Chapter 3 #3
"Learning six languages is the opposite of weak. It's like intellectual weightlifting. Your brain probably has muscles my brain doesn't even know exist."
"An interesting analogy."
"I'm serious. Do you know how many people struggle with one language their entire lives? You're out here collecting them like Pokemon cards."
That almost-smile flickers across his face again, and the bass resonance in his voice shifts to something warmer.
"Pokemon cards?"
"You know, gotta catch 'em all? Please tell me you've encountered Pokemon during your cultural immersion research."
"I may have observed the phenomenon in passing."
"May have observed." I grin and settle deeper into his couch. It's surprisingly comfortable, worn leather that molds to fit. "You totally know what Pokemon are."
"Perhaps."
"Which one's your favorite?"
"I fail to see the relevance—"
"Come on. Everyone has a favorite Pokemon. It's like a law of cultural assimilation."
He considers this seriously, like I've posed an important philosophical question.
"Alakazam," he says finally.
"The psychic type? Of course you'd pick the one that's basically a walking brain."
"Intelligence-based abilities seem more practical than elemental manipulation."
"See? Intellectual weightlifting. I bet your family doesn't know you could probably memorize their entire oral history in three different dialects."
"Four, actually."
"Four dialects. Jesus, Ursak. You're like a walking cultural preservation society."
"That is not how most orcs would describe academic pursuits."
"Most orcs probably don't understand that preserving culture requires someone who can actually speak to other cultures. Translation is bridge-building."
He goes very still, coffee mug halfway to his lips.
"I had not considered that perspective."
"Really? Because it seems obvious. How do you share orcish stories with humans if nobody speaks both languages? How do you make sure cultural knowledge doesn't get lost or misunderstood?"
"Traditional orcish oral tradition relies on internal preservation. Knowledge passed from generation to generation within the community."
"But what happens when communities get separated? When people move or immigrate or..." I gesture around his apartment. "When someone ends up studying linguistics in a London flat because that's where the academic opportunities are?"
"Cultural dilution. Loss of authentic tradition."
"Or cultural expansion. Evolution. Growth." I lean forward, warming to the topic. "Your family thinks you're rejecting orcish culture, but you're actually becoming a bridge. Someone who can carry orcish perspectives into human academic spaces and bring human knowledge back to orcish communities."
"You believe academic integration serves cultural preservation?"
"I believe adaptation is survival. And survival isn't betrayal. It's courage."
The silence stretches between us, but it doesn't feel uncomfortable. More like he's processing something significant, turning my words over in his mind.
"Your blog post about maintaining cultural identity while assimilating into new communities," he says finally. "Personal experience?"
"My family immigrated from Colombia when I was eight. Spent my teenage years trying to understand out how to be Colombian enough for my grandparents and American enough for my classmates."
"And now?"
"Now I write about city living and pretend I have my shit figured out." I take a sip of coffee, surprised by how easy it is to talk to him. "Most days I feel like I'm translating between different versions of myself."
"Translation as identity navigation."
"Exactly. Except you're doing it with six languages and probably dealing with way more complicated cultural expectations."
"Orcish family structures can be intense."
"Intense how?"
"Hierarchical. Traditional. Resistant to change." He sets down the coffee mug and runs a hand through his hair, disturbing the neat knot. "My exile was... official."
Exile. The word hits like cold water.
"They kicked you out?"
"Formally severed familial ties due to incompatible life choices."
"Jesus, Ursak. I'm sorry."
"It was necessary for academic advancement. University programs require geographic flexibility."
He says it like it's a simple calculation, but I catch the way his voice goes carefully neutral. The same tone I use when explaining to my mother why I don't have a "real job" yet.
"Necessary doesn't make it easy."
"No. It does not."
We sit with that for a moment, pondering the families who don't understand choices that feel essential to survival. The quiet in his apartment feels different now—not just peaceful, but carefully constructed. Like he's built this orderly space as a bulwark against chaos.
"Is that why you practice so much? The linguistic exercises?"
"Partially. Visa requirements demand demonstrated proficiency. But also..." He pauses, considering his words. "Maintaining linguistic precision provides structure. Control over variables that can be mastered through effort."
"Unlike visa renewals and family acceptance."
"Indeed."
