Chapter 2 #2
Who I really am is a battle-scarred warrior whose diplomatic failures cost him his career and possibly his people's future. Who I'm pretending to be is a reformed savage looking for love on television.
The difference between those two things might determine whether this gamble pays off or destroys what little reputation I have left.
Back in my quarters, I examine the midnight blue jacket Jussel selected. The fabric is softer than anything I've worn, cut to emphasize broad shoulders while hiding the ritual scars across my chest. It transforms me into something more palatable for human consumption.
Sophisticated but approachable. Dangerous enough to be exciting, civilized enough to be trustworthy.
I try it on, checking the fit. The reflection shows someone who could be mistaken for human from a distance. Someone safe enough to let into your home, your heart, your bed.
Image rehabilitation.
Tonight, twenty-three human women will decide whether an orc can be worthy of their attention. Whether I can convince them that monsters make acceptable mates if properly domesticated.
The irony is that some of them might actually mean it.
The production assistant who escorts me to the set chatters nervously about lighting angles and camera positions. Her voice comes out with the high pitch humans get when they're trying to convince themselves they're not afraid.
"The entrance is really spectacular," she says, gesturing with hands that tremble slightly. "We've got atmospheric lighting, dramatic music, the whole cinematic experience. Very Lord of the Rings meets The Bachelor."
Lord of the Rings. Where orcs are mindless servants of evil, cannon fodder for heroic humans. Perfect reference point for tonight's festivities.
The corridor opens into a cavernous space designed to look like some fantasy throne room.
Massive stone pillars, flickering torches that are probably LED, and a raised platform where I'm supposed to make my dramatic entrance.
The ceiling disappears into artificial shadows, and speakers hidden throughout the space pump in orchestral music that builds to an appropriately ominous crescendo.
Twenty crew members scurry around the set, adjusting cameras, testing sound equipment, checking sight lines. The energy feels familiar—pre-battle preparation, when everyone knows violence is coming but nobody wants to acknowledge it directly.
"Korgan's here!" someone shouts, and the entire room freezes.
Twenty pairs of human eyes turn toward me. Some curious, some calculating, most containing various degrees of carefully controlled fear. A camera operator adjusts his grip on equipment that suddenly looks fragile. A sound technician takes an unconscious step backward.
Here we go.
"Magnificent!" Jessica appears from behind a bank of monitors, arms spread wide in theatrical welcome. "Absolutely perfect. Jussel, the wardrobe is spot-on. Korgan, you look incredible."
The midnight blue jacket feels like armor designed by someone who's never seen real combat. Sophisticated but approachable, just as promised. Several crew members relax visibly when they realize I'm not wearing traditional orc battle gear.
"Let's do a quick walk-through before the contestants arrive," Jessica continues. "Nothing complicated, just get you comfortable with the staging."
She leads me toward the platform, narrating the evening's choreography. "You'll enter from stage left, walk to the center mark, pause for the establishing shot. The contestants will be arranged in a semicircle below you. Very classical, very romantic."
Very hierarchical. I'm literally elevated above them, the monster they're supposed to compete for. The symbolism is either accidental or brilliant.
"When you're ready, step down and begin the introductions. Each woman will have approximately thirty seconds for her first impression. Keep it light, charming, let your personality shine through."
Let your personality shine through. As if personality is something I can control, package, and present for consumption.
We reach the center mark, a small piece of tape on the floor that represents my starting position.
From here, I can see the entire set layout with camera positions, lighting rigs, the semicircle where the human women will stand.
Everything designed to capture drama, romance, and the exotic thrill of interspecies courtship.
"Can we test the entrance music?" Jessica calls to the sound booth.
The orchestral score swells again, all dramatic brass and building tension. The kind of music that announces either heroic arrival or impending doom, depending on your perspective.
"Walk it once more, Korgan. Really feel the moment."
Feel the moment. I'm about to participate in ritualized humiliation disguised as entertainment, and she wants me to feel it.
But I walk the entrance again, slower this time, getting a sense of the space and timing. The cameras track my movement, and I can see myself on the monitors as larger than life, intimidating, exactly the image they want to project.
Dangerous enough to be exciting, civilized enough to be trustworthy.
Halfway through the second walk-through, my shoulder clips one of the decorative torches. The prop, designed to look like heavy iron but constructed from lightweight plastic, crashes to the floor with a hollow bang that echoes through the space.
Instant chaos.
"Cut! Cut!" Jessica shouts.
Three crew members rush toward the broken prop while two others scramble to clear the debris. The camera operators lower their equipment, and everyone starts talking at once about backup torches and whether the sound was picked up on audio.
"Sorry," I say, though I'm not particularly sorry. The prop was poorly positioned and cheaply made. In a real fortress, torches are mounted securely enough to withstand accidental contact.
"Not a problem," Jessica says, with new tension. "These things happen. We'll just adjust the staging slightly."
Adjust the staging. Code for keep the dangerous orc away from the breakable props.
Jussel appears with a measuring tape and starts calculating clearance distances.
Jonah scribbles notes about movement restrictions and safety protocols.
The brief moment of chaos has reminded everyone that I'm not just an actor playing a role.
