Chapter 2
KORGAN
The alarm sounds at five-thirty. Not the gentle chime these humans prefer, but the harsh clang I requested, but metal on metal, like a war bell. I roll from the bed they've provided, joints protesting the soft mattress. Too much give. An orc needs solid ground beneath him.
The quarters they've assigned me are larger than expected.
High ceilings, stone walls that don't feel entirely foreign.
Someone did their research, though the decorative touches still scream human attempting orc aesthetic.
Fake battle axes mounted on walls. A fur rug that's never seen a real hunt. Props for their cameras.
I pull on training gear and examine my weapons. The ceremonial sword they allow me to carry needs attention, not because I plan to use it, but because maintenance is ritual. Discipline. The blade remembers its purpose even when its bearer must play pretend.
Image rehabilitation. That's what the network executives called this assignment when they pitched it to the tribal council. As if my image needs fixing instead of their ignorant viewers needing education.
The whetstone scrapes against steel in familiar rhythm. My hands work automatically while my mind sorts through the morning's obligations. Meeting with human handlers at seven. Costume fitting at eight. Costume. They want me dressed like some court dandy instead of a warrior.
The irony burns. I spent years earning scars that mark real battles, real victories, real losses. Now I'm supposed to hide them under silk and pretend violence never shaped me.
But the tribal council's instructions were clear: Restore our standing. Show them we're more than monsters.
If you fail, someone else will try. Someone who might not remember why we need their respect.
I set down the whetstone and test the blade's edge with my thumb. Sharp enough. Everything here is performance, but some performances carry real stakes.
The skirmish that cost me everything happened three seasons ago.
Human settlement, border dispute, the usual territorial nonsense that escalates when pride meets politics.
The humans claimed we'd raided their livestock.
We claimed they'd poisoned our water source.
Both sides sent representatives to negotiate.
I was younger then. Cockier. Believed that strength alone could solve any problem.
The talks went badly. Their negotiator was soft-spoken, reasonable, everything I'd been taught to distrust in human diplomacy. When he mentioned compensation for damages, I heard theft. When he suggested "mutual oversight," I heard occupation.
So I did what any self-respecting orc would do. I challenged him to single combat.
Honorable solution, I thought. Clean. Direct.
The human delegation took it as a declaration of war.
What followed was three days of skirmishes that left two humans dead, one orc seriously wounded, and me stripped of my war-leader status for diplomatic failure.
The tribal council called it "excessive aggression.
" The human press called it "orc savagery.
" Both sides used it to justify hardening their positions.
Korgan Dongoran: the orc who proved orcs can't be trusted.
That's the reputation I'm here to fix. The producers don't know the details, they see me as exotic, dangerous, ratings gold. The tribal council sees me as expendable, useful for image work that could backfire spectacularly.
Win-win, assuming I don't screw it up again.
A knock interrupts my morning routine. Too soft to be anything but human.
"Korgan? It's Ashley. Time for your handler meeting."
Handler. As if I'm a wild animal that needs managing instead of a representative of my people who agreed to this circus for political leverage.
"Coming."
I sheath the ceremonial sword and check my appearance.
The scars are obvious. The jagged line across my left shoulder from a goblin blade, the puncture wound on my forearm from a human spear, the ritual marks carved during my coming-of-age ceremony.
They tell my story better than any introduction the producers might script.
Ashley leads me through corridors designed to look ancient but built last year. Everything here is constructed authenticity, just real enough to sell the fantasy. Like the show itself.
The production meeting room buzzes with human energy.
Jessica, the executive producer, sits at the head of a table covered in charts, schedules, and photographs of the contestants.
Two other humans I’m unfamiliar with flank her, one thin and nervous, the other broad-shouldered and confident in the way humans get when they think they understand violence.
"Korgan! Good morning." Jessica's smile is bright enough to power the overhead lights. "How are you settling in?"
"Adequately."
"Great! These are Jonah, our social coordinator, and Jussel, head of wardrobe. They're going to help prepare you for tonight's introduction ceremony."
Jonah opens a folder thick with papers. "We've compiled some guidelines for social interaction with the contestants. Cultural sensitivity, appropriate conversation topics, general etiquette expectations."
