Chapter 12 #2
“B-both of those words start with S. I’m stressed. Another S-word. In case you didn’t know.”
More staring.
More feeling the utter collapse of my mental health.
Finally, he shrugs those shoulders of his and says, “I like it, Lemonade. Now we both have nicknames.”
It takes an entire minute—or several hours; I can’t be sure—to process those words. By the time my eyes have stopped glazing over, Samson is standing in front of me. “What did Lazul want from you?”
My mouth is dry, but through sheer force of will, I open it and form words. “Five hundred rocks.”
“What?”
“For retaining walls.”
Samson’s face scrunches, and he rubs at the day-old scruff on his cheek. It’s shorter than before my sad girl days. I must’ve missed him shave. Will agony never cease to chase me?
He mumbles, “And that idiot specifically asked you to gather five hundred rocks?”
“W-well…” No. He wasn’t specific. My journal told me I need five hundred. But I don’t know if anyone else here has a book that they can talk to. So I’m not certain I want to confess that information.
Samson crosses his arms, grumbling, “That’s such a vague demand. What size rocks? What type of rock? No. None of that. Just bring me five hundred rocks, even though yesterday you were storing pears in a wooden box and probably have no idea what kinds a retaining wall even calls for.”
Urk.
That’s fine.
I didn’t need my self-esteem anymore. It was, arguably, a tiny little scrap of nothingness anyway. Barely of consequence.
Samson sighs. “I’ll get my own pick. We can start working through cleaning up your land at least and hope the resources Gabbro and Austin need are among the rubble.”
My eyes widen, and my mouth opens, but I can’t figure out what I’m trying to say before Samson’s long strides are carrying him through the brush toward the path in the trees that separates our farmland.
When he returns, I haven’t moved, and—for unimaginable reasons—this seems to concern him. “You okay, Lemonade?”
He’s got his pick propped against one shoulder like a proper farmboy…and…
Yeah.
I think I might be better than okay.
This is the second day in a row that Samson is reaching out to me. It’s almost like he cares about my well-being or something.
Clearing my throat, I whisper, “You’re going to help me?”
“I don’t want a landslide to crush Slate any more than anyone else, assuming he’s who needs the retaining wall.
The landslide that covered the mines and washed his junk away could have killed him if he were in the wrong room at the wrong time.
We’re lucky Lazul had enough sense to force a mandatory evacuation to his manor.
Without that, I’m positive Slate would’ve been outside.
The idiot always studies weather events. ”
Yep. He does. When it rains in game, he’s always in front of his lab with wet goggles, babbling on about the beautiful strength of nature. He’s the one who reported that a big storm was coming, and he’s the person you can go to in order to check the forecast for the next day in the game.
Pyro might be my backup love interest, but by far Slate is my favorite character—second only to Samson, of course.
If only he didn’t have wimpy nerd shoulders, I may have been content with his romance arc. It’s very…interesting. That’s for sure.
Reminding myself we are not treating people like game characters anymore—which includes refraining from sexualizing their shoulders—I say, “Slate needs a retaining wall, and so do Laumon and Neptun.”
Samson’s eyes roll. “No, actually Lau and Nep need to accept that sand is a terrible foundation, get off the beach, and stop prioritizing the atmosphere of the ocean above safety.” He swings his attention toward the chaos that is my farmland before I can decide whether or not I’m allowed to laugh.
I don’t think he’s joking. But he is so, so very right.
With a single, affirmative nod, he states, “Let’s clear this place. ”
I cringe at the mere idea of tackling this monstrosity without better tools. Just my attempt to plow a path to Samson’s farm resulted in a thousand scratches and sore muscles I can still feel if I turn the wrong way.
Undaunted by the state of his own old pick, Samson approaches a rock and decimates it with a full-animation attack.
My heart jumps as the stone collapses into two manageable pieces.
Forgive me.
I forgot.
Samson’s body is better than platinum gear.
And even his glare decimates.
Praise be. All hail. Amen.
Scanning my awe, and potentially my drool, Samson says, “If you’re comfortable letting me use your void bag, we can work faster with both of us collecting and breaking.”
I blink myself out of the daze, pull my backpack off my shoulders, and get my own pick out before offering the bag to him. “Why wouldn’t I be comfortable letting you use my bag?”
