Stuck in Motherfaboinging Flower Land

In Game: Time Stop

Though it had been two decades since high school, the cold steel stopwatch in Tyrone Moore’s palm reminded him of old Mr. Watson’s. That stopwatch had ruled every grueling P.E. period and dominated every fucking football practice.

In the days of digital clocks on the wall and other coaches using the timer on their phones, Mr. Watson’s always-shiny stopwatch had been a throwback to a time of old-ass rotary phones and actually wearing watches. Not as a fashion accessory, but because that was just what people did to make sure they were punctual when arriving wherever they needed to be.

Tyrone depressed the trigger.

Buzzing energy filled him and thrummed inside his being like his skin was nothing more than a roiling balloon full of angry bees. A delicious honeyed flavor filled his mouth.

Time stopped.

The buzzing continued.

And as long as he didn’t move too quickly, the buzzing would ease while time remained frozen for a full minute. At least, that’s what Ruthanne had explained to him when she rewarded him the magic timepiece for saving her granary.

Focus.

Tyrone’s head expanded slightly as though he was about to float away. He wrenched his thoughts from the memory. The last thing he needed right now was a cut scene that would eat up all of his time freeze.

The lush, deep green, 16-bit grass of the Eastern Plains expanded out to a perfect, pixel-thin horizon beneath the kind of uniformly light blue sky only possible—and acceptable—in a video game made for fucking children.

Tyrone had passed over the amber-striped, navy-blue brick border that marked where the far reaches of all unclaimed unbelievably fertile land available around Blue Town ended and the travel scene would jump him over to Yellow Town.

But the cut scene hadn’t happened.

He eased his chin toward his shoulder to look back at the two guards chasing him.

Both had the blue vest with the dinky yellow star on the chest denoting that they were what passed for the law. Well, that and the stunted brown bowling pin they used as clubs; the only difference between them was one had black hair while other was blond. The rest of their clothes were the shitty uniform white cotton shirt, blue cotton pants, and ridiculous blue cotton shoes that Tyrone and every non-special character in Blue Town wore.

They had closed on him slightly since they had started chasing and, without the travel scene, their inch-by-inch gain would eventually catch them up.

Tyrone spun.

The buzzing left his body.

The honey taste went away.

Time started again.

Tyrone signaled them to stop and said, “Hold on.”

Both guards kept coming, but slowed when they were at conversation distance. A white balloon with a red flashing exclamation point floated to the right of each of their heads.

Hoping to reset their conversation tree, Tyrone said, “Hello. How do I get to Yellow Town?”

A white text balloon with red text appeared when the black-haired guard spoke. “Stealing is wrong and against Blue Town law.”

A menu of replies appeared in Tyrone’s mind and then manifested in white thought bubbles. Two went out directly to the side of his head while the other two were stacked above them:

Since he didn’t have any money, Tyrone weighed B and C. B would have him without a backpack—which is detrimental in any quest-related game—and if C worked, it would put him on a path to being a lame-ass guard offered as a profession in this 16-bit world.

It occurred to Tyrone that he didn’t even consider D to type in his own answer. He’d done it before to minimal effect, but just the fact that he didn’t auto-select it felt very telling. That realization upon him, Tyrone began to wonder how in the hell he got into the game in the first place.

That subtle, head-filling expansion before a cut scene began to make him feel floaty.

...

Oh, fuck yes!

Tyrone locked his thoughts on how he—a grown man—had come to be stuck in this goddamn child’s game.

Though he’d probably come back to facing these two jerkoffs, he’d at least know the how and why. Hell, he might actually wake up to find that these past couple of days had been nothing more than a very elaborate, and way too long, dream.

If that were the case, he was going to swear off of video games forever. He’d done it before and had always gone back, but this time—this time he’d stick to it. And if it wasn’t a dream—

...

His consciousness began to lift and he went into his memories. Not just to any memory—to one that was only a month old.

A memory of him protecting a kid from three teen-aged bullies.

...

Cut Scene: Protecting a Kid

“Welcome back!” Raul Julia, the voice of Gomez Addams in the Addams Family pinball game, rang out above the casual din of other pinball machines and video games in the Game On arcade.

While Tyrone’s prior score had been high enough to earn him a replay, he thought he had hit the bottom high score this time too. Doing so would give him another credit, but he hadn’t been prompted to put in his initials. He held the button for the right flipper down to start the game status report.

