Chapter 5
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Big grumpy fantasy man of my reality…
It’s not a dream. It’s not a dream, even though it beats every fantasy I have ever dreamed up.
This is real life.
And I am inside Samson’s farmhouse, seated on a couch by a window that overlooks his cow pens and a field of what seems to be freshly-sown hay. The green stems wave in a distant breeze, too peaceful to live juxtaposed with the muddy, storm-weathered land.
Dazed, I sway like the field while Samson dabs a cotton ball against the cuts and scrapes covering my arms.
Whatever health elixir he’s drenched the swab in, it makes my wounds close up immediately. Which means it’s great I have a lot of them, because I am not emotionally prepared to part with this heart event.
Gruff and silent, Samson lifts my face. His tattooed forearm flexes. My breath catches.
He dabs my cheek with the stinging solution, and pain blooms along a two-inch gash that quite apparently cuts across my whole face. The sharp sensation as it sews itself shut drives home the reality.
This reality.
I am here.
He is here.
He was bathing. I saw that. Mine eyes were graced this day with the most heavenly of sights.
The memory imprints itself in my brain, overriding rational thought, and I just can’t stop staring.
He’s…so…beautiful.
His shoulders so…well-endowed.
He’s clothed in a loose-fitting shirt and a pair of slacks now; that happened at some point between my fainting and my waking up to the sharp prick of this elixir in my wounds. The suspicious damp of my clothing suggests that he carried me inside like a valiant, naked, wet hero.
The mere idea of that has me breathless.
Stupor holds me in an iron vice as I take him in, drinking him down like crystal clear water.
Days old scruff highlighting the rough edge of his jaw. Dark, damp, unkempt hair falling across his forehead. Steel blue eyes glaring as he works. Sleeves of tattoos depicting vaguely elemental designs.
A spattering of small scars dance beneath the ink on his forearms, but the worst one cuts from his neck down under his shirt, slicing past the open V of his collar.
He’s massive, muscles straining against the fabric of his shirt.
It’s supposed to be a loose-fit. I know that from the way it rests around his tapered waist. It’s just, well, his chest never got the memo.
His every breath tests the fabric. My wildest maladaptive daydreams could not prepare me for the weight of his nearness, the thick, clean scent of him, the way his body works as he moves to pack up the medical supplies.
As he’s organizing the first-aid kit, he slants a look toward me, grimaces, and reaches to set a single strand of my hair back over my ear. My heart launches itself into the sky when his focus returns to the box.
I…am helpless.
Utterly helpless.
I love him.
I am in love with him.
Beautiful, perfect, kind, precise, guarded, hates-everyone-but-the-new-farmer-who-becomes-his-friend-through-sheer-persistence-and-unsolicited-gifts Samson.
My Samson.
I have spent half a decade pining over his pixelated portrait, learning his ways, hoping, wishing, praying, dreaming.
The man has a sweet tooth, but he never goes into town unless he absolutely has to, and he definitely does not go to Chrysa’s sweets shop because he refuses to let on to anyone that he’s softer than a standoffish retired warrior.
People make him just as uncomfortable as they make me.
He’s just as worried about how he’s perceived as I am.
Basically, our social anxieties are soulmates, and they are going to grow up to have many babies together.
Before I am entirely done beholding the impressive girth of his shoulders, Samson rises. “Leave as soon as you can stand.”
His voice sends a shudder careening down my spine.
But that is not his first dialogue.
In the game, he says, Another farmer? That fool finally conned someone into taking over the land beside mine, huh? Just stay on your side, and we won’t have any problems.
Unlike with most farm sims I’ve played, you actually need to build a relationship with Samson before he’ll sell you any animals.
In other words, to progress the game you have to interact with Samson. You have to learn all about this angel’s lore, then you have to stand idly by as you reach eight friendship hearts with no hope of requited love.
In other, other words, WonderGlass is a monster.
Gathering my strength, I say, “Hello. I’m the new farmer, Citrus.”
“I don’t care.”
Years of childhood neglect make that statement basically flirting, so my silly little face heats. A lost cause, I trot blindly ahead, proceeding with the safest dialogue path I have ever found. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“Surely it hasn’t been.”
I present my arms. “Thank you so much for taking care of me.” My heart hammers as I catch a glimpse of the appendages I am presenting.
Faintly freckled. Fully dirt spattered. I am a mess.
