Whenever Grak says things like this, it makes me smile. I like playing with him. But he’s right. It’s a pain in the ass finding each other in the game. A million items in the game are searchable, but you have to manually type in your campaign companions’ complete username and send an invite every single time. This is why Deadsky is a third-rate game and not as popular as it used to be.
Well, I’m good with playing a niche game. I’m notoriously known for doing the opposite of what’s popular, often to my own detriment.
But my favorite thing? Sometimes, after we find each other in the game, Grak and I end up chatting all night long. These chat sessions may not be great for my social life on a Saturday night—according to my family—but Grak is the closest thing I have to a best friend. All my childhood friends have grown and moved away, and my siblings have moved to New York and LA. The youngest of three children, I stayed to work on my parents’ Christmas tree farm after earning my business degree at community college, despite being offered better jobs by both of my siblings. I like the peace and quiet. I like not having to commute to work. And most of all, I don’t have it in me to let my parents run this place on their own. And now that my mom is sick, leaving the Allman Family Christmas Tree Farm is not an option.
Deadsky is my nightly outlet, and that’s all I need. And sometimes it’s my pre-work outlet too. Like today: I woke up at 6 a.m. just to see if Grak was online, which he was, and that gave me the warmest feeling of reassurance on a wintry morning.
“You don’t have to do the quests to unlock my region,” I tell Grak. “Just go into furniture mode and select some type of transportation, then place it below the southern border. Then, when you exit back into live mode, click on the map and highlight the transport.”
“Hmmm,” the orc replies. “Is that cheating?”
“Uh…not if the game lets you do that.” This janky game. Too, too easy to cheat.
He concedes this. “I’ll do it if that’s what you want me to do.”
“I do.”
A long pause follows this, and then Grak throws me for the biggest loop in the four months we’ve been playing together.
“Or we could get married.”
I blink at the screen and forget who I am and where I am at the moment. “Married?”
“Is that too forward?” the orc asks.
I laugh, “No, it’s fucking genius. Let’s do it right now.”
“Wait,” he says.
“What’s wrong? Cold feet already?”
“Let’s wait until tonight. I have…I have some preparations to make.”
Some dude playing an orc in an online fantasy game with a stranger needs to make preparations for an in-game wedding? Okay, then.
We agree to get our characters married later tonight, after I finish work.
“That will give me something to look forward to, anyway. Today’s gonna be a bitch and a half,” I say.
Grak reassures me in his deep, comforting voice, “I am sorry to hear it. But my heart is glad if you look forward to marrying me.”
I sign off and push aside this weird feeling that bubbled up when the orc “proposed.”
I vow never to share with anyone how he makes me feel, because no one would understand.
And yet, I smile all the way upstairs and out the door. I maintain this dopey grin as I trudge through the wind and snow toward the office, and I’m still feeling loopy and fluttery when Istoke the fireplace, wake up the computer, and hang the wreath that falls off the door when I shut it.
Chapter Two
Grak
I stare at the space where Ginger468 used to be before she logged off just now.
She was there, and now she’s gone.
I rub at the odd pain in my chest.
I have to keep reminding myself that our characters are going to be married, which means I’ll never lose her in the game again. That thought will get me through today.