Left-handed, he drove his plastic fork into the large Styrofoam tray of boneless buffalo wings that he had ordered from the bar. He could eat, maybe, two more before having to close it up and take the rest to the Thursday night Dungeons & Dragons game. He swirled the boneless wing in the small Styrofoam vat of extra buffalo sauce and leaned over to not make a mess. He quickly popped it into his mouth.

“Off by two hundred thousand.” Tyrone smiled to himself as he thought about the skilled shot that he missed last game. “Son of a bitch. So fucking close.”

As Tyrone chewed, he winked at his initials on the lowest high score that he had missed beating. He locked it in mind and started a new game. He eased the plunger back between the fifth and sixth fret. The overall goal was to—at least—best the lowest high score, but his focus this game was not to miss one skill shot.

He released the plunger and tossed his fork into the empty top half of the Styrofoam container. The pinball raced up the opening launch pad, slowed at the end, and dropped off into the skilled shot area.

Raul Julia awarded him two million points.

“Hey, knock it off!” A kid’s voice yelled well above the hum of the arcade.

Kids yelling in here wasn’t out of the ordinary. Tyrone estimated that it came from three or four rows behind him. Either on the retro lane with games like Dig Dug, Track & Field, and Galaga or the final row beyond that, which housed all of the one-shot high-luck claw-type games. You’d have better odds of winning at a carnival than playing those fucking legalized theft machines.

Tyrone’s ball came down the side and he flicked his right button to use the upper flipper. The ball went up and around the side ramp. It’d either come down on “Light Thing Flips” or “Two Bear Kicks.” Though the ball tended toward the bear kicks, the extra kicks weren’t worth the five million “Thing” would earn him.

“I mean it! Stop!” Sounded like the same kid.

Tyrone glanced down the line of pinball machines to the bar and the kitchen beyond. The door was closed. Three silhouettes were visible on the Game On logo-stickered glass. Clark the owner/cook, and Denise and Sarah, the waitresses, all herked and jerked as though laughing it up back there.

Clark had invited Tyrone back once to show off the amazing sound system Clark had installed to combat the general noise of the arcade or—more importantly—the fever-pitched roars during college or pro football games. It was impressive.

“Help! Help!”

Tyrone turned from his game. He rushed down the row and past the three Megacade cabinets Clark had as endcaps of each row.

He rounded the final corner.

Three old-enough-to-know-better bald, Caucasian teenagers in white t-shirts, red jeans, and red combat boots were working to strip a Japanese kid wearing all black, maybe in his early teens, of his black backpack. Tyrone didn’t want to color the situation by presuming the three were skinheads picking on a lone minority kid, but the thought did cross his mind.

Tyrone yelled, “Hey!”

All four stopped and looked at him.

Taking advantage of the moment, the kid wrenched free with his backpack and ran behind Tyrone.

Though Tyrone had started to indulge a little too much in boneless wings and ice cream in the last couple of years, he managed to mostly stay in shape. He hadn’t been to a dojo since he turned thirty and the very real possibility of being in a fight made his heart start to thump.

The three teens looked too much alike. As though they were identical triplets whose parents managed to still force them into dressing in matching outfits. While they weren’t built, they were thin and in decent shape.

The center one flexed his shoulders and back, popping his joints before balling his fist. “What you gonna do, man?”

Besides exuding confidence, the cadence of the teen’s voice sounded like it belonged to someone much older.

Tyrone answered, “Nothing that I don’t have to.” He kept his stance and expression neutral. Though he wouldn’t have done anything different, a ripple of regret at stepping into a situation that he didn’t fully understand fluttered through him. And it was quickly trounced by his will to do the right thing.

Keeping his attention on the teens, Tyrone spoke to the kid behind him. “If they try anything else, run to the kitchen.”

The two flanking the one in the center held their ground as the center one advanced.

Not balling his fists, Tyrone raised his hands to defend himself and the kid.

Floating Point of View: Protecting a Kid

Instead of fighting the guy—who he’d find out had a rock-hard jaw—from behind his eyes, Tyrone’s awareness popped out to be three feet above and behind his body.

There was a dent in middle/back of his afro. Was he going bald? Why hadn’t any of his friends told him?

From up here, the air had a static-y feel, smell, and taste. Also, from up here, the situation looked silly.

