is there any limit to what you won't make a game?

Archangel Raphael, how'd you get your wheel-eyes on so many saltines?

'"But,, according to the Rules of Courtesy, which she and no one else our age have read, if you don't meet at the door, in the car, or in the parking lot, you meet in the lobby or you're not meeting??!!!"'

'"She's- she's a nice girl, she's probably just powdering her nose."'

Their vision coming in portals, they set their mind on a chair, find one, and melt into it, hugging their backpack and downing cold cold water, casting a blessing that somehow it would relieve all this tension without completely deflating them. They wished the world could just operate at the pace of their mind so they didn't have time to psych themself out, it's the worst with her, always leaving so much unsaid and always expecting them to act on the every implied statement.

They realized they probably looked quite concerning, they didn't like worrying anyone, but, "'Oh"' actually they were feeling,,, concerning. Gravity was 2 burning quasars, revolving around each other, ragdolling each other through space, a feeling far bigger than the size and sensors of the human body can compute. They close their eyes and focus on letting go, mentally they time travel to the time they were least worried about disappointing others, they think of advertisiments: blue teddy bears you can write on, collecting doodles from the whole family, talking diaries with spy passwords, bending wax strands in vibrant colors defying gravity, the coolest thoughts they know, background safety monitoring picks up far off doors, a bit of an approaching jingle, a non-meteorological rumble, suddenly, something has changed in the room! Airflow has changed, the sonic landscape has the addition of a hallway, the same hallway the jingle came from! The door was connecting the hallway to this room! The door was opened by a human! A big clumsy one! Sweating! Scared! Breathing ragged!

Background systems to Saturn: '"Human in vicinity, open eyes!!"'
All the progress their eyes made in adjusting to this all-too-familiar alien landscape completely undone, their mind still deep in imagination. A face from above, crepuscular rays gifting a halo, and taking everything but the darks of the eyes and mouth, asks in the voice of a compassionate princess speaking to a trapped animal
"Are you okay?"
"Um sorry I-"
"Do you need something?"

'"Background systems overide:"'
"Do you have crackers? Like,, saltines,, from the nurses office,, like, six of them,, I have water, ice'd be nice, I'm sorry, thank you, I can give you mints or treats, I have lots for sharing. Thank you so much, you're so nice."'

Gallumf gallumf! their rescuer was off. Less panic in their step, not shifting of the line of their stride like before but focussing all force forwards.

Someone was always there when it got too bad, that was one of the promises. But it was usually bad because of people they loved, one of their curses.

"'Background systems overide: off limit concerns during cooldown! Consider cold calm thoughts, consider a mission using entirely spykids spy gear."'

'"Whoa!!!"' Faster than light and soundlessly, the wind of the Angel returns, the force pressing through the fabric of their shirt and binder to their unbearably hot sternum, a little hint of relief, the angle crinkles the plastic to alert Saturn, who can only mentally image the mana, they attempt to take the offering in a way that lacked desperation and physical contact, a girl that sounds so pretty and is so kind probably has a lot of people pushing their luck, but they fail on both accounts, she feels wet but sterile, her fingers pulsing, the angel quickly realizes that Saturn cannot handle this basic task, grabs their outstretched hands places the emergency ration inside, and leads the hands back to their lap,
'"Do you need help?"'
She asks, holding back a giggle, she's already ripping open a cracker and placing it in Saturn's hands, closing their fingertips securely, grabbing their wrists, presumably to bring the cracker into their mouth like they're a toy digger when Saturn groans in protest, trying to cover it up with
"Thank you, you are truly an angel from Heaven, your kindness is surely causing saints to stare daggers into you in jealousy, you must let me repay you so they do not smite you down,
I do have to eat this or I could die, but you get the message: please do tell me what sort of baked goods you like et cetera"

'"She's laughing, she's trying to hide it and she's laughing "'
"I have to get the ice pack"
They have already doplared out of earshot before Saturn could press the Angel about the repayment she probably got too little of considering she's willing to go so far for apparently any stranger she finds in otherworldly strip malls.

They scarf down the crackers, they are the stuff of dreams, seasoned just enough to ground them and not enough to fling their frictionless mind off to space, classically crunchy but soft enough to dissolve, surrendering to becoming energy. The water: the perfect lubricant, they pour it over their head and feel steam arrising like a black and white rubberhose sentient train. They're trying to gather all the plastic wrappers, starting out with touch alone, then blinking, just barely capturing the unnatural hint of white square outlines projected upon reality between them and their body, hand almost full when-

A huge warm hand pins them to the chair via their shoulder, "'ah"' '"it's just this Angel person. '"
"Let's trade"
The Angel starts to scoop the sharp scrunched plastics out of their hand, the hand on the shoulder receded
"No that's my job!"
'"She's already saving me, now she's taking my trash? I'm not 3! I don't want to put any pressure..."'
With another all-knowing giggle, the hand still feeling echos of the wrapper-spikes is now filled with ice magics.

"Thank you ever so kindly, but now that's 2 baked goods, very minimum, no take-backs! And Would you do a fella so kindly as to show him the little Cowboys room?"

They opened their eyes and slowly stood like a fawn, concentrating as hard as they could on direction-related information, the hand touches their back with just enough gentleness for their twitch-reflexes to not take this oddly pushy Angel to the ground, during episodes they gain a magical glass-cannon ability, no longer feeling the force theyre applying, they use their all, and 140 lbs of mostly muscle, while rarely gracing action posters, can certainly take you to flavortown just as well if the remaining poundage is constituted by adrenaline. They consider shooing her, warning her of their hair-trigger state, but the calculation she seemed to be making was suspicious, and this unseen force probably doesn't need any more sensitive information. It was almost like she knew the speed of fear and also the speed of their slower, conscious reaction and was using the mean of these two to get as close as possible to them.

She pointed out another door straight from imagination, a goopy cream paint over absurdly dense metal with a heavy-duty but well-oiled steel lever handle. She's starting to speed up her pace, but opening the bathroom door, even what was about to be a dreadfully heavy one, was two bridges too far and they, still in a slurry of sight, charge forward, giving a curt "ThaNKs!" To ensure she didn't guard the door, listening for the sounds of a development in their condition, even if it was necessary, it was not worth it. And it wasn't necessary, Esphoros was classically trained to project to the rafters, you will never be in short supply of their volume when you need it.

They entered and mentally checked out from causality, holding themself, it was easier to make gravity normalize when no eyes were on them, the rotation of the quasars began to morph into life on Jupiter, then, they hung mental masses in an arch around them to become semi-weightless in that ISS-cheat kind of way, as the spinning slowed, the moments of the episode began to latch into the timeline before it in a manner most embarrassing.

They splash their face, and this time, it is not precognition, but postcognition that guts them.

"Oh gosh"
This calls for more clown makeup if they were ever going to think about anything else. They brushed their teeth and stared at themself in the mirror, letting the indifferent cleaness of the toothpaste force their eyes into objectivity.

Their hand finds neon blue posco in their bag and paints the classic thin triangles above their brows and below their lower lashes. Some yellow dots as exclamation points. They feel the need to sell that only a clown would find themself in this situation.