3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Riona
The morning rain catches me by surprise.
I’ve been so focused on my math lesson that I didn’t notice the dark clouds gathering until the first heavy drops hit the classroom windows. My kindergartners immediately abandon their counting bears, rushing to press their faces against the glass.
“Rain, rain!” Tyler shouts, as if announcing a celebrity sighting. “Can we go outside and splash?”
“Not today, friends,” I laugh, gently guiding them back to their seats. “Inside recess today.”
A collective groan rises from twenty-three disappointed five-year-olds. I sympathize. After two hours of focused learning, they need to burn energy. Contained indoors, they’ll be bouncing off the walls by lunchtime.
“We can still have fun inside,” I promise, already mentally rearranging the day’s schedule. “Let’s finish our math centers, then we’ll have some special movement games.”
As they reluctantly return to their counting activities, I glance toward the door where Vraag has been standing for the past hour. Just a few days into his assignment at our school, and he’s already become a fixture in my classroom.
Vraag meets my gaze, and I realize I’ve been staring. He raises one eyebrow slightly in question.
“I’ve decided to have indoor recess because of the rain.”
He processes this information with his usual seriousness. “Confined space. Increased activity. Potential security challenge.”
I bite back a smile. “That’s one way to put it. I call it organized chaos.”
“Organized chaos,” he repeats, as if adding the term to his mental vocabulary.
I turn back to my students and circulate through the math centers. I'm aware of him without needing to look—which is its own small problem I've decided not to examine before noon.
By the time we’ve finished math centers, the rain has intensified. Sheets of water cascade down the windows as distant thunder rumbles. Perfect weather for a nap, not for containing twenty-three energetic kindergartners.
“Alright, friends! Circle time!” I announce with forced enthusiasm. “We’re going to play some movement games.”
As they scamper to the carpet, I notice Vraag shifting his position, moving to the wider side of the room. He’s anticipating their need for space, another example of his surprisingly astute understanding of classroom dynamics.
“First game is Simon Says,” I explain once they’re seated. “Remember, you only follow the direction if I say ‘Simon says’ first.”
We begin with simple commands: touch your nose, pat your head, stand on one foot. The children giggle as they follow along, their earlier disappointment forgotten.
“Simon says touch your toes!” I watch as twenty-three little bodies bend forward.
“Simon says hop like a bunny!” Giggles erupt as they bounce around.
“Simon says freeze like a statue!” Everyone goes still, some in comically awkward positions.
“Clap your hands!” I call out without the crucial prefix.
Five children immediately clap before realizing their mistake. The rest grin triumphantly at avoiding the trap.
“Ohhh!” Tyler groans dramatically. “I forgot to listen!”
“Simon says… look at Mr. Vraag!”
Twenty-three heads swivel toward him in perfect unison. He stiffens slightly, clearly not expecting to become part of the activity.
“Simon says… wave to Mr. Vraag!”
Small hands enthusiastically flap in his direction. He goes very still for a moment, watching them.
“Simon says… show Mr. Vraag your scariest monster face!”
The children contort their features into exaggerated growls and grimaces. To my delight, Vraag responds with a solemn nod of assessment.
“Acceptable intimidation tactics,” he comments, loud enough for them to hear. “Though stance improvement would increase effectiveness.”
The children dissolve into giggles, thrilled by his participation. Emboldened, I continue.
“Simon says… ask Mr. Vraag to play with us!”
“Play with us, Mr. Vraag!” they chorus, bouncing with excitement.
I turn to him with my best innocent smile. “Simon says, Mr. Vraag play with us.”
For a moment, he seems genuinely alarmed, his gaze darting from me to the expectant children and back. I’m about to let him off the hook when he straightens his shoulders and steps forward.
“Basic training states participation enhances unit cohesion,” he says, as if explaining his decision to an invisible superior officer.
The children cheer as he joins our circle, carefully positioning himself where his size won’t overwhelm them. Something inside me softens.
“Simon says jump as high as you can!” I call, returning to our game.
The children leap enthusiastically, arms stretched overhead. Vraag makes a small, controlled hop that nonetheless causes a noticeable vibration on the floor. The children burst into delighted laughter.
“Again! Again!” they chant.
“Simon says roar like a dinosaur!”
The classroom fills with high-pitched dinosaur impressions. Vraag remains silent, watching them with a raised eyebrow.
“Mr. Vraag isn’t doing it!” Tyler points out accusingly.
“Accurate observation,” Vraag responds solemnly. “Command specified dinosaur vocalization. Dinosaurs are extinct Earth reptiles with unknown vocalization patterns. Scientific accuracy precludes participation.”
Tyler tilts his head to the side, total confusion on his face.
“What?” Tyler looks back and forth between me and Vraag.
I burst out laughing. “He’s got you there, Tyler. He said that dinosaurs don’t exist anymore, so he can’t make a sound that no one has heard before.”
“Simon says roar like an orc!” someone shouts.
For one long beat, nothing happens. Then Vraag exhales through his nose, something shifts in his expression, and the sound that comes out of him fills the room.
I feel the roar before I hear it—a vibration in my sternum, my back teeth, the soles of my feet. Then the sound arrives and the windows shudder in their frames. Then it’s gone. In its wake: a single alphabet magnet sliding off the whiteboard. The letter Q hits the tile with a small, feeble plink.