A—truth be told—somewhat dumpy black man in his early forties, wearing brown loafers, beige Dockers, and a powder-blue long-sleeved button-up shirt; a guy obviously fresh off of work from some local department store where he was a top salesperson and just unwinding at a local arcade when trouble arose. Now that man found himself squaring off with a teen closer to his prime than the man was away from his.

Light footfalls sped away from him as the teen’s steady pace brought him closer. The sound of the arcade fell away and his body’s breathing took the foreground.

The teen swung.

The dumpy man—Tyrone—slipped the punch and dashed in to smash his elbow into the teen’s jaw.

The teen spun away and stumbled back but didn’t fall.

“What the fuck?” Eyes wide, the dumpy man rubbed his elbow. Connecting with the teen’s jaw was like elbowing a car door.

In the dumpy man’s amateur MMA career, that shot had knocked out several competitors. In fact, it was when the dumpy man had found himself laid out from such a shot that he decided to give up on his dream to go pro and, instead, embraced the daily grind of salesmanship.

The teen recovered, rubbed his jaw, and said, “Thanks for helping us level up our defense.”

The dumpy man was flabbergasted.

All three teens move forward.

Arrows flashed at the far ends of Tyrone’s peripherals. A choice came upon him. He could stay and watch himself fight well, but ultimately lose—badly—or float to the left or right.

Having experienced the fury, momentary hope, and pain of losing that fight firsthand, Tyrone focused on the flashing left arrow.

His floating awareness turned.

His awareness zoomed in to being just behind the kid as he pushed into the kitchen. Though Tyrone would’ve welcomed the smell of the burger patties sizzling on the grill, that static-y sensation dominated the area.

“Help,” the kid cried. “Three skinheads are beating up a black guy out there.”

Clark paused the blaring video of Kyle Tosh cracking jokes at Carnegie Hall. Clark asked, “What?”

“Three skinheads.” The kid continued to point. “Beating up a black guy.”

Clark reached under the prep counter and came up with a fucking shotgun. “Call the cops.” Gun tucked under his arm, Clark dashed out of the kitchen.

Tyrone wanted to follow him, but his point of view was stuck with the kid.

Both Denise and Sarah pulled their cellphones, dialed, and fixated on the CCTV feed. In the upper left corner screen, the three guys stomped the shit out of Tyrone’s body as he tried to crawl away. In the lower right, Clark had the butt of the shotgun on his shoulder and the business end trained on the teens.

The kid went back out into the bar. He knelt to rummage through his backpack.

A shotgun blast rocked the air.

Tyrone adjusted his point of view around the kid and was barely able to see Clark as his eyes also went wide.

Clark racked the gun. Pulled the trigger.

Racked the gun. Pulled the trigger.

Racked the—

A hand came into view from the edge of Tyrone’s anchored point of view and pulled the shotgun from Clark’s hand.

Clark turned and ran.

A shotgun blast sent Clark sprawling forward in a bloody mess.

Screams came from the kitchen.

The kid pulled two things from his backpack that each looked like a miniature clothes iron. He stood and pointed one at the teen with the shotgun.

Holding the shotgun in one hand, the teen—the machine—froze. The left side of its face and chest had been blown open to show an array of metal parts and complex wiring.

What in the blue fuck?

Only along for the ride, Tyrone wanted to yell “watch out” at the kid when a teen hopped over the counter.

The kid pointed the second iron-thing at the teen in the air.

Though physics moved the teen forward, he stopped moving his limbs and crashed behind the bar.

Keeping an iron pointed at the two, the kid steadily backed up toward the kitchen. Every once in a while, his slowly shuffling feet would connect with his backpack, and he would kick it farther behind him.

From the floating point of view, Tyrone could see the top of the third teen’s bald head inching along on the other side of the bar, keeping pace with the kid.

Tyrone heard his own voice from way over where he had been beaten down. “One’s at the bar.” He didn’t remember saying that, but he must’ve because he just did before flopping face-first on the arcade floor.

The kid bent at the knees. He pointed the iron at the bar, freezing the last teen. The other iron had the other two teens covered.

The kid said, “Bring me a chair.”

Sarah, the more collected between her and Denise, did.

A weighted feeling started to pull Tyrone’s point of view down toward the kid.

...

The kid set the iron on the chair pointed at the teen. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny disk about half the size of a penny.

The weight grew heavier.

...

The kid placed the tiny disc in his ear. “I have the red situation contained. There are two bystander casualties and two eyewitnesses—”

The scene at the arcade faded away.

