I stare up at the too-bright sky, squinting against the glare. The air hums with heat, the kind that makes the horizon shimmer, and the faint smell of turned earth drifts on a lazy breeze. Really? I have a bloody character sheet and stat screens now?
Jenny flails her hands in front of her face like someone’s tossed a bag of glitter at her. Tess scowls, then smirks. “Textile Management? What—am I supposed to duel you with a sewing needle now?”
Jenny grins. “Only if you get a crit and hem her in.”
“Ladies,” Mira chimes, her voice as sweet and precise as a bell, “Agriculture 101 begins in the south fields in one hour.”
“Clock-watcher,” I mutter.
“Professor Harrow is a precise, methodical man,” Mira intones.
“Oh no,” Jenny whines, dragging the sound out like she’s just been sentenced to death by lecture.
Tess tosses Jenny and me our tartan backpacks and slings hers over one shoulder. The leather creaks, and the faint musk of wool and earth clings to the fabric. “What about breakfast?”
“The cafeteria closed five minutes ago. If you hurry,” Mira says, “Professor Muir may have some fresh fruits, roots, and herbs left over from her first class.”
We run.
The southern field is a quilt of damp brown earth, already steaming under the morning sun. Oxen stamp their hooves, tails swishing, filling the air with a heavy, sour stench. Flies buzz in thick little clouds. I take the plow handles, grit my teeth, and start cursing every deity I know. Mud splatters my legs and soaks into my boots, reeking of oxen droppings. My “furrow” looks like a drunk snake staggered across it.
Jenny shrieks when her oxen lurch forward, dragging her half-running, half-stumbling through the furrows. I can’t help laughing—mud streaking my face—before Tess steps up and, curse her, guides her team in straight, even lines like she was born to it.
The professors hose Jenny and me down with icy water, laughing at our pitiful efforts while slapping Tess on the shoulder as if she’s their star pupil. Cold rivulets snake down my back, mixing sweat and mud into a foul paste that makes me shiver.
Between classes I cast my vote. The ballot’s short—just sector and colony leaders. I’ve met both front-runners. Heim? A bombastic, arrogant ass. Catalina Evard? If Hitler had been an anti-textile, misandrist radical feminist—ugh. She even has the faint ghost of a mustache. In the end, I picked the lesser evil and ticked Heim’s box.
The tally is close, but I’m clearly not the only one. Catalina doesn’t stand a chance—or at least that’s what I keep telling myself. We’ll know in the morning.
Frontier Carpentry hammers the next nail in the coffin of my Highlander cosplay nightmare. The sun beats down harder by midday, glaring off raw pine boards. Sawdust floats in the air, gritty against the sweat on my skin. My halter top clings to me, offering no protection as wood chips bite into my stomach and my nails split under the hammer’s weight. Every swing drags the flimsy fabric sideways, threatening indecent exposure.
Wardrobe malfunctions stack up like bad dice rolls, each one more humiliating than the last. Still, I notice I’m not alone—half the men strip to the waist, their skin slick with sweat, while most of the women tough it out in little more than sports bras. We all just make do with what we’ve got. Still, I swear the first coins I earn in this gods-forsaken sim are going straight toward better clothes.
We eat lunch after Introduction to Frontier Politics 101. The cafeteria smells faintly of grease and stale bread, like someone reheated yesterday’s mistakes. I bite into my sandwich and grimace—bland SPAM on toast with a smear of yellow that might be mustard, though it tastes more like sadness. Jenny pulls something questionable from between her crusts and holds it up like evidence in a trial.
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“If you buy the bits, I’ll pack lunches for tomorrow.”
“You can cook?” Tess asks, one brow raised.
“Better than this,” I sigh, flinging away another mystery lump.
“How good?” Tess presses.
