The twister tosses you up into the atmosphere, possibly even some miles above it at the cusp of space because you get a good view of the middle and northwest United States from here. Once your velocity levels out, you come crashing down in a fit of flaming fury every bit as exaggerated as a Tex Avery cartoon.
You land inside some crevice in the peaks of the Rockies, perfectly unscathed but now freezing from the altitude. Your bumbling stupor leads you to a patch of snow without much support underneath and you tumble until you set your eyes upon a little village while your skin absorbs the heat from a perfectly controlled climate.
“What is this place? Shangri-La?”
Two synthetic women lift you up without laying a single robotic hand on you and you’re brought before…
“Dakota! Did you…did you do this? Did you bring me here?,” you ask him, in a surprisingly natural tone. He answers from his high-chair-like throne in a grown-up voice that somehow fits his face in spite of the baby fat.
“This is Lost Dakota.”
Go to page 64.
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