About two years ago an X-box controller had gone missing - a group of friends joked about what had happened to it. This is the first Freelance Fable.
Tristan keeled forward, throwing his hand across the rows of muted electronics, scanning for balance. Sliding his fingers from twelve to five across a bunched Power-Pad he could feel the spire begin to tilt. The danger of collapse was a mere occupational hazard - which he gladly accepted.
This was no longer a hobby, it was a mission. A mission that he had been tasked the hero to accomplish. Like any playable character, in any R.P.G, he was destined to collect the weapons, level up, and save the day.
Scanning the muddled rows of systems, games, and wires - his eyes locked on an empty space.
"It'll fit right there," he exposed his plan to the empty room, and eased his weight off a stack of warped copies of Tomb Raider and the monolith Jenga-d back into place.
Licking his lips at the precision required to complete this feat he reached for the clumsy object barely wedged in his back pocket. The controller was caked in years of abuse and bitter rivalry its handle shined where friction cleaned it in his left rear pocket. But the stain could wait - this was his ark, his idol, his holy grail. And like "Temple" he only need to fill the empty space, grab, release, and the doors will open.
He could feel the controller was being drawn to this resting place. In a way he knew it had always been drawn here; far too important to waste away in a drawer at Zach's house waiting for the stimulation of a fevered midnight game of MVP.
Reflecting on this thought he spoke aloud, "When they see...everyone will understand...this means something." And with this final Richard Dreyfuss-like consideration, he reached his hand in; thrusting the missing piece toward completion of his masterpiece.
The years of boardgames prepared him for this moment. A game of operation in reverse, the controller: the heart, and the buzzer walls: a CalecoVision and a Virtual Boy.
The tower creaked.
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