SAVE POINT 64

Loading Fun & True...The Higher Place Level...99%

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Rosabella

I stare into the mirror over the dresser in the dark bedroom that was probably my mom's and realize something: I'm not staring at myself. I'm staring at someone who looks like me putting on a show—a show that rivals this place with its grand, Victorian architecture...

A show like my title: Game Maker.

I look at the smoothed down, brunette locks of my hair, this uncomfortable jumpsuit and the sparkly, blue eyeshadow one of the maids had painted on my eyelids at nearly six o'clock this morning and—

And, why do I think I have to dress up or play a part to be something I already am?

I am the Game Maker.

Intrinsically.

Wholly.

Nothing can change that.

Nothing can change me unless I let it.

And I don't want to let it—not anymore. I finger the black-and-white picture of my mother still in my hand, pricking my finger along the paper edge of it like it might jolt me from whatever sleep I've been in.

But it already has.

Dad's note on the back already has awakened something in me—a burning fire? A realization?

He'd written the note for my mother, but his words almost completely describe what I'm facing right now—in this moment in this dark bedroom. And he's given me the answer. I'm staring at it, right now, right here. I just need to be me. I am the Game Maker. Sparo was right, I need to make my game. My life. I need to face the fact that I can't be someone else, and I shouldn't want to be.

And, so, I tear a makeup wipe out of the top drawer.

And I wipe it over my entire face.

Till I'm there again.

In the mirror.

Till the glitz and the glam are gone.

And it's me: raw, fresh and—yes—maybe red-faced in the mirror because I scrubbed too hard. And there's something exhilarating about seeing myself, breathless, staring back. ...Like maybe it's the first time I've really looked at myself in a long time.

And I smile.

'Cause this next part is going to be fun.

"Maids!" I call to the empty room.

And, I was right, someone was watching because, almost immediately, the door slides open, light rimming the edges from the hallway as two, familiar—though shadowed—forms hurry into view.

"Yes, Game Maker?"

"You called?"

Their voices are like little birds in the darkness.

"Yes, I called," I tell them, "I have a few requests."

"Anything, Game Maker," the first vows.

I smile, glad that the dim light in the room hides it. That's exactly what I want to hear.

"So, first," I start pointedly, "I want you to show me where the cameras are in my room and disable them—"

"—Disable them?" Maid #2 sputters, questions filling her eyes.

And I see the air wobble around her, but I'm prepared for it. I'm not going to give in this time.

Her face distorts.

The high-pitched scream starts—

I bite down on my lip to stop myself from reacting.

"Turn off the cameras, crush, kill them, whatever does the job," I list, keeping my voice neutral, but the poor girl's eyes grow wider and wider.

And the pitch grows higher—ugh! Maybe this was a bad idea...

"What—?!" the maid balks.

"You said 'anything'," I say flippantly which prompts Maid #2 to glare at the first.

"Game Maker, the cameras are to protect you—" the first girl starts insistently.

Is this going to work? My eardrums are about to explode from the noise—

"And I've decided I don't need protection, thank you," I tell her curtly. "Actually, I'm going to release all my bodyguards from their duties until further notice. And you. You guys are fired. It's nothing personal, I just I prefer to do things myself."

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Pop.

The shrieking sound stops.

The air returns to normal.

Except that I'm left with the two gaping girls who all but have their jaws on the floor...

Wait...I didn't give in to their demands, and the distortion and noise still went away? I resist the urge to do a happy dance right on the spot.

"You're—firing us?" Maid #1 gasps.

"Yes!" I reply far too cheerily, "I'm sure they'll find some other task for you to do here. Oh, but could you actually find my friends—the group that brought me here—and bring them to me? As your last, official duty, I mean."

I feel like a total jerk for asking but...well, I'm allowed to have anything I want, right?

"Of course, Game Maker," the taller of the maids tells me—her voice rather hollow and unsure as she reaches over the dresser and plucks the clock off the stand; it probably has a camera in it. The second maid removes two more devices from the room.

And, then, they slip silently—awkwardly—out the door.

And I'm ready for part two of this plan.

With relish that can only be obtained after far too long in an outfit you don't want to be in, I yank that awful, silken jumpsuit over my head. And I scrabble in the chest of drawers till I find sweatpants. And I slide them up my legs like the fluffiest piece of Heaven I haven't experienced yet.

Next, comes the tank top. I choose a cropped one, loving how it instantly molds to my body.

I toss my hair hastily over my shoulders.

Slip my feet into my slippers and throw open the door.

Time to really do this.

I take the deepest breath I've taken all day as I face the hallway back to the throne room. Mom and Dad, I'm about to make you proud.

