SAVE POINT 98
Loading A Scheming Green-Haired Girl In A Cell...100%
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EmeraldCity_88
No offense to anyone who created this sterile holding-cell-of-death but...well, they did too good of a job. I can't seem to find one loophole—one way out. Concrete walls and floor stretch on all sides of me. The place is immaculate and baren, save a hole for the necessaries in the corner and a threadbare cot against the far wall. There's not a rusty bar or peg, no space except for my fingers under the steel beam at the bottom, and the guards come in sets of four. Screw these shithead Einsteins. I wanted out yesterday, and all I'm getting is watery mashed potatoes and some sort of mush that I suppose isn't vegan. Gross.
I push whatever the baby-food-consistency protein is around on my plate, attempting not to gag. The color is gray and brown at the same time. If Crayola named it, it'd be called 'Tepid Swamp'—no 'Brown Mushroom'...
> I'd eat if I were you. Better to eat than be eaten alive from the inside out.
Lectures the enormous, bronze dragon one cell over in my mind.
Yeah, whatever. I'll start taking advice from depressed mythical beasts when I damn so please.
"I'm not hungry," I spit, instead, choosing not to look at the Commandress who I know is blinking at me narrowly from gray bars, exactly like mine, across the hallway. I don't need one of her wise-sage moments right now. I was the one who roused her from her own pity party, after all. Plus, I might be trapped here, like she is, but my game isn't over; I still have my king on the board. And I could think, if the dragon would just stay out of my headspace.
> You are rather grumpy when you're hungry—
"You're rather talkative when you're not depressed," I shoot back, making sure my stare will cut off any further remarks. And it works, but, all the same, I'm a little sad it does—a little more than a little on edge.
Because, as much as I need time to think, I need someone to care. About me.
Bristling.
Unapproachable.
Biting.
Me.
And the dragon's not fighting to do that. The only person out there fighting for it will find me—I'm made sure of it. Ammat was a good, little almost-sister. She'd done exactly as I told her. Because, for whatever reason, the multiplayer mode launched for her, separately, at the same time that it launched for me, and I'd asked the system to deliver a chat message to her with the potential to change both of our lives—a promise.
One I'd kept, as evidence that she's not right here beside me behind these Gods-forsaken bars.
Amat won her multiplayer game.
She won her freedom from me when she kept her promise—to cash in her winning to make my baby sister a reality. Skipper is real now. Flesh and blood.
And she's in The Game.
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She'll find me, I know it.
She'll do whatever it takes to free me—
Bang.
The prison door hitting the hallway wall? My head snaps up. Because it's too early for them to come back for our dishes. My heart catches and flutters with baited anticipation in my chest. —Skipper? Is she here already? Has Skipper come for—
Ugh.
I immediately slouch against the freezing concrete wall when I see the real culprit emerge from the shadows, stepping forward like the royal goodie-two-shoes we can all see she's been tripping in like they're higher than five-inch stilettos.
Damn, what was the girl's name? Something with Beauty and the Beast? ...Belle? No—Bella like that Twilight shit?
All I can think of is the fucking teapot right now, and I'm heartily tempted to call her Mrs. Potts just to see her reaction—
"It's you," I say instead, my favorite mix of sarcastic enthusiasm blending seamlessly into my inflection. "To what do we owe the immense honor of your flipflops this evening? ...Well, I would know if it evening, if we had a window in here...which we don't..."
Flipflops. The girl is wearing ripped jeans and flipflops.
Way to get right out of the jungle warfare and slip into the comfy life while the dragon and I rot, couped up down here. If it wasn't for her fancier, black, asymmetric top, I could make some really wonderful jokes.
But the girl nods at me, her eyes darting to the floor as she clears her throat.
Oh, Gods, this is going to be worse than I thought. She must be here for some kind of— "If you're here to patch up a moral guilt trip dilemma thing, trust me, I am not the girl you wanna talk to. Maybe the dragon's better," I quip, pointing to the huge beast, "She's really good at making you hate her in like two seconds flat so—"
"I didn't come for that," the girl blurts, tucking a fingerful of brown hair behind her ear shyly as her gaze darts to the floor again.
Would she just spit it out already?!
"I want to know why you do it," she says, her lips moving slowly as they round around each word with careful concentration, which would be fine except:
I have no damn idea what this chick is getting at.
"Come again?" I ask, feeling my right eyebrow tick upward.
"I want to know why you use black magic—why you create"—the girl's brow creases with frustration and emphasis—"when we've told you over and over that it breaks this world—"
I laugh. I can't help it. The braying noise jumps out of me. And it startles the brunette in an almost satisfying way. I watch confusion and aggravation flicker across her eyes and face.
"This isn't funny," she spits.
But it is.
It really is.
"You're looking for reason?" I sputter, still chuckling and holding my side a little, "You're looking for logic? In this chaos? In—me?"
It's ridiculous—absurd.
But she's not joking. Her face is smooth solemn. Her eyes are dark and—so damn serious. I can't help myself. I lean forward. I reach my tattooed arms and hands through the bars, and I grab her by the shoulders. Her forehead wrinkles in momentary terror, but I'm not going to hurt her, I just want to shake her—to shake some of that stiff-as-a-board out of her. She brings her chin up to face me as I throw her around for that second, finally thrusting me off and stepping backward, "What are you—"
"Gods, you're so stiff," I gripe, "you need an acupuncturist or something—"
But she doesn't back down. Her eyes bore into my skull. "Why do you do it?" she snarls.
And all the air goes out of me because this chick really is absolutely no fun, and I'm already feeling that feeling I hate: suffocating, bleeding me dry...leaving me...Gods, no, it's dangerous when I'm like this.
"I'm fucking bored, that's why," I finally screech, "What do you want me to say? I'm bored as fuck. That's why okay?! It's not the grand fucking answer you're looking for—"
But my words choke off because...because it looks like it actually might be. The brunette's eyes snap into a realization, widening. And, it's like I can't scrub off whatever inspiration I, somehow, just provided; the girl smiles, then, races for the door out of here.
"Oh my God, I get it now, thank you!" she calls over her shoulder.
But I sink back against the cold, concrete wall, feeling worse than before. No one's ever thanked me for being a dick before, and, honestly—for as much of a villain as anyone can make me out to be—I don't really like it.