My eyes widen.
Before the information computes, a breeze flips me to the quest page. Yesterday’s conversation is gone, but I watch as a line strikes throughPrepare farmhouse for the night.
Once that text vanishes entirely, a new quest appears.
Greet everyone. 0/23
“You are joking,” I say aloud. If—and until I lose the last of my brain cells, that is a really bigif—this is real life and I have been majestically transported into my deepest fantasy, I am not emotionally prepared to meet over twentyrealpeople!
The beauty of a farm sim is walking up to an NPC, right clicking, and reading a few lines of random dialogue. I do not need to say a word, and people progressively like me better.Orwhen Idohave to say something, I get two options.
Two.
And you know what?
Both are normally right.
Because even if one gets more social points than the other, as long as I keep showing up and right clicking, people will keep liking me.
Easy, peasy, Citrus-squeezy.
What’s wrong?appears in my journal while my eye twitches.
“What’s wrong?” I stammer. “There’s a reason I play cozy games. There’s a reason the skill tree prioritizes things likefishingandmining, not charisma. I am so bad at greeting people, my boss put me in the back of a hot kitchen, duringsummer, inFlorida! Even though I’mjust a little lady!” Muttering, I say, “I know I’m cuter in this world than I am in real life, butstill. I told my rotten boss about my astigmatism, and it granted me no mercy at all.”
Hardee’s managers have a lot of nerve for ignoring such severe medical conditions while also not offering healthcare.
Freeing a breath, I state, “Bottom line: dream or not, first-person socializing isoffthe table. It’s on the floor. In a hole.”
It’ll get you closer to meeting Samson.
My inhibitions melt away. “Samson is still on the table?”
Samson has never left the table, Citrus.
I need to not picture Samson on furniture.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Fine. I will do my very best to commit acts of communication with t-twenty-three entire people. But if I break down in tears at any point, Samson better be there to dry them. Or else.”
When my journal doesn’t humor my dramatics, I pack it up along with my coin, discover my bag swallows tools no problem, and dump the pathetic starter equipment I found in the house inside.
Axe, pick, hoe, and watering can secure, I make my way carefully through the muddy land back into the heart of town.
Chapter 3
Mandatory socialization quests were made by evil extroverts as a means to torture the conversation-impaired.
If I operate on the speculation I amnotdreaming, I am probably dead because this…this is heaven.
Socialization, the true bane of my existence, does not scathe me here.
I know these people. Every last one.
I know the lines they say.
I know the schedules they follow.
Sure, they lookreal—not like little pixel sprites—and, okay, they have voices I can hear—not just text for me to read—but they are unmistakably myVale of Gemstownies.