I pull up my character sheet. The translucent screen flickers in front of my eyes, data scrolling with an officious hum. My base stats pop first, uncomfortably accurate compared to my real-world self:
Character Sheet: Lizzy Loren
Level: 1
Race: Human
Class: Colonist
STR 9
DEX 12
CON 10
INT 10
WIS 9
CHA 7
LCK 14
I swipe down into my skill list, which runs for pages. Most of it’s mundane—the kind of things no sane game designer would bother tracking—yet several things catch my eye:
Cooking 12
Shopping 10
Walking 32
Tying Shoes 10
Washing Clothes 12
First Aid 4
Tracking 28
Advanced Archery 42
Bowyer 19
Fletcher 19
Kissing 4
Intimate Arts 3
I frown. Walking? Thirty-two? What even is that metric? And why does the damn system think it can score me on kissing or… that? Heat creeps up my neck. I’m not that bad. I’m not! Grinding archery is one thing, but I’ll be damned if I ever grind Intimate Arts for XP.
I glance at Jenny, then Tess—no doubt better scores than me—and my chest tightens when Doc sneaks into the lineup in my head. What if he finds out how bad I am and bolts like the last ones did?
Snickers ripple across the table.
“What?” I demand.
“You’re redder than a bloody rose,” Tess teases, her smirk wicked.
Jenny wiggles closer on the bench, eyes sparkling. “Who’s buttering your… thoughts?”
I mutter into my sandwich, “I’ve got a twelve in Cooking—whatever that means.”
“Ten’s average,” comes a deep voice behind me.
Frank MacGregor drops onto the bench with the weight of a boulder, making Jenny squeak as the wood groans. He doesn’t look at me, just tears off a strip of bread like it owes him money.
“In cooking? Zero to one, you’ll cut your hand off. One to three, you’ll still ruin more than you make.” His eyes flick to Jenny, then back to the crowd, scanning. “Three to nine, you’re fumbling, but you’ll get there. Ten means you can keep yourself alive without poisoning anyone.”
Jenny beams. “That’s our Lizzy! See, she’s competent!”
Frank’s grunt could mean anything. He chews, swallows, goes on like he’s just ticking boxes in his head. “Twelve’s solid. You’ve practiced. You’ll manage more than porridge.”
Jenny leans on his arm with a theatrical sigh. “And what about me?”
He gives her a look—long-suffering, brotherly. “You? You burn water.”
She giggles, unfazed.
“The metrics are similar across all skills. Twenty to twenty-four’s where folks get useful. Apprentices done with their first posting. Twenty-five to forty-nine? Professionals. Blacksmiths, inn cooks. People with a trade.” His voice dips quieter, more for Jenny than anyone else. “Fifty up—that’s mastery. Guild ranks. You don’t meet many of those. And if you ever see someone push past a hundred…” His gaze cuts toward the tattoo on Tess’s hip. “…you stay well clear.”
Tess stiffens, shoulders squaring, chin rising. Her arms and legs shift open, her whole body language loud enough even I can read: ready for a fight, or maybe a climb. It’s an oddly sensual challenge. “Can I help you, laddie?”
Jenny pouts, sing-song. “You’re no fun.”
Frank ignores her and goes back to watching the crowd, jaw working like he’s chewing on more than bread.
My words meander, but my eyes never leave Doctor Lenard Richard as he drifts from table to table, salad in hand. His smile and wave spark a glow in my chest—one that falters the moment memory sweeps in. James had been fun, right up until our first overnighter. Then he ghosted me. Phillip, David, Roy… all the same story.
Maybe it wasn’t my dad. Maybe it wasn’t the Olympic schedule.
What if it was me? A disappointing lack of skill?
Shit. What if that’s why they all walked?
I can’t exactly grind my way through every man in town—not who I am, not who I want to be. But I don’t want Lenard to be another name on the list.
So… what do I do? Is there a book for this? A video that isn’t porn? Who do you even ask?
“Miss Loren,” Mira interrupts, her voice crisp, “you should leave now if you want the butts in place before your archery students arrive.”
