Chapter 1 #2
I close the ledger and stare at the ceiling. There's a water stain shaped like a duck. Or maybe a cloud. Or maybe nothing at all and my brain is just desperate to find patterns in chaos.
Loneliness sits in my chest like a stone.
Not the sad kind. The waiting kind. The this will get better kind.
I hope.
Morning comes with someone's alarm bleeding through the walls. I'm up before it stops. Old habits. Orc encampments don't have snooze buttons.
I dress. Splash water on my face from the tiny sink in the corner. Avoid looking at myself in the mirror because mornings are hard enough without confronting my reflection.
The packet arrived last night. Slipped under my door while I was attempting to organize spices in alphabetical order and giving up halfway through.
Thick envelope. Official seal. City Cultural Integration Office stamped across the front.
I open it over breakfast. Which is three apples and a hunk of bread I bought from a corner vendor who looked alarmed when I asked for the whole loaf.
The first page is a welcome letter. Standard stuff. Congratulations on your placement. We're excited to have you. Please review the attached guidelines.
I flip to the guidelines.
Do maintain a respectful demeanor at all times.
Do not engage in displays of excessive strength or aggression.
Do remember you represent your entire species.
That last one sits heavy. I read it twice. Three times.
I represent my entire species. Every orc who wants to live in a city. Every orc who's tired of being stereotyped. Every orc who just wants to make soup without someone assuming it's made from human bones.
No pressure.
The second page lists my assignment. Cross-Cultural Placement Program. Small Business Support Initiative. I'll be paired with a local shop. Help out. Learn the ropes. Show everyone that orcs can be helpful instead of terrifying.
The name of the business is printed in bold.
Ellis Books & Brews.
A bookshop. With coffee.
I gawk at the words. Read them again. Let them settle.
A bookshop.
My chest does something complicated. Relief. Excitement. Terror.
Books I understand. Books make sense. They have beginnings and middles and ends. They don't expect you to be charming. They just expect you to turn the page.
Coffee is trickier. I've burned water. I've turned scrambled eggs into rubber. I once made tea so strong it dissolved the spoon.
But I can learn. I'm good at learning. That's the whole point.
There's a knock at my door.
I shove the papers aside. Stand. Duck slightly because the ceiling is lower than it should be and I've already hit my head twice.
The man on the other side is human. Tall for a human. Lean. Sharp-dressed in a way that makes my secondhand coat feel like a burlap sack. His hair is dark, swept back. His eyes are darker. Assessing.
"Stone Venn?"
"That's me."
He extends a hand. I shake it. His grip is firm. Practiced.
"Darius Kincaid. City cultural liaison. I'm here to make sure you don't accidentally destroy anything important in your first week."
I blink. "Destroy?"
"Metaphorically." He steps inside without waiting for an invitation. Looks around. Takes in the cramped space, the crates still half-unpacked, the ledger open on my makeshift desk. "Though I've seen it go literal. Orc last year put his fist through a wall trying to hang a picture frame."
"I wasn't planning on hanging any pictures."
"Smart." He turns, leans against the desk. Crosses his arms. "Let's talk about keeping the orc image gentle."
"Gentle."
"Approachable. Non-threatening. The kind of orc people want to buy coffee from, not run screaming from."
I cross my arms. Mirror his posture. "I'm not planning on threatening anyone."
"Good. But it's not about what you plan. It's about what they perceive." He tilts his head, studying me. "You know how to fold a map?"
The question throws me. "What?"
"A map. Do you know how to fold one? Properly. So it actually fits back in your pocket."
"I lost my map."
"Exactly." He produces one from his jacket. Unfolds it with a snap. "Step one. Pay attention. Step two. Follow the creases. Step three. Don't just wad it up and hope for the best."
He demonstrates. Slow. Deliberate. The map collapses into a neat rectangle that slides into his palm.
"Your turn."
He hands it to me. I unfold it. Stare at the creases. Try to replicate his movements.
It takes three attempts. On the fourth, I manage something that resembles the original shape.
"Better," Darius says. "Now queuing."
"Queuing?"
"Standing in line. Waiting your turn. Humans are very particular about it. You can't just barge to the front because you're bigger."
"I know that."
"Do you? Because I've had six complaints this month about orcs who 'didn't understand the system.'" He makes air quotes. They're sarcastic and pointed. "So let's review. You see a line. You join the back. You wait. You don't huff or sigh or make comments about how slow things are moving."
"Even if they are slow?"
"Especially if they are slow." He pushes off the desk.