1
STONE
The shuttle doors hiss open and I step out into what humans call progress.
My coat hangs too long on one side. The left pocket's torn, stuffed with a rolled-up apron that keeps slipping. I shift my grip on the two crates. The duffel strap digs into my shoulder. Everything I own, balanced in a configuration that seemed reasonable ten minutes ago and now feels like a physics problem I'm failing in real time.
The landing platform smells like burnt rubber and someone's breakfast pastry. Sweet. Yeasted. My stomach growls loud enough that a passing gnome glances up, startled, before scurrying away.
Human cities always surprise me. Not because they're big. Orc encampments sprawl. Not because they're loud. We're louder. It's thelayers. Everything is stacked. Signs pointing to signs pointing to more signs. Shops squeezed into buildings that squeeze into other buildings. Like they're afraid of leaving space between things. Afraid of silence. Of gaps.
I love it.
The heaviness of both crates makes my biceps sing but I keep my grip steady. Useful orcs don't drop things. Useful orcs carry their share and then some. That's what I am. What I'm trying to be. A bridge. An orc who can crack eggs without shattering the shells. Who can dice an onion into perfect little cubes. Who belongs here without pretending he's anything other than what he is.
Green. Big. Scarred across the knuckles from a dozen cooking accidents and one truly stupid bar fight.
The crowd flows around me. I'm a boulder in a stream. People adjust. I try to make myself smaller but there's only so much tucking-in a seven-foot frame allows.
A vendor shouts something about roasted nuts. The smell hits me. Cinnamon. Sugar. My mouth waters.
I make it three steps before my boot catches the curb.
The physics problem solves itself. Badly.
The top crate tips. I lunge to catch it. The duffel slides. I twist. My knee buckles. The crate of books, thedelicately boundbooks that cost me two months of wages and a promise to my mother that I'd actually read them, goes airborne.
Time slows.
I watch them tumble. Spines cracking against pavement. Pages fluttering like startled birds.
Then time speeds back up and I'm on my knees, grabbing at scattered volumes. "Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry."
No one's listening. Or everyone is. A kid points. An older woman makes a wide detour.
I scoop up three books. Four. A thin one with a cracked cover that might be poetry. Might be a cookbook. Hard to tell with the title smudged.
My hand closes on the last book just as my stomach growls again.
There's something in my other hand.
I blink.
A sandwich. Thick bread. Some kind of meat. Cheese oozing out the side. Still warm.
My brain catches up a full second after my mouth. I've taken a bite. A big one. The flavors hit. Salt. Char. A tang that might be mustard or might be something fancier. Humans love fancy condiments.
"Hey!"
I freeze. Chew. Swallow.
A human stands three feet away. Shaggy hair. Paint-stained fingers clutching a guitar. His eyes are wide. His mouth is wider.
"That's my lunch."
I look at the sandwich. Half of it is gone. My jaw still works on the evidence.
"This is yours?"