...

In Game: Blue Town Center

Tyrone’s senses came back to him. He didn’t wake up in a hospital. While he was pissed at being referred to as a bystander, being next to a 16-bit blue statue shifted his attention.

Three-foot-tall, 16-bit yellow bubble letters with green outlines appeared, taking up most of his vision.

Welcome to

Flowerland!

Each l was a small, brown, clay flowerpot that had the perfect atypical daisy growing tall while the o’s were large, soil-filled, brown, clay flowerpots. A jaunty piping played an upbeat tune.

Not a-fucking-gain.

His point of view was from three feet above his head. He tried to force it down into his head, but the point of view refused to budge and stayed high.

The text disappeared and the music stopped.

The other time Tyrone had been reset, he’d regained awareness next to the blue statue of Bob, one of the four founders of Blue Town. The rotund man had his arm fully extended and in his hand was the magical flute that supposedly calmed anyone listening to it. Water gushed five feet southward from the end of the flute to crash into the confluence of three streams from the south, east, and west to make the water fountain feature at the center of Blue Town.

Carol, a tall drink of water with hair down to the middle of her back, shot back at Bob from a tiny, outstretched spade. Her shooter didn’t make logical sense twice over. First, the spade was too thin to be able to have water running through it and second, unlike Bob’s flute, nothing was supposed to come out of the tip of a spade.

Tyrone patted his blue cotton trouser pockets. Empty. Both of the stopwatch and of the two slices of bread that—

What was her name? He had known the name of the lady who’d given him his first and only quest. He even knew what the reward she gave for completing the quest was, but fuck if he could remember her goddamn name.

Like the reset before, a lot of the fine details of his past explorations were gone.

He tried to force the name to mind, but it was gone. Just like the rewards she had given him.

Damn it.

All around the fountain’s lip were many small, uniform cups made from a generic deep brown wood. Each could scoop about eight ounces of water.

More hoping that the water was a form of Blue Town generic booze, for the first time that he could remember, Tyrone took one of the many wooden cups. He dipped it into the fountain and brought the pale blue water to his nose. Why’d it smell like cinnamon?

He took a sip that kicked like vodka. Smooth. The water held the faintest taste of a churro. Almost like, instead of restaurants putting a lemon wedge on the rim of a glass, there was a chunk of the delicious fried dough.

Tyrone nodded his approval and gazed around Blue Town again. Just to see if anything happened to change.

Four paths, smooth tan tile made to look like it was cobblestone, led north, south, east, and west from the town square out into the sprawling expanse that was the gloriously named Blue Town.

On either side of the faux cobblestone street were buildings built from the same reddish-brown stucco with blue shingled roofs. Most of the buildings were single story, with two-storied buildings being reserved for the Smith, the Potter, and the various other generic and/or lame professions that somehow allowed this fictional town to thrive. At the end of each lane were the massive eight-storied buildings belonging to the four guilds.

Tyrone turned his attention back to the fountain.

Only two 16-bit guide children—a boy by the male statue with a handsaw and a girl by the female statue with a tiny star—came hustling to the fountain. I thought there were four. Both children were the typical half size of adults and had the same cloth clothing.

A white balloon appeared next to each child’s head. The boy’s was a black period, but the girl’s was a red exclamation point. Vague memories of red text—the others had been flashing, this one was steady—made him leery of the girl.

Tyrone approached the boy.

A white text bubble appeared next to the boy and black text scrolled out as he said, “Did you know David the Builder built the first four academies? It’s true. If you look at the cornerstones, you’ll see his name.”

A menu of replies appeared in Tyrone’s mind and then manifested in white thought bubbles. Two went out directly to the side of his head while the other three were arced like a rainbow over his head:

The lame conversation tree that he had with the guide kids for Bob and Carol came back to mind. Besides the initial tidbit about David erecting the buildings, options A-D were just loops that would try to make him go the direction David was pointing to join the Builders’ Guild.

Tyrone moved away from the boy.

A white text bubble appeared next to the boy as he waved. “Bye. Hope you decide to join The Builders.” The text went away and the bubble shrank to hold a lone period again.

Starting to feel a bit tipsy, two thin, hollow white ovals appear over Tyrone head. He took another sip of his high alcohol content churro-water and closed to conversation distance with the girl and her red exclamation point.

