Battle of the Snowflakes: Part Six

Whew, finally I have a new Sue games for you. (That rhyming was unintentional I swear). Full story after the cut.

Part Six: The Color Purple

While Natasha Satantastic receives her congratulations, I feel a twinge of fear, if only to make sure you all can still identify with me as a protagonist. Despite this, I do my best to focus on the upcoming round and, by extension, myself. If my perfect memory serves, my opponent should be the purple-infused girl in the section directly to my right.

I take the few seconds before the round starts to study the girl, which the green-floating letters above her remind me is Flixit Jane. The sheer amount of purple accessories Flixit’s packed on to her person somehow becomes more shocking the longer I’m exposed to it. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was grape flavored.

I am wearing my purple mountain’s majesty battle-ball gown though. Perhaps it will deflect some of her abilities.

I vaguely hear The Voice’s voice mumbling something in the background but I’m no longer paying attention. My mind has gone completely blank. I’m lost, mesmerized by the purple.

A light flashes, my body goes weightless. I guess it’s time for round four. I hope my hair looks okay.

Who am I kidding? Every inch of me always looks fabulous.

Hot sunlight blinds me when I try to open my eyes. When my crystalline tears subside, I focus on the expected, jaw-droppingly beautiful, scenic. . .wasteland. Seriously. As far as I can see, my surroundings are nothing more than a drab brown landscape punctuated with dusty crates and rusty hunks of metal. Other girls get scenic forests and sparkle-moons, I get a junkyard full of potential dress threats. Figures.

Flixit Jane is standing next to a rusty wood chipper roughly twenty feet away from me. Now that I can see her true height (and am not nearly as distracted by her garish outfit) she appears surprisingly small, perhaps even frail under the harsh lighting. But if I’ve learned one thing from the previous matches, it’s that I can’t afford to underestimate my opponent, no matter how lame she looks.

While I’m sizing Flixit up, she strikes a generic kung-fu fighting pose, left hand outstretched to beckon me forward. When I make no move towards her, she continues holding the pose. For quite a lengthy amount of time, we simply stare at each other.

I’m not making the first move.

But apparently neither is she.

The wood chipper roars to life suddenly, startling both of us. Flixit jumps straight up. I jump backwards and, when something cuts me off at the knees, end up sprawling flat on my back. The crate that took me out slams into another stack which falls over and crashes into the dust next to me, nearly braining me.

Twelve seconds in and I’ve almost taken myself out of the round. Not a good sign.

In the time it takes me to flail myself into a technically upright position, I expected my purple nemesis to have readied a death trap, or at least have a smirk an a half-witted one-liner ready for me. Flixit, however, not only disappoints on both fronts but also seems genuinely surprised, dare I say even concerned, at the entirety of my little crate adventure. The moment she sees I’m unharmed, however, her face changes drastically and she extends a single hand towards the sputtering wood chipper.  In the span of less than a second, two crates next to Flixit leap into the air and fling themselves into the machine.

While my brain is struggling to comprehend what just happened, sharp pieces of wood–some as large as my arm–begin spewing out of the business end of the machine and head straight for me.

I take this time to heroically dive behind a few stacks of crates that have remained standing and fling my arms over my head. As the barrage continues, I use my powers of perfect memory to recall that there had never been any mention whatsoever of the Purple Princess having freaking telepathic powers.

Eons later, the roar of the wood chipper slows. I sit up slowly to examine the damage. I’ve been terribly wounded. My self-esteem is at an all time low and my dive has covered my new dress in dust and grease stains. I could die at any moment. Worse, I have no idea how I’m going to get the stains out.

I carefully poke my head over the crate stack. The wood chipper’s still running but Flixit’s nowhere to be found. Which means she’s headed for me. Cautiously, I leave my cover and begin a dramatic game of hide-n-seek throughout the junkyard. I feel ridiculous, crouch-walking through the dirty yard in my battle-ball gown, pausing every few steps to duck behind piles of junk and listen for any indication that Flixit’s nearby.

I’ve circled around an am halfway to the chipper when something shifts in the debris to my right.

I nearly jump out of my skin. A quick glance shows nothing. A few steps more and I hear it again. This time, I freeze, eyes scanning the surroundings. I’m determined not to move until I discover the source of the noises.

