Page 1 of The Orc's Protection
Prologue
Nooneexpectedit.
On a Tuesday in September, eight years ago, a routine high-energy particle experiment at CERN, the prestigious European physics laboratory, produced results no one has yet to fully explain to the public. What the official report called “an anomalous spacetime event” lasted eleven seconds. What it actually did was tear a hole between worlds.
From the other side, it grabbed orcs from half a dozen clans, scattered across distances that should have made any single event impossible. There was no discernible logic to the selection. A father, not his children. A warrior, not her clan leader. A child pulled from sleep while her mother, standing in the next room, was left behind. Whatever the experiment disturbed, it did not discriminate by family or clan or proximity. It simply took.
The aperture opened over the Missouri Ozarks. People in four counties reported the same thing independently before any news outlet picked up the story: a sound, not quite an explosion, more like the atmosphere had inhaled. Then light above the tree line—not lightning, witnesses insisted. Something that held. Approximately six hundred orcs emerged within a half-mile radius of each other. What the watching humans could not have known, what took weeks and much cautious observation to establish, was that the newcomers were bewildered, not dangerous.
The humans built a compound while they sorted out what to do. Appropriate-scale housing. A large community hall. A perimeter that was, depending on who you asked, either a precaution or a cage. The orcs cooperated. They had arrived in a strange world with nothing but each other, and they were practical people.
That CERN bore some responsibility for their displacement was never officially confirmed. But it was never convincingly denied either, and the silence shaped everything that followed. The surrounding communities couldn’t quite summon the outrage that might have come otherwise. Fault has a way of softening hostility.
Gradually, the towns decided the newcomers were permanent. Jobs appeared: labor first, then maintenance work, then for those willing to undergo years of vetting and certification, security. They learned English quickly and imperfectly, their accents never fully smoothing out, but well enough to work, bargain, and make themselves understood.
Eight years in, Sunshine Valley and its neighboring towns have reached something that looks, from a distance, almost like ordinary life.
It is not ordinary life. But it is a life.
Among those six hundred was a StoneWatch warrior who had spent eight years learning to be less frightening. He was almost convincing.
Chapter One
Vraag
I pull into the Sunshine Valley Elementary parking lot forty-five minutes before my administrative meeting. The notebook in my jacket pocket has a new entry from this morning: “School buses are yellow for visibility. Not a war machine. Do not salute.” Mistake logged. Correction applied.
I gather my packed lunch and regulation non-lethal equipment and step out into the early morning air. Preparation prevents mistakes. Mistakes invite fear.
“Give humans time to adjust to your presence,” my trainers said. “Don’t surprise them.”
As if my existence isn’t surprise enough.
On my second loop past the east building, I catch the scent before I see him. Another orc, maintenance uniform, crouched over a drainage grate near the faculty entrance. He looks up, clocks my uniform, and nods once.
“StoneWatch.” Not a question. A greeting.
“Grulk.” I recognize him from the compound gatherings. HammerFall clan, well-regarded.
He gestures at my uniform with his chin. “First day?”
“Yes.”
He returns to his work. “I’m maintenance. They don’t notice me. You, they’ll notice.”
He says it without bitterness. Just fact. I file it away and continue my rounds.
The school is smaller than I expected, a single-story building spread across two connected wings around a central playground. The administrative offices sit near the main entrance, while the kindergarten classrooms occupy the quieter east hallway, furthest from the cafeteria and gymnasium. A mural of children holding hands wraps around the front entrance in bright, looping colors. One painted child has green skin and small tusks.
Progress, however incremental.
Principal Winters meets me at the administrative entrance, her professional smile only slightly strained. She is compact, mid-fifties, with close-cropped silver hair and the posture of someone who has learned to take up space efficiently in rooms built for larger authority. Her eyes assess and file in a single pass. A strategist, I note. One who has already decided whether I am manageable. To her credit, she extends her hand without hesitation.
“Mr. Vraag. Right on time. No, actually you’re early.” She doesn’t flinch when my massive hand engulfs hers. Another point in her favor.
“Thank you for the opportunity, Principal Winters.” I keep my voice low and measured, the way I’ve practiced.
“After those incidents of vandalism last semester, the board finally approved additional security. I’d hoped to have you in place before school started, but here we are, the first week of October. Bureaucracy has its own timeline.” She gestures for me to follow her through the quiet morning hallways. “The children’s safety is our priority.”
