03.
"Where are we?" Alyssa repeated—or rather, Bonecracker neighed the question for her.
She ran a hand down the stallion's thick, scarred neck. "Yeah, Bony. First time for you… not for me."
Her fingers traced the coarse mane. "Not even the second time."
She'd lost count.
How many times had she been here?
Hundreds. Staring at this world through a screen.
This was Ethan's game. Exactly as she remembered. It played like one, too. But here? Reality had twisted it into something else.
She'd spent hours, days, years on Ethan's computer—chasing every side quest, unlocking every hidden boss, ripping through every secret storyline. She knew this world better than her own damn home.
Or so she thought.
Now, standing in the real version of Love Apocalypse…
It shocked her. Surprised her. Impressed her.
And she hadn't even left the starting zone.
She expected this to be easy. A walk in the park. A power trip.
Instead—
New things. New variations. New nightmares.
A stupid moniker out of nowhere. Skull Saintress.
And worst of all—
Hunger. Thirst. Sleep. Pain.
All dialed up to an unbearable real degree. The game had no such thing.
Alyssa scowled. This wasn't a game anymore.
She tugged Bonecracker's reins, guiding him toward the jagged silhouette ahead—the Rust Bazaar.
Even from a distance, the stink hit first: rancid meat, burnt plastic, and the sour tang of desperation.
Dust swirled like fog, catching the weak orange glow of flickering oil lamps strung between leaning stalls.
Bony's hooves crunched over gravel, bones, shattered glass—remnants of a hundred broken bottles.
The Bazaar sprawled like a scar on the wasteland, a tangled mess of rusted metal, tarp scraps, and stretched-thin animal hides.
Stalls sagged under the weight of scavenged goods.
dented cans of irradiated soup,
cracked boots with soles barely hanging on,
jagged knives hammered from old car parts.
Merchants shouted in hoarse voices—fresh water, pure as rain or steel blades, cut through bone—but their eyes never stopped moving. Tracking. Measuring.
A skinny kid with a scarred face darted between stalls, juggling rusty bolts for coins, while a one-armed trader haggled over a pile of frayed rope, his voice sharp as a blade.
Tension thickened the air. Shadows lurked. Spies? Thieves? Hard to tell.
Near a fire pit, a pack of raiders in patchwork armor gnawed on charred lizard meat, their eyes gleaming under tattered hoods. The crackle of flames mixed with the low moan of the wind and Bony's restless stomping.
Bonecracker snorted, ears flicking back as he eyed a stall selling dried rat tails. His hooves pawed the dirt like he wanted to bolt.
Alyssa patted his flank, voice steady—but edged with sarcasm. I know, Bony, you hate this place. But relax.
Then, quieter—to herself:
I've run this market a dozen times…
Her nose wrinkled.
Except, y'know, without the smell of rot and the psycho vibes.
She scanned the stalls, eyes locking onto a wiry merchant with a patchy beard, hunched over a crate of bruised fruit—pale, misshapen apples, probably scavenged from some irradiated orchard.
As she stepped closer, Bony's massive frame cast a shadow over his stall.
The merchant tensed, fingers twitching toward a dented knife at his belt. "What you want, lady?" he rasped, eyes wary.
Alyssa didn't blink.
She pulled out a shiny metal card—not the junk scrip or rusted coins most traders here used—and slapped it onto the crate.
No words.
The card gleamed, untouched by dirt or time. Clean. Rare. Worth more than just apples—worth the whole damn stall, including the merchant himself.
His expression didn't change, but the tension in his shoulders eased. Without a word, he took the card, opened a separate crate, and pulled out a single apple.
Not bruised. Not sickly.
Fresh.
A perfect green apple, smooth and verdant—a sight so rare in this world it barely felt real.
He held it out. Alyssa took it and, without hesitation, handed it to Bony.
The horse snorted, confused. His ears flicked, nostrils flaring at the unfamiliar scent.
Then the sweetness hit.
Bony didn't hesitate—chomped it in one bite.
Juices burst. Fresh. Sweet. Real.
For a moment, Bony forgot the wasteland even existed.
Lost in the trance of a taste he never knew.
Alyssa almost laughed at his reaction but kept her stride, walking forward with that same lazy, reckless confidence.
Her axe hung clean and sharp on her back, a quiet menace.
Her bold white tank top, armorless, defiant. While everyone else wrapped themselves in layers of scrap metal, she walked like she didn't need protection.
She stopped at another stall—a meat vendor this time.
On the grill, lizards, rats, crows, even massive cockroach-like insects sizzled over open flames.
She did the same as before. Slapped down another silver metal card. Said nothing.
The vendor paused. Then, wordlessly, he reached under the counter and pulled out a thick slab of meat.
Alyssa recognized it immediately. Beef.
Real steak.
The vendor placed it on a hot plate, adding a dollop of golden grease—butter. Fresh garlic and herbs followed, sizzling in the heat.
The smell hit hard.
Bony's mouth flooded with drool.
He didn't know what kind of meat this was, only that it smelled richer, heavier, intoxicating. Sure, he'd eat rats, lizards, even the bugs—they were good, too. But this? This was something else.
A while later, the vendor plated the cooked steak onto a clean white dish.
The whole market had gone quiet.
Everyone stared—big eyes, mouths watering. Even the vendor looked hungry.
Alyssa took the plate. Paused. Smirked.
Then—without hesitation—she handed it to Bony.
Silence.
Stunned silence.
Like a slap across the face.
Someone choked on their own spit.
Who the hell wastes a treasure like that on a horse?
Even Bony hesitated, the same thought flashing in his big dark eyes. But then the smell hit again, and common sense died.
He snapped it up—gulped, chewed, slurped.
Didn't even care that it burned his tongue.
Juices dripped down his lips, but not for long. He licked the plate clean, not a single drop wasted.
The crowd scowled.
Alyssa didn't care.
Was she mocking them? Flaunting wealth out of nowhere?