A few seconds pass, then something begins emerging from the junkyard shadows.

I tense, preparing for a showdown with Flixit.

She doesn’t emerge.

Instead, a rusty red wagon that’s missing a front wheel squeaks its way out from behind a pile of junk and towards me in the creepiest way possible.

I turn to run–and perhaps continue running for the next hour out of sheer terror– but am stopped by a headless, mostly-white rocking horse that scrapes its way forward to cut off my escape. I skid to a stop, engaged in a stare down with the splintered mostly-white neck stump. The horse body rocks back and forth menacingly.

I run, heading the only direction left to me: towards the wood chipper. I’m brainstorming a way to introduce my new-found creepy friends to the not-so-friendly side of the chipper when Flixit pops up directly in front of me in all her purple glory.

She smirks. Once again, I’m expecting a witty one-liner, but all she says is, “hey.”

I can’t face off against telepathy. Not with my battle ball gown in this state. If I’m going to die though, I’m going to die educated.

“How are you doing this?” I ask, gesturing to the creepy animated junk that has perfectly positioned itself to block my escape routes.

“I can fix anything,” she says proudly. “Machines, broken bones, disastrous plot lines. . . It’s a gift.”

“What does that have to do with levitation?” I ask.

Flixit looks genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”

“You picked up those crates without touching them. The horse too.”

“Oh, that.” She gives a little laugh and makes a dismissive gesture with her hand. “The wood chipper needed wood in order to function at full capacity, so I made it so. The wagon was meant to move, the horse was designed to rock. I simply fixed it so it could.”

“You know,” I say, “that’s a ridiculously open-ended power that seems like a fancy way of saying you can do anything you want whenever you want and no one can stop you.”

Flixit shrugs a pair of lavender shoulders. “Pretty much.” Her eyes narrow. “You know, you’re pretty perceptive for being one of us.”

“Well, you know,” I resist the urge to bite off my tongue and instead manage to force out: “I’m not like other girls.”

Flixit nods, suspicion clearing from her eyes, and says, “regardless, you must realize you can’t possibly win. If you surrender now, I’ll even allow you the honor of jumping into the wood chipper on your own.”

I glance over my shoulder. The wagon is motionless. The mostly-white headless horse rocks slightly.

A pit has formed in my stomach and is steadily growing into a boulder. Flixit is right of course. I have no possible defense against someone who is basically invincible as long as they. . . think they are.

I bow my head in submission and move closer. Flixit smiles, a mouthful of purple teeth. Guess the blinding mauveine lipstick rubbed off a bit during her speech.

I’m close enough now to see the deadly blades inside the chipper. I spend a few seconds watching them flash at dizzying speeds. I lean forward, closer, closer. . .

Then I straighten up, take a step back, and say, “unless.”

Flixit is not amused.

“What?” she demands.

“Unless it’s you,” I say with as much courage as I can muster.

“Begging your pardon?” she asks, voice brimming with poisoned politeness.

“Unless you’re the problem,” I say, taking another step away as she moves closer to me and the machine. “I can’t win, because you’ll fix everything I break. But what if you’re what’s broken?”

Flixit rolls her eyes.

“You’re not making sense,” she says. “Get into the chip–”

“What if, for some reason unknown to you, I need to get to the next round and you’re the only thing standing in my way? How can you fix that problem?” I ask

Her eyes narrow, then, slowly widen. I can see the comprehension beginning to dawn.

“Impossible,” she scoffs, stepping just a hair closer to the rattling deathtrap beside her. “The only problem I see is you.”

“You’re the one holding up the round,” I say.

“I don’t see how,” she retorts.

“If you weren’t here, things would certainly go a lot faster,” I continue.

“And if you weren’t–” she begins.

She never finishes.

There’s a sharp metallic whine coupled with the sound of tearing fabric as the strings of Flixit’s purple corset get caught in the blades. In the span of less than a second, Flixit Jane vanishes completely inside the wood chipper.

The machine grounds to a halt as a purple mist settles over the junkyard. Behind me, the rusty wagon falls over and the mostly-white, headless rocking horse stops moving.

I guess the round is over.

“Wow,” I say to no one in particular. “That was certainly convenient.”

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Posted on September 2, 2013, in Battle of the Snowflakes, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Comments Off on Battle of the Snowflakes: Part Six.

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