Noods for Her Orc

Chapter 1

mei

I’m down to my last seventy-three credits, and the smell of failure clings to me stronger than the ghost of chili oil on my fingers. The neon lights of New Vegas blur around me, a million shades of electric promise that mock my empty pockets.

Last week, I was Chef Mei Tan, The Noodle Queen, slinging bowls of transcendent broth to lines stretching out of the casino. Now? I’m just another broke dreamer with outstanding invoices and a talent for ruining perfectly good business opportunities.

At least I still have my taste buds. And my knife roll. A girl’s gotta hold on to something when her world is circling the drain.

New Vegas at sunset is a fever dream of sensory overload.

The Strip stretches before me like a dragon with scales made of LED billboards, holographic showgirls fifty feet tall blowing kisses to the crowds below.

Pleasure domes and gambling temples rise on either side, their architecture a chaotic blend of Earth’s ancient wonders and alien geometries.

The air tastes like synthetic cherry, cigarette smoke, and desperation.

Gods, I miss the smell of my kitchen.

A wulver in a dealer’s vest howls past me, late for his shift. A group of college-aged elves in matching “brIDAL COVEN” t-shirts giggle as they pass, already three potions deep into their night. Everyone here is chasing something—love, money, oblivion, or just the next high.

Me? I was chasing culinary fame beyond my social media success. Hilarious how that worked out.

My stomach growls as I pass a street vendor selling synthetic dragon meat skewers.

The scent is all wrong—too much artificial smoke flavor, not enough heat.

I could make it better with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back.

But right now, I can’t even afford to buy one sad, mediocre skewer, let alone create one correctly.

I dodge a trio of centaurs clomping down the street.

Should’ve stuck to making content. Bowl Goals had two million followers. The algorithm loved me. But no, I had to chase the dream of a real restaurant.

What I’d done instead was sink every credit I had into “Noodz,” my pop-up kitchen concept.

A week-long residency in the food court of the Pharaoh’s Palace Casino.

Rare, premium ingredients sourced from the other side of the Rift.

Custom-made ceramics for each bowl. A broth so good it made a vampire weep actual tears—and they rarely have enough bodily fluid for that.

The first two nights were magical. Lines formed an hour before opening. My face was on the digital billboards along the Strip. Critics came. Food-holo influencers livestreamed. I was riding so high that I ordered twice as many ingredients for the remaining nights.

Then the air filtration system in the entire east wing of the Pharaoh’s Palace failed.

Some kind of enchantment backfired in the VIP suites.

The casino shut down for three days of magical contamination cleanup.

My ingredients rotted. My ceramics got “misplaced” during the evacuation.

My insurance claim was denied because apparently “arcane system failure” was listed in microscopic print under exclusions.

Everything I’d pivoted my life toward crumbled into nothing in the span of a week.

And now here I am. Totally fucked.

“Mei Tan!” A voice like gravel through a wood chipper interrupts my pity parade. “Thought you could skip town without settling up?”

Correction. Now I’m really fucked.

I freeze mid-step. Vex. My least favorite debt collector and, unfortunately, a goblin who knows his way around a contract’s fine print.

He’s leaning against a lamppost with the easy confidence of someone who has never once needed to rush. Lean and sharp-featured in a shimmering purple suit that costs more than my culinary school tuition, he blocks my path. The gold cufflinks catch the neon light as he straightens.

“Hey, Vex. Looking dapper as always.” I force my lips into something resembling a smile. “The sunset really brings out the gold in your eyes.”

“Cut the shit.” He adjusts those cufflinks, a gesture that probably looks casual to him but only solidifies his whole slimy mobster persona.

“You owe Crimson Financing over two hundred thousand credits, with at least five thousand due”—he looks at his gaudy watch for dramatic effect—“in about twelve hours.”

I swallow hard. “I’m good for it. Just need a few days to—”

“You said that three days ago when the boss graciously gave you an extension.” His pointed teeth gleam in the neon light. “And yet, here you are, skulking around the Strip instead of, I don’t know, earning money to pay back what you owe.”

“I’m not skulking. I’m strategically scoping out prime real estate. You know what they say—location, location, location.”

His gaze sharpens to a honed blade’s edge, and his voice is just as flinty. “With your knife roll and a backpack? Looks like fleeing to me.”

