1. Chapter 1 The Grinch of the Integration Zone

Chapter 1: The Grinch of the Integration Zone

G rum

“Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!”

The sound grates on me, setting my tusks on edge as my hands clench into fists at my sides. The urge to silence that jolly voice surges through me, hot and urgent.

“Come on, everyone! Santa’s here to spread some Christmas cheer!” Could that voice be any more jolly? It makes me want to hurl something… or just hurl.

That’s the final straw. Shoving through the crowd, ignoring the startled yelps and angry protests, my target comes into view. A pathetic excuse for a Santa Claus, waving from atop a garishly decorated float in the middle of the annual Christmas parade that travels along the street right outside the Integration Zone every winter.

“Hey, you!” The words burst from my mouth in a growl as I bare my tusks. “Knock it off with that Christmas crap!”

Santa’s eyes widen above his fake beard. He’s afraid? Good. He should be terrified.

Grabbing the edge of the float, I hoist myself up. The cheap construction wobbles under my weight, and Santa stumbles. Children scream. Parents gasp. The acrid stench of their fear scorches my nostrils.

“Grum! What the hell are you doing?” A familiar voice cuts through the chaos. Fire Chief Brokka. Damn.

Whirling around, I come face to face with my boss. He’s shaking his head in disappointment—a constant expression I see around me at this terrible time of year. It should make me feel guilty, but all I feel is a surge of defiance.

“What am I doing? I’m putting an end to this ridiculous human tradition,” I snarl, gesturing at the wreckage around us. Tinsel and broken ornaments litter the ground.

Brokka’s eyes narrow. “My office. Now.”

I follow Brokka, my heavy footsteps echoing through the suddenly quiet street. The crowd parts for us, a sea of wide eyes and hushed whispers. As we walk, I catch glimpses of the destruction I’ve left in my wake: trampled tinsel, crushed candy canes, and the dejected faces of children whose holiday cheer I’ve just bulldozed.

A twinge tugs at my chest—guilt, maybe?—but I shove it down. These humans and their ridiculous traditions deserve it. Don’t they?

As we enter the fire station, the familiar smell of smoke and leather should be comforting. Instead, it feels suffocating, much like the impending lecture I’m about to receive. The other firefighters avoid my gaze as we pass.

Great. Just great.

The memory fades, leaving me staring at the same disapproving face one year later. Brokka’s office hasn’t changed—still cramped, still smelling of scorched turnout gear and old coffee. The only difference from last year is the small Christmas tree in the corner, its lights twinkling as though they’re having fun at my expense. And why, I wonder, is the damn thing already up? It’s barely past Thanksgiving.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Chief. You’re calling me in this year on a preemptive strike? I haven’t even done anything… yet,” I mutter, crossing my arms and leaning against the wall. The familiar motion brings small comfort in this uncomfortable situation. I may hate Christmas, but I don’t want to alienate my friends.

Brokka sighs, running his hand over his chin. “Grum, we’ve been through this. Your behavior last year was unacceptable. We’re Others. For over a quarter of a century, we’ve been working our asses off to gain acceptance. Your little… tantrum last year undid a decade of inroads we’ve made. And now, some of your brother firefighters are complaining about… attitude.”

“Attitude?” I use all my self-control to keep from bellowing. “I haven’t destroyed any of the Christmas ornaments they’ve hung. And the only reason the mistletoe disappeared was that I was… hungry.”

My fellow orc firefighters ratted on me? Brothers, indeed. I’m used to complaints from humans, what with their delicate sensibilities. But the guys here in the Integration Zone who I’ve known my whole life? I shake my head, ready to finish getting chewed out so I can return to work.

“This is serious, Grum. Your fellow firefighters have a right to a pleasant workplace. It’s a religious holiday, you know. We, more than anyone, should embrace diversity and endorse tolerance.”

Did he write and memorize that speech? It sounds like it. But, honestly, I have nothing against the religious part of the holiday. It’s just the sheer… cheerfulness of it all. Happy this and merry that, and what do we have? We have to live in this ten-square-block shithole, in crumbling buildings, all because over twenty-five years ago we were pulled through a Rift by unknown forces and deposited on the sands of the Mojave Desert. When will the humans acknowledge that we belong here as much as anyone else?