The white text bubble expanded and red text scrolled. She said, “You stole. That is against one of the rules of the guild I want to join. The Protectors say I cannot talk to you. Good-bye.” Her text bubble popped and she turned her back on him. The bubble did not re-appear like the boy’s had.

A rapid, fast-forwarded, cut scene played in the upper right of Tyrone’s vision as he recalled, clearly, picking up a blue backpack in a store and running out. And the two Blue Town guards chasing him. And then talking to them. And then he was at Bob’s statue minus the backpack and the other possessions that he’d had.

While it made sense that he wouldn’t have the backpack, he sure as shit should’ve had the other stuff that he had earned.

Tyrone walked around the girl to tell her about how the Protectors had stolen his other stuff.

Without so much as a text bubble or prompt, she turned her back on him again.

Tyrone glared at her for a moment, then decided to take his complaint to the Protectors’ Guild. Cup in hand, he headed east to give them a piece of his mind.

The Protectors

While the color of the walls on the inside of the Protectors’ Guild was the same reddish-brown stucco, the floor tiles changed to being matte gray with tiny white diagonal lines. Almost like it was supposed to represent granite.

Twenty feet directly across from the entrance was a judge-style raised desk. Brown wood railing—rails that resembled the tiny bowling pin clubs that the guards carried—spanned out ten feet from the sides of the desk and extended to the entry room sectioning off the greeting area. A Blue Town guard sat there. In addition to the vest with the dinky yellow star on the left, this one had two silver carrots on his opposite breast denoting seniority. He also sported a tight blue homburg hat.

Besides the greeting guard’s desk, the other desks in the room were more like wide decorative teachers’ types instead of the no-nonsense functional type of desk in real precincts. Same with the chairs. Hell, a pattern formed in Tyrone’s head. The two halves of the room, from the water coolers, potted plants, and closed office doors, were mirrors of the other side.

Painfully atypical, the smell of coffee and doughnuts filled the air.

Wait, doughnuts?

Tyrone scanned the waiting area. Sure as shit, there were two boxes of doughnuts on either side of the door, and just beyond them, pots of coffee. The contents of each box were identical, an assorted mix of pink sprinkled, maple bars, Boston cream, plain, chocolate glazed, and powdered doughnuts.

The two thin, hollow white ovals above his head began to rock side to side. Right on! A full-tilt inebriation had settled in from the fountain water and Tyrone really wanted to munch. He set down his empty water cup, helped himself to a maple bar, began eating, and also pulled a powdered doughnut. A doughnut in each hand, he sauntered up to the counter.

A white bubble with a red period appeared next to the greeting guard’s head.

Really? Tyrone went to conversation distance.

The text bubble expanded and red text scrolled out as the guard said, “It’s not often that a Thief comes into the Protectors’ Guild. How can I be of assistance?”

Thief was bold and italicized like the man meant it to be a slander.

Tyrone only had three bubbles this time:

Why the hell not? Tyrone chose B. The text in his white balloon came out shaky. “Hello. The Schmithhhith, hasshh, shhent me—”

The guard shook his head. A large text bubble scrolled. “As an adult, you should know that public intoxication is against the Blue Town rules. I am not sure where you got alcohol, but why don’t you have some coffee to sober up?”

Tyrone pointed his half-eaten maple bar at the guard. No words would leave his mouth.

Tyrone took a step back and then stepped forward to initiate conversation again.

A small x flashed next to the guard’s head.

In the lower right of Tyrone’s vision, text flashed into being. He went to look down at it, but no matter how far he tilted his head, he couldn’t get the text to the center of his vision. Without turning his head further, he focused on the message. (The Desk Captain refuses to speak to drunk people. Come back when you are sober. [Tip: Drinking coffee sobers you up.])

Tyrone chuckled. That fucking so-called tip would help folks fail almost all alcohol awareness tests. Coffee doesn’t work that way. All you get when you give coffee to a drunk is a wide-awake drunk.

Still, hundreds of years of pairing coffee with doughnuts made it somewhat of a tradition. Tyrone finished off his maple bar, grabbed one of the generic white porcelain cups, and held it up to the coffee machine. Black aroma lines came up from the machine to his nose and they smelled delicious. White steam lines came up from his cup as he filled it most of the way.

While his friends might scream sacrilege and cross themselves, Tyrone dunked his powered doughnut into the coffee twice and took a bite of the soggy goodness.

Fucking-A, this is good.