A small crowd has formed around us, sensing drama. Nothing entertains the Vegas crowd like someone else’s misfortune. Great. Public humiliation. The perfect garnish on my shit sandwich of a week.

“Listen, I’ve got some promising leads.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. “Give me till first thing Monday, and I’ll have your first payment.”

Vex’s laugh is like glass breaking. “The boss isn’t looking for any more extensions. But he could have other arrangements for you.”

Other arrangements. Like being trapped in one of Grishnak’s restaurants, working off a debt that would never get paid down. Like being just another object Grishnak collected.

I keep my thoughts to myself this time. “No thanks. I’ll find another way.”

Vex snaps his fingers, and two hulking trolls materialize from the crowd. “Honestly, Mei. You should really hear the boss out. Come with us, quietly, and he can renegotiate the terms of that pesky little contract.”

Indentured servitude to the goblin syndicate that runs the underworld of New Vegas? No thanks. I’d never see freedom in this lifetime.

My heart pounds against my ribs. I clutch my knife roll tighter—not that my collection of precision-forged Japanese steel will help against seven hundred pounds of troll muscle.

“I have twelve hours,” I say, taking a step back. “I’m just getting some things finalized as I figure out my next move.”

“Your next move is coming with us for a little chat about asset liquidation.” Vex nods to the trolls, who start to close in.

I’m calculating my odds of outrunning them (terrible), my chances of talking my way out (worse), and whether I could feasibly claim sanctuary in one of the casinos (laughable), when the ground beneath us literally trembles.

“Problem here?” The voice sounds like it originated somewhere deep in the Earth’s core, rumbling up through layers of bedrock to form words.

The crowd parts, and I have to tilt my head back to take in the newcomer: an orc, easily seven feet tall, with shoulders wider than my first apartment’s doorway.

His skin is a deep green with intricate tribal scars tracing patterns across his massive biceps.

He’s wearing a tight black t-shirt that reads “DRINK TILL YOU’RE PRETTY” stretched to its absolute limits.

“None of your business, greenskin,” Vex sneers, though I notice he takes a subtle step back. “This is between me and the chef.”

The orc’s eyes narrow. They’re green—a deep, clear, forest green. From everything I’ve gathered in my three months in New Vegas, orc eyes run toward amber and yellow. Green is unusual. Striking. The kind of detail that makes you look twice, then a third time.

“It’s Greenfist, as you know,” he says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. One of his lower tusks is capped in what looks like platinum. He steps closer to Vex, and I swear I can feel the temperature drop. “And this chef is Mei Tan. And you’re crowding her.”

My brain short-circuits. This mountain of muscle knows who I am?

Vex clearly didn’t expect this either. He recovers quickly, though. “She owes a significant debt. My associates and I are simply facilitating a conversation about debt relief and repayment options.”

“Looks more like intimidation to me.” The orc crosses his arms, biceps bulging like they’re trying to make a break for it. “And I don’t like bullies.”

“This isn’t your concern,” Vex hisses. “Back off now before you regret it.”

The orc’s laugh sounds like an avalanche. “That’s cute.”

What happens next is so fast I almost miss it.

Vex signals to one of the trolls, who lunges forward.

The orc moves like someone three times smaller, sidestepping the troll and grabbing him by his shirt collar.

With a grunt that sounds more annoyed than strained, he lifts the troll—who must weigh at least four hundred pounds—and hurls him directly into a neon sign shaped like a bowl of noodles.

The sign explodes in a shower of sparks and glass as the troll crashes through it, electrical components shorting out with a sizzling pop.

The crowd gasps collectively, then erupts in cheers and applause because, well, it’s New Vegas.

Street fights are practically on the tourist checklist between the fountain shows and all-you-can-eat buffets.

“Anyone else feeling brave?” the orc asks, not even breathing hard.

Vex and the remaining troll exchange glances. Debt collectors are intimidating because people are afraid of them. When someone demonstrates they’re not afraid—especially by tossing a troll through expensive signage—the power dynamic shifts dramatically.

“This isn’t over, Chef,” Vex spits out, backing away. He checks his watch once more. “Twelve hours. Then we are legally entitled to everything you own. Including you. Not even your greenskin can save you.”

And just like that, I’m alone with my green guardian angel in the middle of a buzzing crowd that’s already losing interest now that the violence has ended.