Chapter 7 Stone
STONE
Darius dumps the stack of etiquette books on my kitchen counter with a thud that rattles my carefully arranged spice jars.
"You asked for help. This is help."
I read the titles. Modern Manners for the Professional. The Art of Small Talk. Dining Etiquette: A Complete Guide.
"I cook for a living. I know how to eat."
"You eat like you're starving in a warzone." He flips open the top book, pointing to a diagram of fork placement. "It’s different between knowing how to eat and knowing how to dine."
My jaw tightens. Three days since the online explosion. Three days of watching Lacy field questions about whether she's "safe" around me, whether the bookstore should maintain its grant funding with "controversial staffing choices." Three days of being the problem she has to solve.
I need to be less of a problem.
"Show me."
Darius grins. "Now we're talking."
He sets my table like it's a fancy restaurant. Forks on the left, knife and spoon on the right, napkin folded into some origami nonsense that looks like a bird having a seizure.
"Napkin goes in your lap immediately. Not tucked into your collar like a bib."
"Why?"
"Because that's the rule."
"Stupid rule."
"Welcome to human society." He sits across from me, demonstrating proper posture. Straight back, elbows off the table, hands folded when not actively eating. "Small bites. Chew with your mouth closed. Wait for everyone to be served before you start."
I practice. Cut imaginary meat into precise portions. Bring fork to mouth without hunching over the plate like I'm defending territory. It feels performative and ridiculous, but I force myself through the motions.
"Better." Darius watches with the critical eye of someone who actually cares about this stuff. "Now conversation. When someone asks how you are, you say?"
"Fine."
"Good. Simple. Don't launch into your actual feelings or detailed health updates."
"What's the point of asking then?"
"It's not actually a question. It's a greeting disguised as concern." He leans back, crossing his arms. "When they talk about the weather, you agree it's nice or comment briefly. You don't explain meteorological patterns or compare it to the northern territories."
"That happened once."
"It happened three times last week." But he's smiling. "Look, I get it. Your people value directness. Honesty. Substance over ritual. But humans use these little dances to establish comfort and trust. Master the dance, earn the trust."
I nod slowly, hating how much sense it makes. How much I need to reshape myself to fit their world.
After Darius leaves, I practice in front of my bathroom mirror. Smiling with my mouth closed so my tusks don't show as prominently. Moderating my volume. Testing phrases.
"How are you?" Pause. "Fine, thanks. And you?"
"Lovely weather we're having."
"Yes, quite pleasant."
The words taste wrong. Too small, too careful, too bland. But if bland keeps Lacy safe from scrutiny, I'll learn to be the most boring orc this city has ever pretended to tolerate.
Racks of human clothing at the thrift store hang in sizes that will never fit properly across my shoulders or accommodate the breadth of my chest.
The clerk, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a nervous smile, approaches cautiously.
"Can I help you find something?"
"Suit." I keep my voice gentle, non-threatening. "For business."
"Oh. Well." She surveys me like I'm a particularly challenging Tetris piece. "We don't usually stock but let me check the back."
She returns with three options. All black or gray. All requiring significant alterations that she assures me her sister can handle for an extra fee I can't really afford.
I choose the least offensive option. Try it on in a changing room clearly designed for someone half my size, emerging to examine myself in the three-way mirror.
The jacket pulls across my shoulders. The pants stop short of my ankles. The collar button won't close around my neck without choking me.
"Very professional," the clerk lies kindly.
I look like a child playing dress-up in adult clothes. Or an orc trying desperately to cosplay as human and failing at every seam.
But maybe that's enough. Maybe the attempt matters more than the execution.
I buy the suit.
The fundraiser isn't on my calendar. Wasn't mentioned during our hurried phone call this morning when Lacy explained she had back-to-back meetings about the grant review and couldn't meet for lunch.
I learn about it from a social media clip that autoplays while I'm scrolling through my feed, searching for the latest damage from our viral moment.
The video shows Lacy in a blue dress I've never seen. Hair styled differently, makeup careful and deliberate. She looks polished in a way that makes my chest tighten with something between admiration and unease.
She's smiling at Evan.
He's touching her elbow, leaning in to whisper something that makes her laugh. The caption reads: Local business leaders gather to discuss sustainable growth initiatives. #CommunityFirst #SmallBusinessSupport
I watch it three times.
