Save Point 15

Rosabella

The yellow-painted room has a strange foggy kind of sparkle to it. I feel like I know this place. Do I know this place? A single, four-poster bed with white-sheet curtains flowing down the sides...a teddy bear tossed on the messy, pale-pink sheets...a fluffy rug under my pudgy toes...

...Am I shorter?

The white-lace hem of a nightgown trails my chubby knees, and I can't see much higher than the top of the mattress---

"Rosabella!"

A warm bellow of delight.

I spin around, finding the movement hard and bulky, nearly falling.

"Opps!" Dad's face smiles into mine as his hands reach for me, grabbing me just in time, "Don't take a tumble there. How's my big girl?"

The room twirls as he picks me up.

A giggle spouts out of my lips.

A feeling of utter safety rushes over me, there in his secure hold.

"Ford?"

Another voice.

Deeper.

Dad places me on the ground with a jolt; his brow furrows as he turns to address someone behind him. Why are they so tall?

It's a man with a bald head and red beard. His face creases with urgency as they speak in hushed tones.

But something confuses me, then...

More accurately, someone.

Because there's suddenly two Dads.

Both with the same jawline.

Same dark hair.

...Identical twins...

What?

I shake my head; I have to be seeing this wrong.

"Goran, would you watch her for a minute?" the first Dad—the one, Ford, who spun me around—asks the other who stands, lounging casually in the doorway. His voice is clipped as he nods at me.

And second Dad tries to hide a smile as he bustles forward.

"Of course, I'll watch Rosie...brother."

A strange scent floats into my nostrils as I awake from the dream... Memory?

I'd felt like a memory.

...What is that smell? ...Musk? Dirt? Moss?

And a strange sound...

That, for sure, is a buzzing incandescent lightbulb.

Do they have lightbulbs in the afterlife?

I blink my eyes open. They're heavy—my whole body is heavy, leaden-feeling although my head spins, light. The concrete ceiling above me twirls and distorts. A memory tugs at my brain.

Dad's face.

Dad's face had swum there, above me, the last time I'd had my eyes open.

When was that?

My head hurts—these are too many thoughts. My hand reaches up to rub at my temple, and I notice the patchy tears and burns in the fabric of my body armor; in some places, blood and wounds show through. ...What? That would explain the stinging sensation still sizzling there.

I move my hand down into my line of vision to observe the reddened flesh.

Burns.

That dragon.

It all comes flooding back.

The wall of fire.

At my face.

People screaming.

Arms...clutching...

Dad had been there.

Dad got me out of there...

I swallow.

Dad...

Because the dream I just had burns in the back of my throat.

Was it only that, a dream?

...Or was it a memory?

My heart sinks because I think I know the truth, but I want to be wrong; I so very much want to be wrong. The red dragon had told me my Dad is dead. He'd asked me why the Game Wardens would be asking me to collect magic if the Game Makers in this world, besides me, were alive.

And the dragon had a point about another part too: why was The Game hellbent on imprisoning and killing my Dad unless...

...Unless it was like my dream, and he wasn't my dad at all.

...Unless the man I've been calling dad IS an imposter like they've all been saying...my real dad's identical twin...

???

I'm not ready for all that—all that information, all at once.

Dizziness overwhelms me.

And I'm not ready to stand either, but I shove myself upwards, to my feet, so I can examine my surroundings. My head revolts. My stomach pitches.

And I reach out very quickly to grab onto the nearest piece of furniture.

Which is a desk.

Plywood variety. Nearly just a simple frame of one crammed up against the bed with a lamp donning a sideways shade. The fake wood scratches my fingertips. Where the heck am I?

I'm alone, that much is obvious.

The concrete bunker-of-a-room is as sparse and desolate as the cold, gray material of the walls and floors. I quickly identify the buzzing noise from before as the light flicking overhead. The place is dark except for two more bulbs, barely lighting the rows of shelving on the far walls. Other than the bed, the desk, and a table and chairs, there isn't much furniture. ...And everything is old and tattered like it's survived a war.

Dad brought me here?

Err...Dad...I'm not quite sure of that title yet. This place is making everything complicated...

If I'm in here, there has to be a way out. My eyes search for a window, but it's clear there are none. ...Instead, my eyes lock on a rope ladder hanging from the ceiling, and I crane my neck up to find a wooden hatch.

A trapdoor?

My body aches, but I have enough strength to haul myself up the first few rungs. The rope scratches at the burns on my palms. My health bar pulses down the tiniest bit. Damn that thing.

Damn this door.

I use my nails to try and pry at the place it meets the grass shoots sticking through the crack, but it won't budge.

