Chapter Three
Jordan
The National Guard waves us through the checkpoint, and suddenly we’re inside the Zone.
It looks nothing like I expected. I’d pictured a bombed-out post-apocalyptic war zone, but the streets have character—murals splashed across brick walls, small gardens squeezed between buildings, the warm glow of lights in apartment windows.
A neighborhood that’s learned to thrive despite the circumstances.
The firehouse sits on a corner lot, its red brick facade clean and well-maintained.
Through the open bay doors, I can see fire engines gleaming under industrial lights.
People are already gathering in what looks like a converted apparatus bay, and my stomach clenches with the realization that I’m actually doing this.
“Riley, you can do this without me, right? I’ll come pick you up when—”
“Nope.” She grabs my arm. “We’re doing this. Together. Remember, you’re just here for moral support. No pressure other than staying awake through awkward five-minute meet and greets.”
The moment we step inside, I’m hit by the organized chaos of the setup. Round tables scattered throughout the space, each with a number placard. A registration table staffed by a naga female with kind eyes and intricate braids. And Others. Lots of them.
I’d seen Others before—always on a screen, never in person. But this—being surrounded by more than a dozen at once—hits differently.
A minotaur stands near the refreshment table, his massive frame unexpectedly graceful as he arranges appetizers. The news stories were right. Minotaurs don’t seem to enjoy wearing clothes. This one isn’t wearing more than a loincloth. I can see the appeal.
Several orcs cluster near one of the fire engines, their laughter rolling through the bay as the lights catch on green skin and dark braids.
The diversity of the Others in the room is striking—scales, horns, tusks, and skin in colors that would signal sickness or death on a human, but here look fierce and alive.
“Welcome!” The turquoise-scaled naga female at registration beams at us. “First time at one of our mixers?”
“Yes,” Riley squeaks, then clears her throat and tries again with more confidence. “Yes, we’re excited to be here.”
I manage a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Looking forward to it.”
We get our name tags and table assignments, and I scan the room for exit strategies while Riley keeps putting her hands into her pockets and then nervously removes them again.
“Jordan O’Brien.” The deep voice comes from behind me, and when I turn, a massive orc is already approaching. The closer he gets, the more I have to look up—way up—to see an orc whose T-shirt proudly bears the Station 32 emblem. “I’m Chief Brokka. Welcome to Station 32.”
“Chief.” I extend my hand, trying not to stare at his tusks. His handshake is firm but careful, and when he smiles, it transforms his intimidating features into something almost paternal.
“Relax,” he says quietly, clearly reading my tension. “Everyone here is nervous. Even my guys.” He nods toward a group of orc firefighters who are standing in what can only be described as a huddle of masculine anxiety.
“That’s… oddly reassuring.”
“Good. Enjoy yourselves. And don’t let Kam convince you that his jokes are actually funny.”
Before I can ask what that means, a voice announces that the first round of speed dating is about to begin.
Riley and I separate and go to our assigned tables, where I find myself sitting across from a naga whose scales shimmer blue-green under the fluorescent lights. His name tag reads “Ssseth.”
“So,” I say, falling back on lawyer mode, “tell me about yourself.”
What follows is five minutes of stilted conversation about weather, work, and hobbies.
Ssseth is perfectly polite, but there’s zero chemistry.
The serpentine lower half of his body is fascinating from an anthropological perspective, but romantically?
Nothing. When the bell rings, I’m genuinely relieved.
My next partner is a minotaur named Bront, who immediately launches into what sounds like a rehearsed speech about his job in construction and his passion for urban farming. I nod politely and make appropriate responses, but mostly I’m thinking about how I could be home in my pajamas right now.
“The key to sustainable agriculture in urban environments,” he’s saying earnestly, “is understanding soil composition and drainage patterns.”
“Fascinating.” I manage as I slyly scan the room, looking for the mystery orc from Riley’s news clip.
The third round brings me face-to-face with an orc whose opening line is, “So a lawyer, a firefighter, and an orc walk into a speed-dating event…”
He pauses dramatically, then grins. “Sounds like the setup to a bad joke, right? Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of those.”
I blink. “That was…”
“Awful? Yeah, my mate Emma keeps telling me that about my jokes. I’m Kam, by the way.
Not actually looking for a date since I’m mated, but Chief Brokka asked me to participate to ‘even out the numbers.’” He makes air quotes with broad, black-tipped nails.