He looks between my face and the leather, then carefully takes it from my hands. Crouching, he nudges the rocks inside, letting the void slurp them in. “Even if it’s bonded to you in a way that won’t let me access the contents, it’s still expensive.”
Humming, I chip at a different boulder, letting the magic behind three pathetic taps carry me where my shoulders simply cannot. “I keep forgetting that.”
“I had noticed.” He hands the bag off for me to use while he tackles another stone.
To avoid drooling this time, I focus on scooping up my own stones, then pass back.
This’ll go twice as fast.
Half the work.
Wait, no. Less than half the work. While it takes me three—albeit puny—swings, it only takes him one. That means I’m no longer working with fifteen hundred animations to achieve my goal. Calculating the number of swings required at this point would enlist algebra.
Ha ha.
Life is full of things mere mortals shall never know, I suppose!
So much for smallering the numbers.
They shall have to remain large, and mysterious…just like…
Samson is watching me when I chance a glance in his direction.
Heat suffuses through every last one of my pores, turning me cherry tomato red. Even though it’s not tomato season until summer…
Another of life’s great mysteries.
“What?” I ask as I fix my glasses on my freckled nose. I showered in a bucket this morning, and I am cute. There is no reason for perception to intimidate me anymore.
My heart does not get the memo.
Samson’s eyes skim down clothes I have only been able to take off inside my house and beat over a chair to “clean,” and wouldn’t you know? I have found reasons for perception to continue intimidating me…
He looks elsewhere as he passes me back my void bag. “Where did you come from?”
My stomach knots. “What do you mean?” Heck, I came from heck. As in H-E-double-hockey-sticks on earth. Also known as: Florida. But I don’t think either of those horrible, no-good concepts exist in this place.
Or.
At least.
I hope they don’t.
Samson’s brows lower. “I can’t wrap my mind around how you make sense.”
Normally, when something doesn’t make sense, I give up and say it is what it is.
When Samson’s eyes hit me again, he does not look anywhere close to the zen experience that is giving up.
“Only nobility and exceptionally world-renowned merchants have the funding available to see if they can match with a void bag. Most cost nearly a thousand gold coins just for consideration. These days, they’re auctioned, since the skill needed to craft one is sorely a dying art.
No noble daughter would live here, in this destroyed backwater town.
No good merchant would hoard perishable resources like you have.
You don’t make sense to me. How little you make sense has bothered me from the moment you showed up. ”
I tense.
Am I the reason he hasn’t been sleeping well?
No.
No, that’s totally crazy. And narcissistic. Of course I’m not keeping this big, beautiful man up at night. Thinking about me. And all my mysterious allure.
For the simple reason that is: I do not have mysterious allure.
I shower in buckets and sob in outhouses—because my life now includes the regular use of an outhouse, and I am not happy about it.
If he were Slate, I’d worry about dissection.
But he’s not Slate—the borderline mad scientist who maybe shouldn’t be teaching Peggy and Cobalt.
He’s Samson.
Kind, guarded Samson, with his own history of dark stories and tragic events.
And, besides, if the only reason he thinks about me is because he doesn’t understand me, those aren’t the sorts of whimsical thoughts that lead to happily ever after, now are they?
Taking a deep breath, I say, “I don’t know how I ended up here.
In my world, this place is a video game that I have obsessed over for five years.
” My heart hammers; I shove the nerves down, hoping I don’t sound insane.
“Being here doesn’t make sense to me, either.
I just…spawned in…with nothing but the void bag and my clothes.
In my world, this concept of waking up in a fantasy setting is a whole genre known as isekai… and…”
Gently, once my voice has faded completely, Samson says, “And?”
I force myself to continue, “And, normally, these sorts of stories start when the main character…dies…or is summoned. I neither remember dying nor a summoning circle, though. The last thing I remember, I was walking to work. Then, I woke up here, with Lazul greeting me on the edge of the south woods.” I shrug one shoulder.
“I thought I was dreaming at first. But it’s been too long now.
Everything feels too real. And the world I knew before is starting to feel like the dream.
Or…the nightmare, more accurately.” I wet my lips and grip the handle of my pick tighter.
