One of the assistant producers goes pale. Marcus tries to maintain his composure, but I catch the slight tremor in his hands.
"You're under contract?—"
"To participate. Not to enable harassment." I straighten. "Choose your next words carefully, human."
The title carries just enough edge to remind them what I am. What I'm capable of when pushed.
Marcus clears his throat. "Of course. Fair competition. We'll... adjust the challenge parameters."
"See that you do."
I leave them scrambling to revise their plans, their excited chatter turned nervous and sharp. But as I return to my quarters, a new concern surfaces.
Tomorrow they'll be watching us more carefully. Looking for ways to manipulate our connection into their preferred narrative. I need to warn Trinity without appearing to coach her, protect her without making her seem weak.
More diplomatic navigation. More careful balance between what they want to see and what actually serves our purposes.
But as I prepare for sleep, muscle memory brings back the sensation of Trinity's lips beneath mine. The way she'd pressed closer instead of pulling away. The soft sound she'd made when I deepened the kiss.
If Grax is right, if that was courtship rather than curiosity, then Trinity has declared her interest. Now I must prove myselfworthy of it—not through displays of strength or territory, but through protection offered freely. Support given without diminishment.
Tomorrow's challenge will be our first real test. Not of our individual abilities, but of our capacity to function as a united front against those who would use us for entertainment.
I fall asleep planning strategies that have nothing to do with winning competitions and everything to do with ensuring Trinity emerges with her dignity intact.
The producers want their narrative. I'll give them one—just not the one they're expecting.
The morning brings tactical assessments and unwelcome realizations.
I wake before dawn, as is my custom, and immediately begin cataloguing yesterday's events with military precision. The kiss: strategically advantageous, creating viewer investment in our pairing. The producer meeting: successful intimidation, ensuring fair competition parameters. Trinity's reaction post-kiss: positive indicators, suggesting continued cooperation.
All according to plan. All serving the greater purpose of orc-human relations.
But as I run through my mental checklist, other details intrude. The way Trinity's eyes had widened when I'd complimented her baking, not with calculation, but genuine surprise. The soft weight of her against my chest during the kiss, trusting and warm. The flour still dusting her apron when she'd brought me the cinnamon roll, evidence of hours spent crafting something specifically for me.
These observations serve no tactical purpose. They're personal details, emotional data that should be irrelevant to my mission here.
So why do I keep cataloguing them?
I dress methodically, securing ritual scars and checking my appearance in the mirror. The show's costume department provided traditional orc ceremonial garb for today's challenge of leather and bronze that fits properly, unlike the ill-fitting human suits they'd forced on me earlier. I look like myself again, not some awkward diplomatic envoy trying to squeeze into alien customs.
Good. I'll need every advantage today.
My comm unit buzzes with the day's schedule.Team Challenge: Trust and Triumph, followed by a series of bullet points about physical obstacles, communication exercises, andspontaneous bonding opportunities. Producer-speak for manufactured drama.
I memorize the timeline, then delete the message. No point leaving digital evidence of their manipulation tactics.
The dining hall buzzes with nervous energy when I arrive. Human contestants cluster around tables laden with what they call continental breakfast with pastries and fruit and coffee that smells burnt. I bypass the crowd and head for the service area, where I know Trinity will be.
She's examining a croissant with the focused intensity of a battlefield surgeon, turning it over in her hands and muttering under her breath.
"Frozen, reheated, probably yesterday's batch. The texture's all wrong." She looks up as I approach, offering a rueful smile. "Sorry. Occupational hazard. I can't turn off the baker brain."
"Your assessment is correct. The flake structure indicates improper thawing." I pour coffee from the industrial dispenser, grimacing at the bitter taste. "You could improve this significantly."
"With what? A complete overhaul of their kitchen, better suppliers, and staff who understand that baking is science, notguesswork?" She tears a piece from the croissant and makes a face. "Yeah, probably."
Her casual expertise fascinates me. The way she can diagnose problems instantly, her hands moving with unconscious skill as she demonstrates proper pastry evaluation. It's not unlike watching a weapons master assess blade quality—the same confident authority born from years of dedicated practice.
