Page 7 of Level Up
I don’t intend to keep reading the chat log, but I catch a glimpse of my name and freeze. Not mynamename, but my username. They didn’t tag me, but asked Scones if he’d ever do another speedrun to“put OddlyAdored in her place”and I feel my face heat with rage.
Rage, and maybe shame. Because part of me worries that they’re right—wherever my place is, it isn’there. And I was foolish to even try, to pretend that I could just go wherever I wanted. That I could step outside the expectations of others without repercussions.
The timestamp on the message indicates that it was posted at about this point in the stream, and I notice Scones lean in to read again, but the smile on his face drops and he says nothing before returning his attention to the game.
Once again, he remains silent on the matter of his viewers trashing me on his platform. It’s as good as condoning them.
“Holy shit,” he says after a minute, still running through a labyrinth of caves. “How many doomers are in here?” He laughs and I finally look at how many red dots are surrounding his compass in the corner. “I’m trying to spare your lives, my dudes. Don’t come at me.”
He’ll go out of his way to avoid hurting cursed rotting-flesh monsters with razor claws, but he can’t say two words to defend my honour?
I run my hands over my face and slouch back in my seat until I’m nearly horizontal. I shouldn’t care what he thinks. It’s not his job todefend my honour, like I’m some princess that needs to be saved. I know this. He’s a stranger on the internet, he owes me nothing. But it still feels like rejection.
It feels like Cameron all over again.
Before I can fully wallow in my self-created misery, I hear a scratching at my window and sigh. I get up to open it and a grey cat—this one with a white patch over its left eye—struts in and sits on my desk, patiently awaiting her treats, which I keep on hand for such visits.
“I wondered when you’d show up, Danke,” I tell her as I fetch the packet of chicken snacks from my kitchen cupboard.
Maybe I already am like my grandmother.
In which case, I definitely should not give any fucks what some scrawny-ass nerd on the internet thinks of me. Gram sure wouldn’t.
The year is 1877. The city of Greymist is at the peak of prosperity and you, Sir Reginald Hartwing, are the most sought-after airship pilot from here to Lavender Lakes. Until an unforeseeable crash landing destroys your reputation—along with your left arm—and you must find a way to clear your name.
Explore the streets of Greymist, gather evidence, and eliminate assassins using your clockwork arm in order to uncover the truth behind your so-called accident. Seek out your allies and vanquish your foes to reclaim your honour and unravel a mystery that has been hiding under the surface of Greymist for years.
In a world of metal soldiers and magic crystals, all it takes is one ordinary man to change the course of history.
Will it be you?
— Promo forSteampunk 1877on Play’N, released July 27, 2021
three
not allowed to human
I’m startingto suspect that being bored to death is an actual medical condition.
It’s not that I hate working in the front of the shop when Mom needs the help, but I am by no means a stationery person. I hardly know anything about fountain pens or washi tape or the GSM of different papers. Most of my time working at Ink & Well is spent in the tiny stock room at the back, filling online orders. I like it that way, not much time spent talking to people.
I’m not great at that.
Mid-morning on a Monday is not a very busy time, though, so I don’t have to do much of it today. A few people make small purchases, and I don’t need to manage more than mild pleasantries when they check out. Yet the slow pace is making the morning drag on. The clock on the wall is ticking down the seconds at a glacial pace. I can feel it in my eyeballs.
It’s only been an hour and I’m already fantasizing about lunch when a young couple walks in, and I smile at them in polite greeting. The woman is grinning from ear to ear, like she’s just hit the jackpot, as she looks around at all of thenotebooks and pens and stickers throughout the cramped shop. The man just looks—well, he looks kind of horrified. At me, specifically.
My smile gets distinctly more awkward until he shoves his hands into the pockets of his unzipped hoodie and turns away, following the woman through the shop as she browses. Sometimes I wish I loved stationery as much as Mom or some of the customers. It would be nice to feel that level of delight every time I come to work. I’m pretty sure Mom still does.
Mom is a self-professedplanner girl, which is kind of cringe that people call themselves that and also she’s fifty-two years old, but okay. She actually has two planners: one that she uses to write down all her tasks and errands and appointments, and one that she just fills with stickers. Like a small child. I can’t say that I get it, but then again, she doesn’t get why I need fifteen mechanical keyboards when I only have one desktop computer, so we’ll just agree to disagree.
I glance over at the young couple every once in a while, as they make their way through the store. It’s a fairly typical scene—a woman examining every single item in detail while the guy with her shuffles around, as bored as I am in here. They’re a cute couple, though. They even have exactly the same hair colour, a shade of brown much lighter than mine without entering blond territory. The guy must like her a whole lot to let himself get dragged here when he’s clearly so miserable about it.
The woman makes her way through the entire store methodically, picking up a few items here or there that she adds to her small wire shopping basket, but they stop when they reach the glass display of fountain pens near the checkout and her eyes light up even more.
“They have the one I wanted!” she says excitedly to the guy with her.
“Cool,” he mutters, lacking any of her enthusiasm.
