What do you even talk about with human women? My woodworking? My job? The fact that I can craft intricate furniture by hand but get tongue-tied trying to order coffee?
By the time I’m dressed in clean clothes—jeans and a button-down shirt that Thrall assures me makes me look “approachable”—I’ve talked myself into and out of going at least six times.
“Ready, rookie?” Kam appears in the doorway, all easy confidence and barely suppressed amusement.
“No.”
“Perfect. That’s the spirit we’re looking for.”
“I don’t understand why this is necessary,” I gripe, following him back toward the main area of the firehouse. “If it’s about community relations, wouldn’t Chief Brokka be better suited—”
“Chief Brokka is married and expecting a baby,” Kam interrupts. “Besides, this isn’t about official community relations. It’s about you learning that humans aren’t some alien species you can only interact with during emergencies.”
“They might as well be.”
“That’s exactly the attitude that’s going to make tonight so entertaining.”
I’m starting to seriously consider the food-poisoning excuse when Ryder appears, looking about as enthusiastic as I feel. At least I won’t be suffering alone.
“Gentlemen,” Chief Brokka calls out, gathering the group. “Remember, you’re representing Station 32 tonight. Be respectful, be yourselves, and try not to terrify anyone.”
“No promises,” I mutter, which earns me a punch in the arm from Thrall.
“You’ll be fine,” he says. “Just remember—they’re probably more nervous than you are.”
Somehow, I doubt that. But as we head toward the apparatus bay, where someone has already started setting up tables anddecorations, I force myself to focus on the one thing that’s gotten me through every challenge in my life: taking it one step at a time.
Three hours. I can face fire. I can face this.
Just show up, survive, and get out in one piece.
Chapter Three
Jordan
The National Guard waves us through the checkpoint, and suddenly we’re inside the Zone. It looks nothing like I expected. I’d pictured a bombed-out post-apocalyptic war zone, but the streets have character—murals splashed across brick walls, small gardens squeezed between buildings, the warm glow of lights in apartment windows. A neighborhood that’s learned to thrive despite the circumstances.
“See? Not so scary,” Riley says as we approach Station 32. She talks a good game, but her voice has a nervous tremor that suggests she’s trying to convince herself as much as me.
The firehouse sits on a corner lot, its red brick facade clean and well-maintained. Through the open bay doors, I can see fire engines gleaming under industrial lights. People are alreadygathering in what looks like a converted apparatus bay, and my stomach clenches with the realization that I’m actually doing this.
“Riley, you can do this without me, right? I’ll come pick you up when—”
“Nope.” She grabs my arm. “We’re doing this. Together. Remember, you’re just here for moral support. No pressure other than staying awake through awkward five-minute meet and greets.”
The moment we step inside, I’m hit by the organized chaos of the setup. Round tables scattered throughout the space, each with a number placard. A registration table staffed by a naga female with kind eyes and intricate braids. And Others. Lots of them.
I’d seen Others before—always on a screen, never in person. But this—being surrounded by more than a dozen at once—hits differently.
A minotaur stands near the refreshment table, his massive frame unexpectedly graceful as he arranges appetizers. The news stories were right. Minotaurs don’t seem to enjoy wearing clothes. This one isn’t wearing more than a loincloth. I can see the appeal.
Several orcs cluster near one of the fire engines, their laughter rolling through the bay as the lights catch on green skin and dark braids. The diversity of the Others in the room is striking—scales, horns, tusks, and skin in colors that would signal sickness or death on a human, but here look fierce and alive.
“Welcome!” The turquoise-scaled naga female at registration beams at us. “First time at one of our mixers?”
“Yes,” Riley squeaks, then clears her throat and tries again with more confidence. “Yes, we’re excited to be here.”
I manage a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Looking forward to it.”