I understand that impulse completely. The need to excel at something measurable when everything else feels unpredictable. It's why I obsess over blog post research and deadline management. Control the controllable, survive the chaos.
"For what it's worth, your English is better than most native speakers I know."
"That is kind of you to say."
"It's not kindness, it's observation. You use words like 'geographical flexibility' and 'acoustic phenomena' in casual conversation. Most people can barely string together a coherent sentence at midnight."
"Precision aids comprehension."
"Precision aids everything. Trust me, I edit for a living."
His expression shifts to something that might be pleased, and the bass undertone in his voice warms again.
"You enjoy editing?"
"I love editing. There's something satisfying about taking messy thoughts and making them clear. Finding the exact right word for what someone's trying to express."
"Like translation."
"Exactly like translation. Except instead of moving between languages, I'm moving between what people think they want to say and what they actually mean."
"An essential skill."
"Yeah, well, tell that to every client who thinks editing is just spell-check with attitude."
"I imagine your expertise extends far beyond spell-check."
"You'd be surprised how many people don't know the difference between editing and proofreading. Or between copyediting and developmental editing. Or—" I stop myself before launching into a full rant about editorial terminology. "Sorry. Professional pet peeve."
"Professional passion," he corrects. "There is a distinction."
"Most people don't see it that way."
"Most people lack appreciation for linguistic precision."
Coming from anyone else, that would sound pretentious. From Ursak, delivered in his careful, measured tone, it sounds like simple truth.
"Speaking of linguistic precision," I say, "what's with the Shakespeare? I mean, I get the academic value, but why tragedy at midnight?"
His ears twitch, and I swear his skin darkens slightly.
"The emotional intensity aids memorization. Heightened dramatic language requires greater vocal control."
"Uh-huh. And it has nothing to do with the fact that Hamlet is basically about someone who can't exist in a world that doesn't make sense to him?"
The silence that follows is telling.
"Perhaps there are... thematic resonances," he admits finally.
"Perhaps. Right." I grin and finish my coffee. "Well, for future reference, Much Ado About Nothing has just as much linguistic complexity with significantly less existential despair."
"I shall consider the recommendation."
"Good. Because if I'm going to be your involuntary audience, I'd prefer comedy to tragedy."
"Noted."
I check my phone and realize it's nearly 1 AM. The night has disappeared while we talked, and I still have an article to finish before morning. But leaving feels wrong somehow, like walking out in the middle of a movie just when it's getting interesting.
"I should probably head back," I say without moving from the couch.
"Of course. Thank you for the coffee. And the conversation."
"Thank you for not being a complete asshole about the noise complaint."
"Thank you for not calling the police immediately."
"I considered it. But you wrote such a polite note."
"Courtesy seemed the appropriate initial approach."
"It was. Most people would have just ignored the complaint and kept practicing."
"Most people do not understand the value of neighborly cooperation."
I stand up, stretching muscles that have relaxed more than I realized. His apartment feels familiar now, comfortable in a way that surprises me.
"So, soundproofing research tomorrow?"
"I shall investigate options and costs."
"And I'll look into contractors. Maybe we can get quotes by the weekend."
"An efficient timeline."
"I'm motivated by the promise of uninterrupted sleep."
"And I am motivated by the prospect of unrestricted practice hours."
"Perfect. Mutual motivation."
I head toward the door, then pause.
"Ursak?"
"Yes?"
"For what it's worth, I think your family's wrong. About the weak and impractical thing."
"I appreciate the sentiment."
"It's not sentiment. It's professional opinion. Anyone who can master six languages and help people navigate bureaucratic nightmares through blog posts is pretty much the opposite of weak."
Something shifts in his expression, surprise giving way to something softer.
"Thank you, Maya."
"Thank you for reading my ridiculous blog."
"It is not ridiculous. It is quite helpful."
"Same thing, really."
I slip back into the hallway, closing his door behind me. The walk to 4C takes about thirty seconds, but something fundamental has shifted in that short distance.
My nightmare neighbor isn't a nightmare anymore.
He's just Ursak. Who practices Shakespeare for emotional regulation and reads lifestyle blogs for cultural immersion and got kicked out of his family for choosing academia over tradition.
Who makes excellent conversation at 1 AM and says my name like it matters.
Huh.
Maybe this soundproofing partnership won't be purely practical after all.