A complete mess. I need to make so much money soon and buy cute clothes from Ines and figure out how to bathe and have the biggest glow up montage ever.
It’s important.
For mental health.
For morale.
For Samson.
Since I’m adrift aboard S.S. Delusion, it takes me a long while to realize Samson does not look pleased. He mutters, “Can you not stand?”
I’m not actually sure. My knees are weak, and my arms are jello. My heart is pounding with an eager excitement that battles the brink of exhaustion. I could both pass out again or float away at a moment’s notice.
Abusing my unseen energy bar was a terrible idea, but I’ll recover.
I’ll sell something, just to make sure I know how to, then I’ll buy some food.
That’s how you recover energy in-game, so I’m sure it will fix me up fully in real life.
I would cook at home since seeds aren’t as expensive as meals…
but until I upgrade my house, I don’t have a kitchen.
Even though I could potentially rough it with a campfire and some sturdy poking sticks, I frankly do not trust myself around an open flame.
Assuming I could create an open flame. As it stands, the world is still soggy, and even without that handicap, I was not qualified to light the gas stove at Hardee’s.
Because of the breaking down in tears and stuff.
When rough, calloused fingers snap in my face, I startle out of my thoughts to find Samson’s scowl. He grumbles, “I asked you a question.”
I blink. Then I beam, stupidly. “I forgot it.”
He heaves a sigh.
Because he just doesn’t understand.
I am delirious with joy. I’m hyped on an adrenaline rush spiked with dopamine and doused in serotonin that cancels out embarrassment.
There is so much to do. And I am free to do all of it without fear the real world will drag me away into its cold, spindly clutches. My lifelong ambition of never logging out has come true.
Samson’s big hand wraps around my upper arm as he drags me to my feet. I teeter, just managing to stay steady, when he releases me.
“There,” he mutters. “Now leave. And don’t forget to pick up the tool you dropped outside.”
Oh, Samson, you grumpy darling, you.
Saluting before I can tell myself not to, I chirp, “’Kay! See you again soon, neighbor.”
“Please don’t.”
He’ll learn to love me.
Merrily, I trot to the door, stopping short when my attention catches on a mirror by a hutch filled with lovely stacks of generic dishes.
My smile melts off my naturally pouting lips. They’re plump and pink, and a little chapped, but I guess hardly drinking water or eating for days would do that to even the cutest lips.
There are no two ways about it. I am a disgusting mess. There’s a twig. In my hair. Dirt smudges litter my khaki dress, which is coated in dust.
I have never seen someone more filthy.
Yet. I am adorable.
Clapping my hands to my soft, round, freckled cheeks, I stare into my copper eyes. They shine, practically glimmering.
I am actually, actively, so cute.
Exactly like a plump mourning dove. Innocent. Sweet. Dear.
Wow.
Wow.
This dirty dress does nothing for my figure, but—um—I have one? And it’s a defined hourglass?
I have never once considered myself feminine, but here I am, beautiful and dainty. Screw the stick in my golden waves, I have golden waves. They fall around my face to graze my shoulders in gentle ripples.
“That’s me?” I gasp, looking back at Samson while I point at the mirror. “That’s really me?”
Disturbed, he watches me for several moments, then exhales a curse. “You hit your head, didn’t you?”
My plump and not even a little anemic arms cross. I pout my pouty lip, and—oh dear—I am going to abuse my cuteness, aren’t I? I can already feel myself taking advantage of it. “No.”
His big shoulders sag. “Do I have to take you to Peri?”
At Peri’s office is where I should have woken up after passing out.
That’s how the game works.
Whenever you pass out in Vale of Gems, you wake up at Peri’s. Unlike in every other farm sim I have played, healthcare is free because the dev truly wanted to drive home the community that cares about each other, sincerely vibe.
The bummer is that you get a sluggish debuff that can only be cured after trudging home and sleeping.
The slog of shame is painful enough to make you careful.
That said, I did not hit my head. I do not need to see Peri.
I am ecstatic.
I have been reborn, for reasons unknown, reasons I don’t care about.
All that matters is that I am here, in a community that sincerely cares about each other, and I am adorable, and the man of my dreams lives next door, and—
Sniffling, I push my glasses aside to wipe a tear. Wow. Just wow. I am overwhelmed. This is crazy. Does this new body have balanced hormones, too? I did not know I was capable of feeling joy like this.
