Page 15 of Vargan

I wipe sweat from my brow and step outside the garage, scanning the street. The diner is busy—lunch rush. Through the window, I can see Savvy moving between tables with practiced efficiency. With her fry cook quitting after the incident with Victor and Royce, she's been pulling double duty in the kitchen and out front. No sign of Victor's truck or Royce's smug face.Still, I've positioned myself to keep the parking lot in view. Old habits.

Back inside the garage, I pace restlessly. Orcs don't do well with idle time. In the camps, they kept us busy from sunrise to sunset—learning, training, working. Idle hands invite rebellion, they said. They weren't wrong.

My eyes fall on a tarp-covered shape in the corner of the garage. I pull back the dusty cover to reveal an old Ford pickup, probably from the '60s—faded blue paint, rusted in spots, but the frame looks solid. The keys are in the ignition.

Perfect. Something to keep my hands busy.

I pop the hood and inspect the engine. It's been sitting a long time, but nothing that can't be fixed with a little attention. I gather tools and get to work, losing myself in the familiar routine—checking spark plugs, examining belts, cleaning corrosion from battery terminals.

My mind drifts as my hands work automatically. Back to the camps. I was eight when we crossed the Rift—old enough to remember the Before, young enough to be "rehabilitated" as they called it.

The camps weren't cruel, exactly. We were fed, kept clean, educated on human ways. But they were prisons all the same. Humans feared what they didn't understand, and they definitely didn't understand us. So they shaped us into something they could control.

I was lucky, in a way. I had an aptitude for mechanics that my human handlers recognized and encouraged. It gave me something to focus on besides my rage. Besides losing everything and everyone I knew.

I'm so deep in the memory, my face practically inside the engine block, that I don't hear the approaching footsteps until a throat clears behind me. I straighten, instinctively reaching for aweapon that isn't there before recognizing Willie's scent—young, human, tinged with the stitch of raging male hormones.

His face is a mask of teenage hostility. "Why are you still here?"

I wipe my hands on a rag, taking my time to answer. "Can't leave until my bike is fixed."

"And when will that be?" There is challenge in his voice, with fear barely concealed beneath it.

"If you've got a problem with me being here," I say evenly, "blame the asshole who drove a truck over my bike."

That takes some of the wind out of his sails. He shifts his weight, eyes dropping to my arms where my clan tattoos are visible beneath my rolled-up sleeves.

"What are all those?" he asks, curiosity overriding his hostility.

I consider brushing him off, but decide honesty is better. This kid deserves to understand what he's dealing with.

"Different things," I say, extending my right arm where a barcode and number are tattooed on my inner wrist. "This one was used to track me by the humans at the camps."

Willie steps closer, eyes wide. "They tagged you like an animal?"

"That was the idea." I keep my voice neutral, not wanting to color his perception. "Easier to identify us if we ran."

"Do you have more?" Wariness, but genuine interest too enter his voice.

I nod. "Several. It's the way of Orcs to use tattoos as what humans would call a memory book. I have ones from being taken to my first camp, from being moved to the military barracks when I wasn't much older than you."

I roll up my sleeve further to reveal the MC's insignia—a motorcycle breaking through a circle of chains. "This one is my club's logo. The Ironborn."

Willie stares at it, then at me. "Is that why you ride? Because of your club?"

"I rode before I found them. But they gave me a reason to keep riding."

He's quiet for a moment, clearly wrestling with something. Then: "I can help. If you want."

It's an olive branch, however reluctant. I nod toward the truck. "Know anything about engines?"

"A little," he admits, stepping closer. "My dad used to let me help change the oil in his truck."

"Hand me that wrench," I tell him, pointing. When he does, I start explaining what I'm doing in simple terms—how engines work, what each part does. He listens carefully, asking smart questions.

The roar of a loud exhaust system pulls my attention to the diner parking lot. A pickup truck is pulling in—newer model, not Victor's but similar enough to put me on alert. I tense, ready to move if needed.

"It's not Victor, if that's what you're worried about," Willie says, surprising me with his perception. "He drives a Ram and he never comes around during busy times." He says it matter-of-factly, returning his attention to the engine.

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