“Usually I’m over at the rec center emceeing open-mic night—this is my punishment for all the lame jokes. ”
“So you’re just here to torture people with bad stand-up?”
“Pretty much. Want to hear another one?”
Despite myself, I find my mouth twitching upward. “Hit me.”
“Why did the scarecrow get promoted?”
I arch a brow as I wait for the punchline.
“He was outstanding in his field.”
This time I actually laugh—a short, surprised bark of amusement. “That’s genuinely awful.”
“Thank you. I’ve been working on my terrible dad-joke repertoire for months. Emma says I need new material, but I think the classics never go out of style.”
When the bell rings, I’m almost disappointed. Kam’s jokes may be bad, but at least they’re not about soil drainage.
The fourth round pairs me with another orc—dark braids hanging far past his broad shoulders, ink curling in leafed patterns over green skin, and careful amber eyes. His name tag reads “Forge,” and unlike my previous partners, he doesn’t immediately launch into a conversation.
“Hi,” I say as he settles into his chair.
“Hello,” he responds quietly. Heat rolls off him across the narrow table, soap and smoke threading the air.
He looks like he’s having about as much fun as I am, which is to say none at all. There’s something almost painful about his obvious discomfort, like a warrior trapped at a tea party.
“You look like you’re questioning every life choice that led you here,” I observe.
His eyes widen slightly. “Is it that obvious?” His voice is a low, warm rumble that does ridiculous things to my heartbeat.
“The expression of barely concealed panic? Yeah, it’s pretty clear.” I lean back in my chair. “I’m Jordan. And you’re clearly wondering what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
“Forge,” he says, and I catch the hint of surprise in his voice, like he didn’t expect honest conversation. “And yes, that’s accurate.”
“What’s your story? Let me guess—your buddies convinced you this would be fun?”
“Something like that. You?”
“Best friend needed moral support for her quest to find her soulmate among your colleagues.”
We look at each other for a moment, and I realize this is the first genuine conversation I’ve had all evening. He’s not trying to impress me with urban farming knowledge or torture me with dad jokes. He’s just… talking to me like I’m a person.
“How’s that going for her?” he asks.
I glance over at her, and although I can’t see her facial expression, her slumped shoulders tell me all I need to know. “About as well as your evening, I’m guessing.”
A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “And you?”
“Well, I’ve learned more about soil composition than I ever wanted to know, been subjected to scarecrow puns, and had one guy tell me his ideal first date would be visiting a mushroom farm.”
“A mushroom farm?”
“Apparently they’re ‘fascinating ecosystems that demonstrate the interconnectedness of all living things.’” I use air quotes as I mimic his earnest tone.
He smiles, and it transforms his entire face. “That must have been Rakk. Try working with him on twenty-four-hour shifts.”
His careful, nervous expression melts away, revealing a warmth that feels unguarded, even a little playful. The tension in my stomach uncoils, and I’m suddenly, stupidly aware of the way his amber eyes catch the light, glowing with a spark that makes me want to lean closer—even though I shouldn’t.
“Did you find it… educational?” he asks diplomatically.
“Very. Though I must admit, your colleague Kam’s terrible jokes were actually a highlight.”
“Kam’s jokes are legendary. In the worst possible way.”
The bell rings before either of us can say more, but as he stands to move to the next table, I find myself wishing I had five more minutes with him.
“Good luck with the rest of this, Forge.”
It’s the first time I’ve used anyone’s name all evening, and something flickers in his expression—surprise, maybe, and a flash of pleased relief.
The final round with a handsome wolven is so painful, my cheek muscles hurt from fake enthusiasm. How many times in five minutes can one male lamely hit on one woman?
By the time the bell frees me, my face hurts from smiling. Riley finds me by the refreshment table, her expression as deflated as mine.
“Well?” I ask.
“Train wreck,” she says flatly. “Complete and utter fiasco. I did not see my orc from the clip. I did get a minotaur—Bront—who spent five minutes on soil composition and crop rotation.”
“Ah, you met the urban farming enthusiast.”
“You got him, too?”
“Round two. Very… passionate about sustainable agriculture.”
Before I can respond, Chief Brokka’s voice interrupts the din.
“Ladies and gentlemen! We’re going to shake things up with our Appetizer Challenge!”