Though everything had a very generic quality and appearance, this pairing tapped into a nearly forgotten flavor combination that his grandfather had clued Tyrone in on when they went fishing for his thirteenth birthday. His parents wouldn’t let him have coffee and Grampa followed their rules. However, Grampa would always let Tyrone have a cup of joe. And right in the 16-bit Blue Town precinct, the doughnut, the joe, the mix was perfect to twang the fond memory.

Sobering almost instantly, three things hit Tyrone at once. Coffee here works amazing wonders, that memory of a fishing trip with his Grampa didn’t create a cut scene, and—chief of the goddamn tribe—he was in a motherfucking video game!

Fuck the stopwatch, backpack, and bread. Shit, he would even stick the question of how he got here right up Satan’s ass if it led to a way out.

Tyrone set his cup and doughnut down and stormed over to the so-called Desk Captain.

As usual, the white bubble with a period appeared. “Sorry, a Thief cannot join the Protectors’ Guild. However, now that you are sober, how can I be of assistance?”

Options appeared above Tyrone’s head, but he went straight to custom text. “How in the Fa-boing do I get out of here.” Fa-boing? Tyrone frowned. He wanted to type fuck, but the word didn’t show. He went back to change it, but fuck wouldn’t come to the door; only fa-boing was home. Fuck it. Tyrone sent the message.

The boing part of his profanity came out as a literal spring sound.

What the shit?

The guard’s face screwed up. “That kind of dirty language is not necessary. If you want to leave, go back out that door and then to any edge of town. Yellow Town is to the north, Orange Town to the east, Green Town to the south, and Brown Town is to the west.”

Tyrone went to custom text. “Fa-boing that noise. I wanna know how to get out of this mother-fa-boinging game.” The cursor went back and change his mother to mu-boing. Fuck it. Good enough for government work. Tyrone let the message fly.

The guard replied. “I already told you how to get out of town, Mr. Pottymouth.”

Growing rage widened Tyrone’s eyes. “Listen—”

The guard pointed to the door, pushed his text bubble away, and leaned in. Small red letters—sentences—appeared at the corner of his mouth. “I suggest you get the fa-boing out of here. Now.”

His fa-boing didn’t cue a sounder.

What did happen was all the office doors in the place opened and blue guards with varying hats and markings on their right breasts came out to stand just outside of their offices. To the side of each of their heads were balloons with red exclamation points.

Tyrone narrowed his eyes, raised his chin, and began to back away.

The guard nodded and pulled his text bubble back to the side of his head. “Thank you for coming by the Protectors’ Guild. I hope you find a good fit somewhere else.” The guard waved.

On his way out, Tyrone waved both fists back with both blurred middle fingers fully extended.

Seriously, What the Fa-boing?

Checking over his shoulder all the way, Tyrone rushed toward the fountain. No guards came out of the Protectors’ Guild. He hadn’t thought to flip the Desk Captain off. It just sort of happened. Like in real life. Because of that, Tyrone fully expected to get a 16-bit beatdown and to wake up in either the Flowerland hospital or the Flowerland jail.

Back near the gushing sounds and cinnamon smell around the fountain, Tyrone considered asking the boy and girl how to get out. The boy still had his black period, and the girl had her red exclamation point.

A bit more subtly, where the boy appeared passively happy, there was a distinct pixel’s worth of downward turn to the girl’s mouth that wasn’t there previously.

Son of a bitch. Is this game learning?

Tyrone stroked his bare chin. An inlaid sense of there being four kids—two boys, two girls—when he first came to the fountain flashed and faded. I knew there were four.

Two kids were missing, which meant he probably spoke to them before the reset. And with neither of them being present, the game was keeping tabs; otherwise, all would have been back in position. In fact, proof to his realization was as plain as his a Thief label now amply applied to him by Protectors and Protector wannabes.

The inlaid rapid scene of him stealing the backpack came back faster and was all that he remembered of it. Not why he went in there. Not how he got there. Only that he stole.

And was chased.

And was caught.

A disturbing thought came to roost. Fuck, what if that wasn’t my first reset?

Tyrone tried to think back. He knew what the feeling of starting a cut scene felt like and was fully aware of his complete lack of that floaty feeling. Couple that with the lack of inlaid scenes made him wonder if—

An inlaid scene of him entering the Growers’ Guild flashed into being and winked out like it was turned off instead of going its normal length.