He slides a packet across the table. The cover page reads: "Human Female Courtship: A Practical Guide for Non-Human Participants."
Non-human participants. Not allies. Not equals. Participants.
"Page three covers acceptable physical contact," Jonah continues. "Page seven outlines conversation taboos. We want to avoid anything that might be perceived as threatening or overly aggressive."
I flip through the pages, scanning bullet points like "Maintain appropriate personal space (minimum 18 inches)" and "Avoid discussion of combat experience or violent conflict."
"You want me to pretend I'm not an orc."
"Not pretend," Jessica interjects smoothly. "Just... emphasize your more relatable qualities. Your gentler side."
"My gentler side."
"Everyone has one! The audience needs to see that underneath the warrior exterior, you're just a regular guy looking for love."
Jussel spreads fabric samples across the table like he's displaying weapons. "We've prepared several outfit options for tonight. The goal is sophisticated but approachable. Dangerous enough to be exciting, civilized enough to be trustworthy."
He holds up a midnight blue jacket with silver threading. "This says 'mysterious' without saying 'might eat your family.'"
"I don't eat families."
"Of course not! But the audience doesn't know that yet. We're building narrative here."
Narrative. Another word for lies dressed up as entertainment.
Jussel continues pulling clothes from garment bags. "We've also prepared more casual options for day-to-day filming. Sweaters, button-downs, slacks. Nothing too formal, but elevated from what you might usually wear."
What I usually wear is leather armor and functional clothing designed for movement, weather, and the occasional need to intimidate enemies. These clothes look like costumes for playing "Orc Pretending to Be Human."
"The fabric choices are important," Jussel explains, holding up a soft gray sweater. "Cashmere says 'I'm successful but not threatening.' Cotton says 'I'm down-to-earth.' Silk says 'I'm sophisticated but potentially dangerous.'"
"What does leather say?"
"That you're compensating for something."
Jonah coughs. "The wardrobe choices support the overall character arc we're developing. You start somewhat intimidating, then gradually reveal your softer, more vulnerable side. The clothes help tell that story."
"And if I don't have a softer, more vulnerable side?"
Jessica leans forward. "Everyone does, Korgan. That's what makes this show work. Underneath all our differences, we're all just people looking for connection."
People. She includes me in that category, which is progress. Most humans still debate whether orcs qualify as people or particularly clever animals.
"The contestants arriving tonight represent different backgrounds, professions, personalities," Jonah adds. "Your job is to find common ground with each of them. Discover what you have in common beyond the obvious differences."
I think about the files they showed me earlier. Twenty-three human women, ages twenty-two to thirty-four. Teachers, doctors, artists, business owners. All volunteers for this elaborate mating ritual disguised as entertainment.
One file caught my attention: Trinity Lewis, baker from Maine. Her audition video was awkward, earnest, completely lacking the polished performance quality of the others. She talked about cinnamon rolls and seemed genuinely surprised that anyone would want to hear her opinions.
Authenticity, the producers called it. She's real.
As if the others aren't real, just better at hiding it.
"Any questions about tonight's format?" Jessica asks.
"I stand in a room while women parade past me?"
"More or less. You'll have brief conversations with each contestant, maybe thirty to forty seconds. First impressions are crucial."
Thirty seconds to determine compatibility with a potential mate. Humans have strange courtship rituals.
Jussel starts packing the fabric samples. "We'll need you in wardrobe at four for final fitting. Hair and makeup at five-thirty."
"Makeup."
"Just basic camera prep. Even the shine off your forehead."
Makeup. As if my face needs improvement for human consumption.
"The ceremony starts at eight," Jessica adds. "Ashley will escort you when it's time. Any other concerns?"
I consider mentioning that this entire setup feels like elaborate theater designed to make my people look foolish.
That every guideline and suggestion reinforces human superiority while pretending to celebrate difference.
That I'm sacrificing personal dignity for political necessity and wondering if the trade is worth it.
Instead, I say, "No concerns."
"Excellent! Remember, Korgan, tonight is about first impressions. Show them who you really are."