"But accidents raise questions about supervision, don't they? About whether we're adequately preparing program participants for human environments." She shuffles papers. "I have incident reports here. Three property damage complaints filed against program participants in the last six months. One emergency room visit after an orc volunteer at the youth center accidentally injured a child during roughhousing."
She looks up, face full of false sympathy.
"These aren't bad people, Ms. Ellis. But perhaps they're not compatible with our infrastructure. Our safety standards. Perhaps the kind thing, the compassionate thing,is to acknowledge these fundamental incompatibilities before someone gets seriously hurt."
The room shifts. Whispers start. I see a reporter typing furiously.
"Those are isolated incidents," I start, but Blair cuts me off.
"Isolated? Or symptomatic of deeper issues? Ms. Ellis, you've clearly developed feelings for Mr. Venn. That's natural. But we can't let personal attachment cloud our judgment about public safety."
Heat floods my face. The insinuation is clear: I'm biased, emotional, too involved to think clearly.
"My relationship with Stone doesn't change the facts," I say. "The exchange program has been overwhelmingly successful. Crime hasn't increased. Business revenue is up in districts with program participants. These safety concerns are statistically negligible compared to"
"Statistically negligible?" Blair's voice sharpens. "Tell that to the mother whose child needed stitches. Tell that to the shop owners who had to file insurance claims. We can't dismiss legitimate concerns just because the numbers look acceptable."
She's good. She's devastatingly good. In less than two minutes, she's managed to transform my carefully prepared testimony into exhibit A of compromised judgment, painting me as a woman too blinded by romance to see the danger right in front of her. I can feel the shift in the room, see it in the way the reporters lean forward with renewed interest, in how some of the council members exchange knowing glances.
I open my mouth to respond, to push back against the insinuation that my feelings for Stone have somehow rendered me incapable of rational thought, but a voice cuts through the chamber before I can form the words.
"Actually, you can dismiss them."
The voice is deep, unmistakable, and comes from the back of the room. Stone steps forward from his position near the rear doors, moving down the center aisle with deliberate purpose. Every head in the chamber swivels to track his progress, conversations dying mid-syllable. The silence that follows is absolute, broken only by the sound of his boots against the polished floor.
"Mr. Venn," Blair says, her voice sliding back into that smooth, professional register even as surprise flickers across her features. "This isn't your scheduled time to speak. We have protocols for public comment."
"Then schedule me now," Stone says, not slowing his approach. His tone is matter-of-fact, almost conversational, but there's steel underneath. "Or arrest me for disrupting an official proceeding. Either way, I'm talking."
The room holds its breath. Even the reporters have stopped typing, hands frozen above their keyboards as they wait to see what happens next.
Stone walks to the front, massive and unmissable. He doesn't stop at the podium. He stands in the open space before the dais, facing Blair directly.
"You want to talk safety concerns? Let's talk honestly." His voice fills the chamber, no microphone needed. "Yes, I crashed through Lacy's awning. Want to know why? Because the city failed to mark a loading zone change. I was following the placement map your office provided, and the map was wrong."
Blair's smile tightens.
"The youth center incident you mentioned? That volunteer was breaking up a fight between two human kids. The child who got hurt was accidentally elbowed while the volunteer was preventing a much worse injury. The parents thanked him afterwards. But that detail didn't make your report, did it?"
He takes a step closer.
"And those property damage complaints? Two were noise violations because orcs cook communally and your residential codes don't account for cultural differences in meal preparation. The third was an orc tenant who hung laundry outside instead of using a dryer. These aren't safety issues. They're cultural differences you're reframing as threats."
Blair's face hardens. "Mr. Venn, are you suggesting this council is acting in bad faith?"
"I'm saying you're legislating against discomfort and calling it safety." Stone's voice doesn't rise, but it intensifies. "You're uncomfortable with how we look, how we sound, how we take up space. That's human. But it's not a policy position."
"This is inappropriate," Blair says. "Security"
"Let him speak." The voice comes from Councilman Rodriguez, older, quiet until now. "I'd like to hear what he has to say."
Blair's jaw clenches, but she nods.
Stone breathes deep.
"I love a human woman. That makes some of you uncomfortable. I cook food that smells different. I write poetry that doesn't scan right in your language. I take up more space than you're used to. And yeah, I've made mistakes. I've been clumsy and loud and I've misunderstood things that seem obvious to you."
He looks at me, just for a second.