Son of a bitch! Tyrone thought about the villainous television network in The Running Man. Not the book, but the movie with Arnold Schwarzenegger. Those fuckers were able to televise what they wanted, hide what they didn’t. Hell, they were even able to make Arnie into the Butcher of Bakersfield. What if some similar ass-hats were running this game?

And seriously, what the fuck was up with the Desk Captain pushing his text bubble aside to whisper to me? Can other players see my interactions? Hell, one step farther back, are there other players? Who all can see this?

The little builder boy came over and walked his period balloon into Tyrone. The scrolling text said, “If you want to make something of yourself in this world, you’ll go somewhere to gain experience, or better yet, join a guild. The Builders are the best!”

Tyrone wanted to tell the digital kid to take his advice, turn it sideways, and stick it up his fucking ass, but he wouldn’t have done it in real life so he wasn’t about to do it in the game. If this was the kid’s reality, Tyrone didn’t want to be a total dick. Cussing at a kid, if the kid hadn’t earned it, was the ultimate dick move. Even though the words would be censored, Tyrone wasn’t going to be that dick.

For some unknown reason—perhaps instinct or playing a hunch—he took a cup, scooped some of the cool water out of the fountain, and made his way south to the Growers’ Guild.

A hunch came upon Tyrone to rush the cup southward.

He’d been focused on the cup, but an acrid stench grabbed his attention. Billows of black smoke rose into the sky from just beyond the Growers’ Guild building.

He quickened his pace.

Instead of knocking on the guild’s front door, he went down the cobblestone path along the front of the building to the grass fields off to the side. Really, it was just green laminate tiles painted with some light green and black lines to make it look like grass.

An eight-story-high, reddish-brown stucco building was gushing plumes of smoke from the fire-clad roof. The animated fire covered all but a few pixels of what was supposed to be blue tiled roof. A lady in a blue-and-white milkmaid outfit with straight black hair to the middle of her back paced back and forth in front. Her arms were flailing and a large, pulsing, red exclamation point flashed in a text bubble.

Tyrone walked into it.

“Thank goodness you happened by!” The woman said, “The town granary is on fire and we need water to put it out! Quickly, go to the fountain at the center of town and bring back some water!” The frantic exclamation point turned into a frantic question mark.

The next bubble came right after the first. “Oh good, you’re back! Thank you!” She snatched the cup from him and poured it at the base of the building like she was watering a plant. In fact, Tyrone was willing to bet that that exact same animation would be done when she did water flowers.

All at once the flames went out and the building stopped smoking.

Her red question mark went away. A smiling gold star appeared.

She continued, “While no one in Blue Town will know that you saved our winter stores, I will. You came by just in time and I will not forget your great deed. Oh my, where are my manners? I am the Seedstress, the leader of the Growers’ Guild. What is your name?”

Three bubbles appeared above Tyrone’s head.

Tyrone chose C) and entered, “How in the hell did one cup of water put out that fire?” He slid the cursor back and changed his “hell” to “heck” and sent it.

The Seedstress answered, “Oh, you don’t know about the magical properties of Blue Town’s fountain water? Well, it’s truly magical. The fountain water can transform into whatever liquid you need it to be.”

Tyrone nodded. Right on! I’ll make it a pool of teleportation and I’ll pop home. He backed up to disengage.

She walked her smiling star bubble into him. “Before you go, will you tell me your name?”

He went to disengage again.

The Seedstress pushed her bubble sideways. Small black text appeared next to her mouth. “You’ve tried the fountain before. That’s not how it works. There are no easy ways out. Please accept that fact.”

Another side chat?

She pulled the bubble back into position. “I don’t mean to insist, but I cannot give you a reward if I don’t know your name.”

The same three text bubbles appeared above Tyrone’s head. He put his hand out to push one away. It felt like a... He squeezed it softly. It sorta feels like... His next squeeze was more of a caress. Like a boob.

She rolled her eyes at him and pushed her text bubble away to side chat. “It’s a water-based balloon. Nothing more.”

I don’t know. Tyrone squeeze-caressed it again. It’d been decades since he last felt a water balloon and this text balloon had a more substantial feeling to it.

Faint whistles and bells sounded that were one part fire truck and one part police siren blended together over an electronica chorus with a deep bass groove. Musical note bubbles floated at the top of his vision. The tune was as though The Lego Movie score and the Hawaii Five-0 soundtrack met while on acid, fell in love, and had a number one billboard hit for a child.

...