I'm an actual orc, with actual orc size and strength, in a space designed for human proportions.
"We should clear the path better," someone suggests.
"Maybe adjust the entrance angle?"
"What about handholds on the platform?"
Handholds. As if I might fall off a platform I could step over without thinking.
While the crew debates modifications, I notice movement in my peripheral vision. Beyond the main set, in what looks like a prep area, someone is working at a counter. Flour dust catches the light as hands shape dough with practiced efficiency.
Trinity.
She's smaller than I imagined from her audition video, more compact but somehow more substantial. Her dark hair is pulled back in a practical bun that's already coming loose, and her hands move with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what she's doing.
While everyone else focuses on managing the orc problem, she's making bread.
"Korgan?" Jessica's voice rings through my observation. "We're ready to continue."
The crew has repositioned several props and marked new boundaries with tape. Someone brings out a backup torch, this one mounted more securely. Jussel double-checks my jacket for tears or loose threads.
"Let's run through the contestant introductions," Jessica says. "Obviously they're not here yet, but we can practice the timing and movement."
For the next hour, I perform a elaborate rehearsal with imaginary human women.
Step down from the platform, walk to position one, engage in thirty seconds of scripted small talk, move to position two, repeat.
The cameras track every movement, and Jessica calls out adjustments to my posture, my expression, my entire presence.
"More approachable in the shoulders, Korgan."
"Can you soften the eyes a bit?"
"Perfect! Now hold that expression while you move to the next position."
Soften the eyes. As if my eyes are weapons that need dulling for human safety.
During a break between rehearsals, I find myself looking toward the prep area again.
Trinity is still working, now rolling out what looks like pie crust. Her movements are economical, purposeful, completely absorbed in the task.
She's not performing for cameras or adjusting her behavior for an audience—she's simply making food.
Authentic, the producers called her. Watching her work, I understand what they meant.
"She's impressive, isn't she?"
Jussel has appeared beside me, following my gaze. "Trinity, I mean. Most of the contestants are nervous wrecks right now, getting their makeup touched up, practicing their introductions. She asked if she could use the catering kitchen to make something for tonight."
"What's she making?"
"No idea. Something with cinnamon, though. The whole area smells incredible."
As if summoned by our conversation, the scent reaches us. Warm, sweet, comforting. The kind of smell that makes you think of home, family, safety. Everything this artificial set is designed to simulate but can't actually provide.
"The other women are going to hate her," Jussel continues with obvious amusement. "She's making them look high-maintenance by comparison."
Through the archway that separates the main set from the prep area, I watch Trinity slide something into an oven.
Her apron is dusted with flour, her sleeves rolled up to reveal practical forearms. She moves like someone comfortable in her own skin, unimpressed by the elaborate theater happening thirty feet away.
Something unsettles him, I think, remembering Jonah's notes about my character arc. But what unsettles me isn't Trinity herself, it's the recognition that she might be the only genuine person in this entire production.
"Places, everyone!" Jessica's voice dashes through the moment. "Final rehearsal before the contestants arrive!"
Jussel hurries back to his station while I return to the platform. The entrance music swells again, and I walk through the choreographed routine one more time. Step down, position one, thirty seconds of charm, position two, repeat.
But now I'm thinking about flour-dusted hands and the confidence of someone who creates instead of performs. About authenticity in a space designed for illusion.
Remain emotionally distant, I remind myself. This is strategy, not romance. Image rehabilitation, not mate selection. Whatever Trinity Lewis represents genuineness, competence, unaffected humanity. It's irrelevant to my actual mission here.
The tribal council didn't send me to find love. They sent me to prove that orcs can be civilized, attractive, worthy of respect and alliance. Every interaction will be evaluated through that lens. Every choice will either advance that goal or undermine it.
Trinity might be authentic, but authenticity is a luxury I can't afford.
"Excellent work, Korgan," Jessica says as the rehearsal ends. "You're really getting the feel for it. The contestants should start arriving in about an hour, so take some time to center yourself. Tonight's going to be amazing."
Amazing. Twenty-three human women competing for the attention of a domesticated orc while cameras capture every moment for public consumption. The tribal council's idea of diplomatic outreach.
I head back toward my quarters, already mentally preparing for the evening's performance. Charming but not threatening. Exotic but not alien. Different enough to be interesting, similar enough to be acceptable.
Image rehabilitation.
The scent of cinnamon follows me down the corridor, a reminder that some people create beauty while others simply perform it. That authenticity exists, even in artificial spaces.
But authenticity is dangerous when you're trying to manage perceptions, control narratives, rehabilitate reputations. The moment you let your guard down, show who you really are instead of who you need to be, everything can unravel.
I learned that lesson three years ago when I chose honor over diplomacy and destroyed any chance of peaceful resolution. I won't make that mistake again.
Tonight, I'll play the role they need me to play. Sophisticated but approachable. Dangerous enough to be exciting, civilized enough to be trustworthy.
Emotionally distant.
Because the mission matters more than whatever Trinity Lewis represents, and I can't afford to forget that again.
Even if she does smell like cinnamon and move like someone who's never doubted her place in the world.
Especially then.