I return from my mental tangent to be greeted by Brokka’s disapproving face. He said my firefighting buddies find my behavior unacceptable? I thought we all agreed this Christmas stuff is ridiculous.

“Look.” Brokka’s voice takes on that annoyingly patient tone he uses when he thinks he’s being reasonable. “I get it. The holidays are tough for a lot of us. But you can’t keep lashing out like this.”

The urge to roll my eyes is almost overwhelming. Instead, I adjust my hair tie, pulling my messy bun tighter. “So what? You gonna fire me?”

“No.” Brokka leans back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. “But I am ordering you to do community service.”

The words hit like a bucket of ice water. Ordering? Community service? “What?”

“You heard me. Starting tomorrow, you’ll be helping with the Integration Zone’s Santa’s Workshop event. It’s a joint effort—humans and Others.”

A bark of laughter escapes me before I can stop it. “You’ve got to be joking. Me? Help with a Christmas event?”

Brokka’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m serious, Grum. This is your last chance. Hey, it’s a positive thing. The humans usually give presents to human kids whose parents don’t have the means to give them a great Christmas. This year, they invited needy kids from the Zone—which is almost every single kid here. They’ve even accepted our invitation to hold it in the empty wing of our community center. And don’t forget, some of us have human mates who love these traditions. It’s… disrespectful to them and you’re demoralizing the community. Your attitude needs to change. Either you do this, or I’ll have no choice but to let you go because of your insubordination.”

The threat hangs in the air between us. My jaw clenches, teeth grinding so hard my tusks almost pierce my skin. The familiar taste of anger rises in my throat, bitter and hot.

What would I do if I’m not a firefighter? I can’t even imagine an alternative.

“Fine,” I spit out eventually. “But don’t expect me to enjoy it.”

Brokka’s lips twitch, almost forming a smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Report to the Jingle All the Way store. It’s practically across the street.”

That place? Of course, I’ve seen it. How could I miss the perpetually happy, perpetually Christmas shop mocking me 365 days a year?

“You’ll be working with the owner, Joy Noel. She’s organizing the Santa’s Workshop event out of her store, before they move things to our community center.”

Joy Noel. Even her name sounds sickeningly festive. This is going to be a nightmare.

I storm out of Brokka’s office. The smell of fake pine air fresheners some jerk hung to the rafters clings to my clothes as though its only purpose is to infuriate me. The other firefighters all pretend to look busy as they avoid eye contact. Although Brokka’s door was closed, I’m sure they heard every word.

At my locker, I slam the door shut with more force than necessary. The metal reverberates, the sound echoing through the quiet station.

“Humans,” I mutter under my breath, the familiar word bringing little comfort. “Back on An’Wa, we didn’t have to deal with this shit.”

But I’m not on An’Wa anymore. I’m here, on Earth, have been since I was pulled through the Rift as a child. To this day, the best minds on the planet have no idea how or why we were sucked from our home world and brought here. Orcs, minotaurs, nagas, wolven, and others were pulled here with no way back.

This time of year, I’m surrounded by twinkling lights, cheerful carols, and people who don’t understand what it’s like to be here almost all their life and still feel like a stranger. People who expect me to smile and be merry when all I want to do is punch something. People who either don’t know or don’t care that we have our own holiday traditions—that I can’t celebrate because my family is all still back on An’Wa. It feels wrong to celebrate without them.

Even though it’s been over twenty-five years, the wave of grief and anger still hits me like a tsunami.

As I head home, the streets of the Integration Zone taunt me with their festive decorations. Garlands hang from lampposts, and storefronts twinkle with tiny lights. The contrast between the holiday cheer and the reality of our lives here is stark and infuriating.

At home, I slam the door behind me, relieved at the silence. No carols here. No twinkling lights or cheerful greetings. Just quiet and darkness, blessed solitude, and not one strand of tinsel.

But even here, I can’t escape the knowledge of what tomorrow brings. Community service. Santa’s Workshop. Joy Noel.

The name conjures an image of a frail old woman with wire-rim glasses perched on the end of her nose and her silver hair pulled back in a tight bun. She probably bakes cookies by the truckload and calls everyone “dearie.” The thought makes me want to gag.

Collapsing onto my worn couch, I close my eyes, trying to block out the world. But behind my eyelids, all I see are visions of tomorrow’s torture. How am I supposed to survive this without losing my mind?