There's no handle on the inside.

I shove at it, heaving my weight against the wood—

I hear the door jangle against something.

A latch?

Is it locked?

I struggle against the thing for fifteen more minutes before my strength runs out and my swirling head tells me to stop.

With a huff, I return back to the hard floor and flop, helplessly, on the bed, my eyes tracing the boarder of the ceiling like there might be escape options that I missed. ...But there aren't.

What am I going to do now?

...At least there's food. When I'm bored enough, I wander over to the shelving units on the far wall, tracing my fingers over the labels of brightly-colored food cans and boxes there.

Beans.

Canned vegetables.

Pancake mix.

It looks like someone has lived here... Survived here for quite some time...

I pick a box up to examine the best-used-by date, but shriek and drop it because—

There's eyes.

Staring at me—

My heart leaps—

It's dead, I realize quickly. The animal is dead. The glass eyes of a stuffed racoon stare back at me from their mounted position on a piece of polished wood.

Taxidermy?

I lean to peer behind the shelf and discover a whole pile of them.

Animals.

Stuffed.

Their fur, coarse and dry.

Their mouths, contorted in their last dying breath.

Ick.

I shiver.

I jump when I hear metal scraping against metal from over my head. A key inserted into a lock? Or my desperate imagination?

I scramble away from the dead animals to lean forward, straining to make out the slightest sound—

...

Something clicks.

Not my imagination.

A key!

In a lock!

Wood and metal groan as something shifts overhead—

Light filters in and—

A boot comes down the rope ladder.

I squint at the emerging figure as my eyes take a minute to adjust.

Dad.

Maybe Dad.

Emotions mix a strange potpourri inside my stomach.

I hear and watch the man close the trapdoor overhead, a smile wiping slyly over his face as he conceals something behind his back. He shakes off the hood from over his head, letting his cropped, dark hair free in a tangled mess.

I notice there's blood on his face.

And hands.

From getting me away from the dragon?

"Dad?" I start, hesitantly, "Are you hurt?"

"I got you something," he says instead.

His avoidance of my question makes me more annoyed than typical. Maybe it's the lock on the door or my dream or the dead animals...maybe it's this headache that is pounding in my skull. I gape, incredulously at both the situation and the door to the bunker above, "So...you locked me in here?'.

The man does a double-take. His jaw goes slack. "Of course. Rosie, it was for your own protection. It's dangerous out there."

He has a point; I just fought off a dragon. But, still, something within me fights it and his doe-eyed expression. I guess I'm more tired than I thought. I rub at my head wearily, "What'd you bring me?"

"I didn't forget, you know"—he actually looks excited which makes me feel even more exhausted—"Tomorrow, you know?"

I didn't know.

I raise a half-hearted eyebrow, leaning on the safety of the bed. How am I supposed to question him about the things I truly want to ask him? How am I supposed to bring something like that up? Just launch into an awkward conversation? ...When I'm this tired?

My heart hammers in my chest.

"Your birthday," he announces with a triumphant swish of his arms.

"Oh."

My voice is quiet.

My breath, hitched.

I'd forgotten about my birthday. Honestly, I'd forgotten about everything human since I'd been stolen into The Game. At least that dragon hadn't completely roasted me, and I could see the beginning of another year.

"You know," I try to wave the man off, turning away to fidget and fold and re-fold the corner of the bedsheet over itself on the mattress, "I don't even need to really celebrate—"

"Wahla!"

He's not going to listen to me.

I turn to find his eyes wide as he produces two river stones in his right palm.

Rocks?

I'm about to protest when he waves his fingers in the air over them.

Black spirals shoot out of his fingertips and, suddenly, there's a cake, balancing on a white dish there, in his hand. Out of thin air. A three-layer, white-frosted birthday cake with black swirls and lit candles.

"How—" I mutter.

But, worse, I know how.

Dormouse talked about when people try to create without creator skill; it's black magic. It's what had warped and twisted the entire Game world.

Something drops and hardens in my stomach as the man places the cake on the table nearby with a soft clatter. I grit my teeth. This is not right. I'm going to have to talk to him about this. I'm going to have to bite the bullet and just face him—

"And, that's not all!" the man waves his fingers in the air again, over the second river rock, black exploding from his hands this time.

"Dad, stop!" I shout.

But a container of rice appears in his one hand...and a bowl of General Tso's rests in the other.

"Your favorite," he says simply, his smile reaching all the way to his eyes, "I thought we'd have dinner and celebrate early."

The smell wafts into my nostrils like something familiar and solid in the midst of everything unfamiliar and unsolid.

But it isn't enough.