Samson mutters a curse and is plunging his feet into heavy boots before I can get rid of the mud smudge that touching my tear with dirty hands streaked across my cheek. “Come on,” he grumps.
I tilt my head.
As delicate as a train, he says, “Something’s wrong with you. We’re going to Peri’s.”
I blink. “I’m totally fine. Promise.” But you know who isn’t fine? Neptun. Neptun and his fisher-poet roommate, Laumon. They lost their house in the storm. Slapping my hand to my mouth, I tense.
If this is real life, that is real life, and I’ve been lollygagging in woe-is-me, my-bedroom-has-spiders-in-it while they haven’t had a home at all. “I’m a horrible person,” I whisper.
Samson swallows, eyeing me like a wounded animal, ready to pounce on him. “…what?”
“Neptun and Laumon lost their beach house to the floods.”
Wary, my future husband says, “…yes?”
“They’ve been staying at the tavern. What’s wrong with me?”
The stress wafting off Samson right now suggests he does not know.
Swinging my backpack around, I fish out my journal to check my inventory.
I scooped up tons of wood and stone cutting my way to Samson’s.
If it’s not enough, I’ll make it enough by tomorrow afternoon.
Who cares if I haven’t triggered the Rehoming the Sea Boys quest yet?
Neptun gave me food yesterday. The least I can do is give him a head start on a house.
I’ve gained everything I could ever want while this whole town has faced a natural disaster, yet so many of them have offered me aid, as though I need it more than them.
How do I get to the beach and drop off the supplies I have?
Flipping pages, I gasp again, and Samson looks like he’s going to either kill me or drag me to Peri’s when he snaps, “Stop doing that.”
“A map,” I declare. “If I have my journal, I have a map. That’s so stinking obvious!
I’m such an idiot.” Turning to the door, I grumble at the book in my hands, “You suck. You could have told me this.” The rotten thing does not bother to reply in the margins, so I sigh and wave at Samson.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Thank you so much for patching me up. ”
He flinches. “Ci—”
I am already out the door, grabbing my neglected axe and plodding toward the beach. Emptying my inventory of supplies is easier than expected, and I do appreciate it because I’m not certain I could manage the stack of tree trunks if they didn’t thunk out seamlessly on their own.
Night encompasses me by the time I’m done, and I decide I’d rather not head home through Samson’s farm, just in case he sees me, and I die of nerves.
This manic episode, after all, is sure to fizzle out eventually.
My likely flawed thought process does send me the long way around through forage land in the pitch black.
Upon reaching quiet streets lit with blessed topaz lamps, I pause, turning to my quest page.
Greet everyone. 23/23 crosses itself off, meaning I’ve only not met Mimet the traveling merchant, who comes every Sunday to buy and sell goods and doesn’t count as a technical “townie.” My produce fetch-quest for Kaolin remains. Nothing else appears.
So, I clear my throat.
“Well?” I ask. “What’s next?”
Text scrawls beneath my remaining quest. A guide steps in when needed. I’m not here to control you. Aren’t you doing well enough on your own right now?
“Well enough is debatable. I’ve had one meal in three days, am covered in gunk, and only dodging a panic attack because this is real.
” Tears prick in my eyes. “I’m in Gem Ridge.
Somehow. I’m a new person, and I need to stay here.
Seeing Samson, losing consciousness as suddenly as I did, and still waking up right here eliminated all my doubts.
Please. Tell me what I have to do to stay. ”
You can stay.
You are welcome here, Citrus.
You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.
Pressing my lips together, I take a breath. “You promise?”
I don’t make promises. I make stories. And yours is only just beginning.
That’s eerie and foreboding in all the ways it also brims with hope.
By the way, if you’re hungry, check the trash by the general store.
A horrific snort pours out of me because if I find a perfectly good meal in the trash like you can in the game, I’m heading right on back to Doubtsville.
To reality’s credit, I find a well-sealed but out-of-date Adventurer Snack alongside a dirty can of soda.
Beggars can’t be choosers, so I wash the can off on my skirt and stuff the protein bar down my throat, determined that henceforth I will take much better care of my cute, cute self.
For Samson’s sake.
He deserves nothing less than an adorable bride, who—ideally—does not eat trash food more than once in her shiny new life.
Mm. Yeah. Time to budget for meals.
Then, time to woo.
Step one is a go.