I Wanna Raise a Toast!

FAY

Iwalk by the dance floor, climb up the stairs of the VIP area, and pause.

It's the whole squad on stilts andtuxicdos. Four idiots dressed in the latestDonte & Gomorrah, flickering their rings and expensive watches at my face as their sprawled selves and wings lay in abject neglect over red-tasseled cushions. To think I was once part of this wacky circus... They've only succeeded in making me hate my kind even more than before. This self-sufficiency we display, how we hardly ever mingle with other monsters, feeling all high and mighty, and how introducing an orc to your circle makes them think they can bring a mentally touched card out. Like it's unnatural to do so. At least, I find comfort to know my father has a reason to behave the way he does––Quince. As for the rest of us, we have no excuse. We're similar to a shoal of fish, sharing one brain cell, perfectly in line with the current trend: the orc is the wretched of monsterkind. Twice I've observed some rare fae interacting with orcs. They do it more out of the thrill of the pseudo-tabooness revolving around fae and orcs procures rather than social inclination. And this bad bunch here did not disappoint.

"What's up, Fay? Here, take this," Gorina shouts over the blasting music, fluttering her greenish moth-like wings, placing a glass ofsirenpagnein my hand. "Have a seat next to me." She pushes herHurmeshandbag and puffs with an effort like she robbed a bank and has millions to carry. Come to think of it, she doesn't need to steal anything, the girl's loaded.

"Thanks." As I take my seat on the boudoir bench, the far end of the tribune grabs my attention.

It's a couple. A hand is softly stroking a nymph's arm. They are concealed in the dark, but I recognize the skin—one of an orc.

"Yeah, I'm thinking just like you, Fay," Timera hisses into my ear like a venomous hydra. "Cute, isn't it?"

My chin turns to her as bubbles fizz up my nose. I try remaining ladylike, lightly coughing them out. What's the sudden change of heart for?

"Yes. They are." I hear myself say.

"Fay!?" She chuckles. "Twas a joke!" Timera's so-called friendly elbow encrusting in my ribs somewhat inflames my cheeks.

My hand shakes, and this idiot Riks understands this as a top-up. "Here you go, fresh and fizzy," he croons, staring deep into me as he swiftly fills my flute. Riks and I could have been something, but he's a womanizer—probably my male version, now that I think about it—a little shit taking people's feelings for a ride.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, dropping himself next to me, splaying his legs like I could be interested in what's between them.

Good question. What am I doing here? "Was to meet someone, but that someone never came."

"Did the queen get dumped?" Gorina cackles, her face taking all the colors of the rainbow as the strobe lights blink across the club.

Imagine if these lasers were heat activated and turned her face into goo...

"Does someone ever get dumped before their first date?" To my sad words, I drink the delicious white liquid and greedily ask for more. The least thesefakiescan do is fill my glass.

"So, tell us, what've you been up to?" This pesky voice. The last time I heard it, I was about to kill its owner. Firn. A fucking dumpster on her own, turning stories into transgenic rumors like an angry recycling plant.

"It's a long story."

Firn's thickheaded. It doesn't matter how long or how short the story is, she won't ask for more. Her brain won't take it.

"Glad to see you're not with that green mess anymore." My eyes swirl toward Firn, and as I'm about to strangle the red-haired bitch once and for all, she pulls out her phone and screeches, "Selfie time!"

Almost instantly, I'm hurdled in their embrace, arms or whatever toxic sweat coats my skin.

And as if sweat wasn't enough, there's some remixed slow dance song beating in the background, making me emotional as hell, my eyes salting with each passing lyric.

"Say Restless," nickers Riks.

A shudder runs through my body, the device's flash enraging me even more. I'm upset that this slice of life was caught on camera, and for what? A dull night I'll probably not even remember.

"Here, take some more, fire girl!" What I need is not a refill,Rik-Dik. It's the entire Jeroboam!

"Cheers to all the orcs. May they stop breeding!" he shouts, his glass raised toward the giant, heart-shaped disco ball dominating the dance floor.

I stare at the couple and watch them leave the table in silence.

This orc is patient. He could have smashed Riks' head with one delicate fist bump. Orcs are sensitive, not fragile. They have this reserve they only release for something worth a fight, and Riks is not worth a dime.

But Tyke...

Shame consumes me. I shouldn't be here.

I should go home.

Gorina opens her purse, pulls out her lipstick, and slathers some black over her lips. "Wanna?"

I shake my head. I'm not putting her saliva over my lips. No thanks.

"Nice, isn't it? The latest Alexander McKing collection. Pricey," she shouts, raising her eyebrows at me. "So worthy."

Already feeling sick.

The orcs of South New Orc slums could live off half of what these losers have for three years, easy.

I suck in a breath and push myself to get up. This is a waste of my time.

"Hey," a voice screams over the music's roar. I slant my gaze toward the hand clamped around my wrist and recognize Riks' watch—a Trollex. "You can't leave now. You just got here!" He pulls me back to the horrifyingly stained velvet rococo finish that is as comfortable as a front row church pew. Everything about this club is tasteless.

I grimace, yanking my arm from his clench. "I'm not feeling well. I have to go." The grin on my face is as cold as eighty degrees below zero. Getting caught between Riks and Gorina is not what I'd call pleasant—to be frank, it feels like dying.

Anyway, whether he heard me or not is irrelevant. Megalo Riks has already bounced off his seat, his arms flailing to the beat, his gold watch glinting to the strobe lights.

A shudder of disgust runs over my lips as I watch this materialist display. The wounds of the war are not all healed. Orcs are still branded as war prisoners, and poverty is a reality that touches them more than anyone else. No one wants to confront, even less see it. Sure, Fidr does her best to rehabilitate them through various labor programs, such as heavy drilling in the gas wells for mageksium, a chemical essential to stabilize the magic in M-guns and aeriojets. Quite dangerous, I heard. Others work in artillery testing and mines. But either way, wages remain low... Tyke had it the easiest because of his athletic constitution, immediately placed in a police precinct. Still, I know he often skips meals, and I always invited him to my place, not just because. Then again, I can't hide it was a contributing factor.

Everything suddenly hurts. I look down at my swollen feet, clad in supple crystal fabric. The luxury stilettos were a present from a past friend. And I wiggle my feet, one by one, punting each shoe away as my mouth bathes in acid.

I keep my eyes on my blisters while bile keeps building in my throat, making me salivate.

I swallow.

Many times.

Tyke...

"These orcs should be banned from this place. Glad you got rid of your ugly shit—that monster wasn't worth your time." Firn's croak pulls me from my thoughts, only to find her smirking at me. She's got this twinkle, her arrogant lip raising, and my brain glitches as I watch her lips slow motion the word, "Ooorrrccc freeeaaaak."

My lips twitch. I'm suddenly feeling awkward as fuck.

Honest.

I climb on the table, kick the bucket of sirenpagne on Gorina's lap, water and ice cubes drenching her useless, see-through dress, and roar, "I wanna raise a toast!"