A birthday dinner with my favorite food isn't going to fix this. Not even close.

Tears sting at my eyes although I try to hide it. My lips twist and distort with the beginnings of a sob.

The man stops.

He can see the anguish on my face. His face changes as well, dipping into utter concern. "You don't like it?" he asks, looking crestfallen, "Rosie, just say what you want, and I'll make it for you—"

"It's not that," I sniff, crossing my arms over my chest.

My throat feels clogged worse than an apartment toilet.

Oh God, can I get this out?

Can I actually do this? Ask him this?

The man leans closer, his arms reaching out to comfort me, "Rosie—"

I try to ignore the escalating beat of my heart and find some saliva in my mouth. "It's—" I stutter, "It's the creator magic. How are you doing magic? Only Game Makers can, and the group I met in trying to rescue you say that I'm the last Game Maker—the last one alive."

The man freezes.

His face grows white.

His eyes gloss over, cold.

And I can't take the silence; I can't have him not say anything right now when I need him to speak the most.

"You're a Game Maker, right?" I fill the empty room with my shakingly optimistic voice instead, sniffling through the words, "That's what they don't know. They're wrong about you, about us. You're my Dad. Of course, you're a Game Maker. It probably runs through blood."

...Why isn't he saying anything?

I blink at him.

"Rosie, it's different than you think—" he reaches out to cocoon me in a hold, but I shrug him off.

Because he's not saying what he's supposed to say.

He's not telling me they're wrong.

And there's only one way to find out for real—for concrete sure.

"Show me your stats," I spit, trying to hold him at arm's length, "Show me the creator points on your stats."

"Rosie, you're jumping to conclusions," he tries.

No.

No, I'm not jumping to fucking conclusions.

I'm not going crazy. Why is my head throbbing?

"Show them to me," I growl, "It'll be your birthday present to me." My words and voice are not kind, but I can't help it. I need answers. The dragon and the Game Wardens seem to know more about my past than I do. Is my dream right? Did my Dad have an identical twin? Who is the man standing in front of me? ...Growing up, he'd never told me his name. He'd told me he was my Dad, and that's all that mattered. Why don't I know something stupid like his name? I have to get some answers.

He holds up his hands in defeat, "Okay."

He swipes a finger horizontally, and his stats bar opens:

"See?" he echoes, "They're there. I have a creator slot in my stats."

My eyes sweep over the numbers and find it—wait, his creator skill is negative? How is that possible? And it is there...

But my hands start to tremble as I notice something else.

...Because I look at the top.

And I see his name...

...And it doesn't say 'Game Maker'.

...And it doesn't say 'Ford', the name I remember Dad's being from my memory dream.

It says 'Goran'.

The one my real dad had called from the doorway to watch me while he was busy.

The brother.

He's...he's the twin.

I feel the color drain out of my face.

The dragon had been right.

My dad is dead. His twin hadn't had the courtesy to even tell me.

An unease sweeps over my body, causing all the hairs on my arms to raise. I suddenly feel very light-headed.

And...angry.

And...frightened.

What does he want with me?

"I have to pee," I wheeze out, feeling like all the air is being vacuum-sealed from around me.

It looks like he didn't hear me, so I repeat my statement—a little stronger now, "You have to let me outside to pee now."

The man's eyes narrow.

Sharpen.

And it's too late for him to not realize that something's up—that something's different in the inflection of my voice.

"Please, Dad," I hurry, hoping the title will assuage any of his fears even as fear jumps, wholly alive in me.

"I'm not letting you outside," his voice is firm.

"Where am I supposed to go? I swear I won't wander off," I complain, my voice wavering slightly (although I hope he doesn't catch it) as I gesture around the open room, "I'm gonna pee myself—"

"Get a jar off the shelf," Goran points over near the creepy taxidermy animals, "I won't look."

And that's when I know it.

100%.

This isn't my Dad.

I'm a prisoner here.

What am I supposed to do?

How can I escape when he's so much larger and stronger—

A knock splits open my thoughts.

Sharp.

On the wood trapdoor above.

Alarm rattles through Goran's expression.

"I'll get it," I offer quickly, recognizing my chance to make a run for it, "No one can see you, remember?"

But Goran's arm crosses my chest, protectively pushing me back like trying to shush a small child. "No," he says, pulling a dagger out of his belt with a swishing noise, "I'll get it."

I swallow as the knife glints in the dim lighting.

Is he going to kill my only ticket out of here?

The rope ladder creaks under his weight as he edges cautiously upward.

I can barely breathe—

Who's on the other side of that door besides the freedom he won't let me have?

Friend?

Or foe?