“I don’t know the technicalities behind how this is possible, but please believe me when I say I’m so grateful to be here.
It’s just taking me some time to come to terms with where the game ends and a new reality begins, if… if that or any of this makes sense?”
Heavy silence lingers in the space between us for many long moments. At last, he asks, “What’s a video game?”
Right. This world relies heavily on gems and magic, wiring blessed stones into technology to achieve basic necessities like light.
And, even then, some dialogue that Slate delivers suggests only communities with blessed individuals enjoy many of those simple pleasures.
It’s a fault he’s actively researching solutions for.
Video games, TV, even radio don’t have any presence here. As far as I know.
“Um…” I opt for a classic explanation. “It’s like moving pictures in a device that you can interact with through pressing buttons.
The moving pictures tell a story that you can alter.
Objectives guide you through the narrative, and for more self-propelled games like this one, you create your own goals—whether that’s buying decorations, or upgrading your house and tools, or… ” Marrying someone…
“Or?” he prompts.
My face explodes crimson, and I stammer, “O-or any number of other things. It’s a virtual reality type simulation game. So you control a little picture of a little person and do life things in a world that’s not entirely the same as the one you actually live in.”
Samson blinks at me.
“Does any of that make sense?”
Nodding slowly, he says, “You…possibly died in another world, and came into existence here through means unbeknownst to either of us. I’ve heard weirder things.”
“You—” My head tilts. “—have?”
A satirical smile tugs on one corner of his mouth. “Sure. Your bag can hold entire trees and sometimes water winds up imbued with magic and decides to try and kill us, Lemonade. What isn’t easy enough to believe around here?”
He believes me? Just like that. No problem?
Lifting his pick, he breaks down a stone.
“Thank you for telling me the truth. Even if we don’t know exactly how or why you’re here, I have been unbelievably stressed, wondering how in the world you’ve survived this long.
This explains why you have no idea what you’re doing in so many basic areas yet excel inexplicably at arguably more daunting tasks. ”
Was that a compliment or an insult…?
“After yesterday, when I found you crying, I’ve been worried about overstepping.
Even yesterday, I didn’t know whether or not it was appropriate to commandeer things with the pears.
” He crashes through another set of rocks, and swipes sweat off his brow.
Once his hand returns to the handle of his tool, he’s smiling.
“I was up all night telling myself I made you uncomfortable and absolutely shouldn’t come by today and impose.
After all, you’re an adult, right? You’ve lived this long without my help, haven’t you?
” He breathes a laugh. “Wanting to help but not knowing if it was appropriate bothered me so much, I took a walk into town as though town has ever once been a good idea. I thought maybe you were a lucky idiot, but then you don’t carry yourself like one by any means.
” His smile widens, and he destroys another rock before throwing the blindingly beautiful look my way.
“It makes sense. I’m not overstepping or insulting your intelligence by recognizing that you’re lost.” Heart-melting sparks of determination flicker in his blue eyes.
“Let me help you get adjusted. It’s the least I can do after I jumped to conclusions and threatened you with a sword. ”
“Um.” I choke on my thoughts. “I… I don’t know what to…say.” I wet my lips. “I’d really appreciate the help. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m kind of…a mess.”
He chuckles, scans me. “Yeah, I noticed. Don’t worry. And, who knows? Maybe once I know you’re okay, I’ll be able to sleep again.”
Okay. Sure. Maybe he has been lying awake thinking about how useless and concerning his new neighbor is…
But worrying about my welfare instead of thinking wow, what a hazard to society and avoiding me at all costs feels like…something. Living next to someone who cares so much about a stranger being okay feels like something.
Something I’ve never had before.
Something I don’t want to lose.
Begging my heart to still, I say, “So many things are different and new, and I wasn’t the best at navigating my world, either. I’m trying as hard as I can, but it’s all so overwhelming. Existing…is hard.”
Lowering his pick, he closes the distance between us and cups my cheek in his hand, smiling softer than I’ve ever seen before. “I know it is. Don’t worry,” he repeats. “I’ll take care of you.”
Wow.
I have never been more worried in my life that my legs would give out, leaving me to skewer myself on a pickaxe. But. You know something?
It’s worth it.