The sound, his roar, does something to me I’m not prepared for. Heat moves through my chest and settles somewhere lower. I have about two seconds to decide whether to examine that or absolutely not.
I choose not.
The children have fallen instantly silent, their eyes huge with awe.
“That. Was. AWESOME!” Jackson finally exclaims, breaking the spell. The classroom erupts into excited chatter as well as amateur attempts to replicate the sound.
I notice Vraag watching me, something like uncertainty in his expression. I give him an encouraging smile, hoping he understands how much his participation means to the children… and to me.
“Friends, let’s take a quick water break,” I announce, “and then we’ll play a new game.”
As the children scatter to their water bottles, I approach Vraag.
“Thank you for playing along,” I say. “You’ve made their day.”
“Integration Protocol 23 encourages participation in cultural activities,” he responds, though I’m beginning to recognize this formal explanation pattern as his way of justifying actions that feel natural but don’t fit his professional self-image.
“Is that really an orc battle sound?” I ask.
He shakes his head slightly. “Modified and minimized. An actual StoneWatch war call would be inappropriate for an educational setting.”
“I’d like to hear the real version sometime,” I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes widen slightly, then soften—and my heart kicks harder in my chest. “That would be… unconventional.”
“Perhaps I’m more curious about orc culture than the average human,” I admit.
He studies me for a moment, and I resist the urge to fidget under his intense gaze.
“Noted,” he finally says, and though his expression remains neutral, there’s a warmth in his voice that wasn’t there before.
The children come back from their water break in a rush, and the rest of indoor recess dissolves into noise and movement. By lunch the rain has slowed to a drizzle.
My attention snags on Vraag as he helps Theo find his place in line.
“Lunch formation requires proper position maintenance,” I hear him say, tone grave. “Your assigned location is three spots from the front.”
Theo, who normally struggles with line formation, nods solemnly and takes his place without protest.
The sight catches me off guard. I look away before I can linger on it, or on what it stirs.
Professional boundaries exist for a reason, especially with someone I work with every day.
And there’s another reason, quieter and less convenient, that I’m not going to examine in the middle of a school day.
After delivering my class to the cafeteria, I head to the teachers' lounge.
“So, Riona,” Janet from first grade slides into the chair beside me, her expression alight with curiosity, “what’s it like having the orc stationed in your classroom all day?”
Several heads turn our way, clearly interested in our exchange, though pretending otherwise.
“He’s very professional,” I say carefully. “The children have adapted to his presence remarkably well.”
“I bet they have,” Janet says with a knowing smile. “But what about you? I mean, he’s quite… substantial.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks as I register her suggestive tone. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but Mr. Vraag is our security specialist. He’s doing his job, and I’m doing mine.”
“Of course, of course,” she backpedals, though her smile remains. “Just making conversation. It’s not every day we get such an… impressive addition to our staff.”
I’m saved from responding by the lounge door opening. Conversation halts as Vraag himself enters. The teachers’ lounge, crowded with eight humans, suddenly feels half its size.
He notices the stares but gives no indication of discomfort. With methodical movements, he retrieves his lunch bag from a shelf too high for any of us to reach without a ladder.
“Mr. Vraag,” I call, ignoring Janet’s knowing smirk, “would you like to join us?” I gesture to the empty chair at our table.
He hesitates, clearly assessing the social dynamics at play. “I typically consume provisions while maintaining perimeter surveillance.”
“It’s not the perimeter,” I admit, “but it’s still part of the ecosystem.”
After a moment’s consideration, he nods. “Logical suggestion.”
As he approaches our table, Janet and two other teachers suddenly remember urgent tasks elsewhere. Their hasty departures aren’t exactly subtle, and anger flares through me on Vraag’s behalf.
“Don’t take it personally,” I say quietly as he settles into the chair across from me, which creaks ominously under his weight. “They’re just…”
“Uncomfortable with orc proximity,” he finishes matter-of-factly. “A common response. Some humans adjust faster than others.”
The resignation in his voice bothers me more than I expected. “Well, they’re missing out. You’re much more interesting to talk to than Janet, who only wants to gossip about the new PE teacher.”
Something shifts in his expression—not quite a smile, but the thing just before one. “An admittedly low standard of comparison.”
I find myself watching that almost-smile with more attention than it probably deserves, cataloging the way it softens his features, how it makes the sharp edges of his tusks look less intimidating and somehow… appealing.
I laugh, surprised by the hint of humor. “Was that a joke, Mr. Vraag? I didn’t know that was allowed by Integration Protocol.”
“Protocol 37 permits appropriate workplace humor when relationship parameters are established,” he says seriously, though that almost-smile remains.
“Relationship parameters?” I echo, suddenly aware of how alone we are in the usually crowded lounge.
“Professional familiarity,” he clarifies.
Something flickers across his stoic features—humor, maybe, or satisfaction at making me laugh.
The corner of his mouth lifts just enough to reveal more of one polished tusk.
The sight sends an unexpected flutter through my chest. I’ve never paid much attention to orc tusks before, but on him, they’re oddly compelling, especially paired with those intense amber eyes currently fixed on my face with single-minded focus.
I accept his explanation on the surface.
But nothing about the way my pulse refuses to settle feels professional at all.