Jesus. Sidetracked by music and touching a balloon. Making sure not to blame his recent lack of sex for being so easily distracted, Tyrone pushed his balloon away. “So, I’m not supposed to be here. Is there a quick and easy way out? Like clicking my heels three times?” He did. Nothing changed.

She opened her mouth to answer. The whistling and bells grew louder and the top of his vision filled with scored music bubbles. A sorry expression washed over her face as the whistling and bells drew even closer. Her text was squished down to an illegible two pixels tall. The music bubbles collected and grew larger.

...

Tyrone ducked notes. “Just nod if there’s a way out.”

The Seedstress’s eyes went wide. She reached out and pulled his text balloon back close to his head.

The musical note bubbles filled his vision as the floaty feeling he had failed to notice yanked on him.

...

Bonus Round: Dance the Fire Out

The music faded as the bubbles popped in rapid succession leaving the music notes floating in midair. They jostled and wiggled against each other until they fell into columns. They then thickened and transformed into black ornaments on a wrought iron gate.

A small latch-click sounded before the gate swung full open and two-foot-tall 16-bit red bubble letters with orange outlines appeared, taking up most of Tyrone’s vision.

Bonus Round:

Dance Dance

Big Fun!

The n’s were the only normal letters in dance dance. Each d was a fancy right-pointing arrow, the a’s, up arrows, c’s, left arrows, and the e’s had small equilateral triangles added to the bottom to make down arrows. The volume of the electronica chorus with a deep bass groove turned up.

Small text appeared at the bottom right of Tyrone’s vision. Song: “To The Rescue” by Danny Jones.

The fancy text burst away. The n’s and big fun were gone leaving the arrows hanging, for a moment, before they rose up to the top of his vision. Four of the directional arrows shifted to be equally spaced from each other and hollowed out. The other four drifted off to the left to be above the Seedstress’s head and did the same.

They were still in front of the granary, but it looked—Well, it looked happier. All the various Protectors Tyrone had seen in the Protectors’ Guild—plus a few he hadn’t—became large-headed chibi versions of themselves, dancing on the various roof levels, dancing at a window, or dancing in front of the building.

Tyrone frowned. What the fuck?

“Come on, stranger,” the Seedstress said, her voice overflowing with super-injected enthusiasm. Her words were audio only. “Help me dance the fire out.”

Aw, hell no. Tyrone tried to walk away, but he was stuck; rooted to the spot. What the—

A slow stream of arrows, hues from bright yellow to deep red, started to float up from the bottom of his vision.

The Seedstress chimed, “Are you ready?”

A small, yellow, right-facing arrow neared the top where her four hollow directional arrows were anchored. Tyrone’s right-facing arrow was orange and the same distance from his four empty direction arrows.

The Seedstress cheered, “Let’s go!” She stepped to the right as the yellow arrow entered the larger hollowed one. The larger one flashed yellow and a couple of the chibis on her half of the granary cheered.

Tyrone tried to shake his head in dismay, but even that small bit of motion had been locked down. Fuck this and fuck all versions of DDR.

Another arrow, up, made it to the hollow letters.

Timed perfectly, the Seedstress stepped forward and her hollow letter flashed orange.

A faint whiff of burning wood filled the area.

“Come on, stranger.” The Seedstress nailed another arrow, and then another. She tried to cheer him into action. “You can do it.”

Does she smell that? Tyrone tried to open his mouth to ask, but his mouth wouldn’t move.

She said, “You just have to move the way the arrows point.” She giggled. “Come on. It’s fun!”

Something bright beyond the rising arrows stole his focus. On the third floor on his side of the granary, a small burst of flame broke out near where the chibi-ized Desk Captain had been dancing.

The Desk Captain was no longer dancing. His eyes had gone wide and he repeatedly pointed at the flame.

More puffs of smoke rose from various other parts of Tyrone’s half of the building and other spouts of flame bloomed into being. The one next to the Desk Captain grew taller and taller until it was as tall as the chibi.

“Oh no!” The Seedstress’s exclamation came out in a white text balloon. “Your side of the roof is on fire.”

Partly thinking of a song, but mostly thinking about the Desk Captain, Tyrone grinned inwardly. Burn, motherfucker.

Nigh invisible smoked filled the area along with the burning smell, which had become thick enough for Tyrone to taste it.

The fire next to the Desk Captain leapt onto the chibi and completely engulfed him, Human Torch style.