The carpet runner in the hall ends at the imposing door I remember, and I brace myself for the end of the soft material under my feet and the transition to hard...just like what I'm about to do. The guards give me a couple raised eyebrows—probably due to my outfit—but I stride past them, lifting my chin high even if my hands are trembling. I won't let them see how difficult this is. I'm stronger than I know.

I'm the Game Maker.

I decide.

And, quite frankly, I've decided this throne room, listen-to-the-Gamers'-plea-line is far less than efficient—

Shit.

There she is.

The wrinkled, elderly woman stands squarely in my way—blocking my path to the throne with arms crossed over her chest and a frown so large her lips are nearly a tipped sideways crescent moon. I cringe, waiting for the inevitable distortion of the air and high-pitched scream but—

...But it doesn't come...

Instead, a voice does. In my mind. The Grand Dragon.

> Your prophesy upgrade told you when you displeased others. You could choose to please them or be yourself. When you choose to please them, you always have to repeat that action or else their disapproval comes back. When you choose to be yourself, you put your own approval of yourself above theirs eliminating the displeasure. You have chosen well, child. Choose well again.

And elation courses through me at the beast's words...and, yet, that last line sounds like a warning too...

In the note on the back of the photo, Dad told my mother that she should "upset the apple cart".

"Here goes nothing," I whisper under my breath.

The woman's eagle-sharp eyes tear up and down my frame. "What exactly are you wearing? You're mocking this holy tradition—"

"Um," I look down at my attire, picking a thumb and index-finger full of sweatpant material from my pants in a triangle tent, "These are sweatpants, and this is a tank top. They're actually comfortable clothes. As far as your 'holy tradition', this is nothing more than a waste of everyone's time."

The woman bumbles, her face creasing into magenta and her eyebrows sloping into undeniable fury like some kind of raven. I step past her inner turmoil to address the confused, shifting line of people.

"She's back!" I hear someone exclaim.

"The Game Maker!" another shouts.

I open my arms wide on either side of me, letting my voice boom through the vast throne room—up to the cathedral ceiling above—"Everyone! I understand you came here for the betterment of your towns. I think that shows some amazing dedication. But I have to admit that this process of notifying me of your needs is...extremely antiquated. We're gonna try something new...something—faster," I spout, searching for the word and finding it. "Maybe I could post a giant map of The Game behind this chair here, and you each could come up and place a pin where your town affected by darkness is. Then, I'd have more time to address your actual concerns verses sitting here...sitting here," I trail off, not knowing how else to say it.

A murmur of agreement runs through the room. I watch them nod their heads, considering.

Suddenly, I get an even better idea—

"Better yet," I correct, "There's a way to do this without any kind of travel at all. Why don't you all just...send me an email?" The question blurts off my lips.

"Email?!" the buzzard woman with the wrinkles spits, throwing down her arms. She appears confused and completely devastated.

At the same time.

They all live in a video game world. Please tell me they know about emails.

"...You know," I sputter, already turning to leave, "Actually, Dormouse will tell you all about it if I can just find him—"

I stumble back towards the entrance doors as the crowd erupts into a flurry of confusion even as they part to let me past. Millions of faces look as confused as I used to feel. But it's clear now. My path is finally clear. Because I've decided to make it.

"Where are you going?!" the matriarch of tradition screeches at my back. "Your people need you here!"

I swivel, "You're right," I admit, "They do. Which is why I'm going on an expedition to get that root powder I need to live. I hear they're leaving this afternoon—"

The woman holds up her pointy chin, "I won't allow it. I'll call the guards right now and tell them not to let you travel with them. The Game Maker must stay at The Higher Place if we are to retain any sort of order in this universe—"

"Good thing I'm not going with the guards," I quip, "I'm assembling my own team."

And I turn.

And walk out of there.

Chin held high.

As blue boxes pop into my view like a sign of the triumph I've just created:

***Level Passed!***

***Taking the Reins: Intelligence +5, Emotional Intelligence +2***

GAME MAKER ROSABELLA Strength +2 - 57/100 Endurance +2 - 42/100 Agility - 31/100 Intelligence +5 - 55/100 Emotional Intelligence +2 - 72/100 Empathy - 42/100 Determination - 90/100 Prophesy - 100/100 Creator - 90/00

And I grab a sword and dagger from the weapons gym on the way out.

And I stop in the kitchen too to grab a backpack full of sandwiches, lunchmeat, fruit, nuts, berries...

And five cookies just for my trip down the hall.

'Cause this time...I don't give a fuck. And it's about time, don't you think?