Game Makers are respectful of other people's schedules and allow their security detail rest at the proper hours."

I blink at her, "—What?" I almost spit out half my cookie, but somehow swallow it. What is this lady's deal—?!

"It's okay, it's okay," Mimi steps out of a shadowy corner, her thin hands flailing in the air, "Really, it's fine. I was barely sleeping."

My eyes widen. Was the girl standing there this whole time? ...Watching me?

The wrinkled woman's eyes fly from my shocked face to the soda bottle in the hand I haven't concealed. She huffs; the air around her disapproving face shutters—

Then, distorts.

Not this again!

I wince instantaneously, knowing what's next—that high pitched—

"It won't happen again," I blurt—before that God-awful sound can paralyze me.

And the air snaps back to normal like my eyes were just playing tricks on me, and nothing ever happened. And I'm left blinking stupidly at the woman's withering form as she slides out of the door.

"What was that all about?" I grumble to Mimi once she's safely out of earshot, "And are you...following me?" I don't mean for my eyes to narrow or the words to come out with a defensive edge, but they definitely do.

The freckled girl squints at me, her lips drawing into a hidden grin, "It's kind of my job, remember?"

Oh, that 'Chief Protector of the Game Maker' bullshit.

Right.

I rub at my head and eyes.

"I never asked for you to—" I start.

"I know," the girl's voice is kind, though interrupting, "Trust me. This is just formalized—"

"Horseshit," I fill in.

And the girl grins.

She spreads her hands wide, shrugging again, "Just doing my job. I get pinged from the cameras when there's movement in your room so—"

"Cameras?!"—I'll admit it, I go a little berserk—"You have cameras in my bedroom??? No one told me?! What is wrong with you people—"

"It's for your—safety!" Mimi sputters.

"Well, my safety can back the fuck off," I spit, shoving past the girl and taking an enormous second bite out of one of the chocolate chip cookies without caring about hiding it anymore.

"Go back to sleep," I tell her, pushing out the kitchen door and calling over my shoulder, "I'm going to go somewhere where my every fart isn't being monitored."

I know.

Not very mature.

But I'm tired. I'm tired of being watched—being prized and gawked at and judged for a title I never wanted. I just need some alone time...somewhere.

"Personal gym is the first door on your left—" Mimi shouts from the kitchen.

"I don't need your help!" I counter. But my eyes lock on the door she'd mentioned, and I push it open as the plastic smell of gym mats layers my nose.

I see the rows of swords pined on the wall and the exercise machines and punching bag...

And, maybe, I do need the girl, after all.

Maybe she already knows me better than I think.

Loading 45 Minutes Later...100%

Rushing endorphins work better at getting rid of these rushing thoughts than I'd imagined. This is a realization I come to as my fist thuds into the punching bag for the 400th time. My hair's almost come out of the high ponytail I threw it up in and snags in sweaty strands around my chin and neck, but I don't care.

I only care about one thing.

Hitting.

Hard.

Getting all this freaking aggression out.

Somewhere where I can't hurt anyone—not even myself.

Thud.

My fist pounds the punching bag again, making it pitch with a satisfying bounce.

Why am I so angry? Is it Goran? His death? This place? —Definitely this place. It's like they expect me to be this thing that—

Thud.

That I'm not—

Thud.

***Status Update: Punching Bag, Strength +2, Endurance +2***

If I keep going all night, how will my stats look?

How will my head look?

These people can take their stupid titles and fucking expectations and flush them down the—

"Agh!" I throw all my weight into the punch.

Thwam!

Satisfying.

"Oh-okay. Looks like a bad time."

I whip around.

And Sparo's grinning at me from where he's ducked through the door, holding his hands up like he's on the guilty side of gunpoint.

I breathe heavily, wiping my hair out of my face with my arm. I guess I look too hot to handle, but so does he. He's in pajama pants, but he isn't wearing a shirt. I turn my face away, back towards the punching bag; I am way too tired and frustrated to throw this catching-feelings thing in the mix right now...

"Did Mimi send you?" I guess, noticing the sleep still consuming his eyes.

I hear him chuckle behind my back though.

"So, are you the psychic one, or Prickgada?"

But I can't laugh at his joke. I can't muster much of any kind of emotion other than frustration in this moment.

"They have a camera in my room," I sputter without even realizing I was about to, "Did you know that? Did you know that there's someone literally stalking me twenty-four seven for my protection? Goran's gone. I don't—I don't need...a replacement."

Tears burn at my eyes before I can stop them. I can't believe I'm doing this again—falling apart and into a puddle of emotion. What is wrong with me? Why can't I hold up? Why are my walls so easy to tear down?

But Sparo's close now.

He reaches out a hand, putting it on my shoulder.

And, suddenly, I'm reminded of Callen. That was how Callen always consoled me. More pain stabs at my throat in a lump.

Oh God, can I face all this? I'm just one person. How am I supposed to face all this?

And Sparo smiles weakly.

Knowingly.

Like he gets it.

"How about a sword fight?" he asks, "Winner takes all the cheesy fries in the galaxy."

And I grin...a little at that, biting back the emotions.

Because I'm glad he doesn't want to talk about it. I need someone not to talk about it. Just to be. With me. Just us, nothing else.

So I don't have to stay in my thoughts.

And its...nice that he's that guy who gets it enough to help.