Each viewing adds another detail I don't want to see. The familiar ease between them. The way he guides her through the crowd like he owns both the room and her presence in it. How she doesn't pull away.
My phone alerts. Darius.
Dude. Don't do anything stupid.
Too late. I'm already grabbing my keys, shoving my feet into boots, heading for the door.
The venue is downtown, all glass and modern architecture that makes me feel like a boulder someone left on a chess board. Security eyes me as I approach, hands moving subtly toward weapons they probably shouldn't need at a business fundraiser.
"I'm with someone inside." My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"Name?"
"Stone Venn."
They exchange glances. One types something into a tablet, frowning.
"You're not on the list."
"Check again."
"Sir, if you're not registered, I can't let you in."
Through the glass walls, I spot them. Lacy and Evan at a high-top table, surrounded by people in expensive clothes making expensive conversation. She's nodding at something a woman in pearls is saying, but her smile looks tight. Practiced.
Evan's hand rests on the small of her back.
Something hot and stupid floods my chest. The kind of anger that doesn't think, just acts.
I push past security.
"Sir! Stop!"
But I'm already through the doors, crossing the polished floor with footsteps that echo like thunder in the carefully curated space. Conversations pause. Heads turn. Someone gasps.
I don't care.
"Lacy."
She spins, eyes going wide. "Stone? What are you doing here?"
"Could ask you the same thing." I glare at Evan, who's watching with an expression I want to introduce to my fist. "Thought you had meetings."
"I do. This is one of them." Her voice is low, urgent, embarrassed. "Stone, you can't just—"
"Can't just what? Show up uninvited like some kind of spectacle?" The words come out bitter, louder than I mean them. "That what I am to you? The project you handle in private while you smile pretty for him in public?"
"That's not fair."
"Fair? You want to talk about fair?" I'm aware of phones lifting, cameras focusing, but the anger has me now and won't let go. "I'm wearing this ridiculous suit trying to be small enough for your world, and you're here with the guy who wants you to erase me completely."
Evan steps forward, all smooth confidence and territorial posturing. "I think you should leave."
"I think you should take your hand off her."
"Stone." Lacy's voice cracks slightly. "Please. Not here."
"Where then?" I spread my arms, suit jacket straining across my shoulders. "Where am I allowed to matter? Your apartment after dark? Your back room when no one's watching? Where do I fit in the version of your life that looks good for the cameras?"
Her face goes pale. Around us, the crowd has formed a loose circle, phones out, capturing every awful second.
Security arrives, three of them this time. Hands on my arms, pulling me back.
"Don't touch me." I shake them off, not violently but firmly enough that they stumble.
More gasps. More phones.
"Sir, you need to come with us."
Lacy's eyes are shining with tears she won't let fall. Not here. Not in front of these people who are already judging every choice she makes.
"I'll go." I straighten, pulling what's left of my dignity around me like armor. "Wouldn't want to embarrass you further."
I turn and walk out. The crowd parts like I'm contagious.
Behind me, I hear Evan's smooth voice already doing damage control. "So sorry about that. You know how these placements can be. Cultural differences and all."
The night air hits my face like a slap.
My phone is already blowing up before I reach my car.
The first video posts within minutes. Someone with quick editing skills and a talent for narrative manipulation.
The clip opens mid-confrontation, cutting out any context. Just me, huge and angry, looming over Lacy while she looks frightened. Evan positioned protectively between us, the hero of the moment.
"Take your hand off her," my voice booms, sounding threatening without the explanation of what I was actually responding to.
Cut to me shaking off security, the gesture looking violent instead of defensive.
Cut to Lacy's stricken face, tears threatening.
The caption: Orc placement worker confronts ex-girlfriend at fundraiser. Is the integration program putting humans at risk?
Within an hour, it's everywhere.
#OrcAggression trends locally. Councilwoman Blair retweets it with commentary about "concerning patterns" and "public safety."
The comments section fills with exactly what you'd expect. Calls to end the placement program. Speculation about Lacy's judgment. Demands for my immediate removal from the city.
A few defend me, pointing out the edited nature of the clip. But they're drowned out by the chorus of voices who've been waiting for exactly this kind of ammunition.
My phone rings. Darius.
"Tell me you didn't."
"I did."