Chapter 2
THRAKA
The metal box swallows us whole.
The doors slide shut with a soft hiss that reminds me of a serpent settling into its den.
I do not like it.
The walls are too close. The air tastes recycled, flat and lifeless like water that has been boiled too many times. Overhead, lights hum with the frequency of a dying mosquito, a sound that crawls inside my skull and sets my teeth on edge.
Orla doesn't seem to notice. She stands perfectly still, spine straight, staring at the digital numbers above the door as they count upward with agonizing slowness.
1... 2...
I shift my weight, and the floor creaks beneath me. The briefcase, clutched in my other hand, feels suddenly too light, too empty. I brought snacks for emergencies, but this metal prison would be a poor place to die if the mechanism fails and we plummet to our deaths.
At least I would die well-fed, my stomach full of the jerky and trail mix I'd so wisely packed this morning.
"Stop fidgeting," Orla says without looking at me, her eyes remaining fixed on those glowing numbers as if willing them to move faster through sheer force of corporate determination.
"I am not fidgeting," I counter, though I realize my free hand has been running along the metal railing that circles the elevator's interior, testing its sturdiness, gauging whether it could support my weight if we began to fall and I needed to brace myself against the walls.
"I am assessing the structural integrity of this contraption.
Standard battlefield reconnaissance. One must always know the weaknesses of one's surroundings. "
"It's an elevator," she says, and now she does glance at me, just briefly, her expression caught somewhere between exasperation and that particular brand of weariness I seem to inspire in her with alarming frequency.
"It's been inspected. Multiple times. By certified professionals.
There are regulations. Safety protocols. Redundant systems. It's fine."
"You cannot know that with certainty. Many warriors have been felled by overconfidence in untested machinery."
She exhales through her nose, a sharp, controlled sound that I'm beginning to recognize as her version of counting to ten before violence.
The number changes to 3.
The doors open.
I step out before she does, scanning the corridor for threats, ambush points, possible escape routes. Old habits. Good habits. The kind that keep a warrior breathing long enough to become a mediator instead of a corpse.
This floor looks identical to the one below. Same pale walls. Same gray carpet that muffles footsteps and makes everything feel muted, dulled. Same humming lights that sap energy instead of providing it.
How do these humans survive in such a place?
"Conference room is this way," Orla says, already walking with that brisk, purposeful stride that eats up ground despite her small stature.
I follow, briefcase swinging at my side, and notice the way people react as we pass.
They freeze.
Stare.
One woman drops her coffee mug. It hits the carpet without breaking, and she scrambles to pick it up, her eyes never leaving me.
I nod at her in what I intend to be a friendly, reassuring manner, the kind of greeting that says, "I am no threat to you, fellow office dweller. We share this space in peace."
The woman's face drains of all color in an instant, going from a healthy pink to the shade of week-old porridge.
She makes a small, strangled sound in the back of her throat, then practically throws herself sideways into the nearest office, the door slamming shut behind her with enough force that the frosted glass rattles in its frame.
I blink at the closed door, genuinely confused. What did I do wrong?
"You are scaring them," Orla observes from beside me, her tone flat and matter-of-fact, as if she's noting the weather or the malfunction of yet another piece of office equipment.
"I am being polite," I protest, turning to face her. "I smiled. I acknowledged her presence. These are the social customs you told me to practice."
"Your version of polite involves too many teeth," she says, not breaking stride as she continues down the corridor. "You're showing your canines. It looks like you're about to bite someone."
I consider this. "Perhaps. But teeth are honest. Better than the false smiles I have seen here. Everyone showing teeth but meaning threat."
She doesn't argue. Smart.
We reach the conference room. Through the glass walls, I can see several humans already seated around a long table, papers spread before them like battle maps.
Orla pauses at the door, one hand resting on the polished chrome handle, and glances back at me over her shoulder. Her expression is the same one I've seen her wear when explaining why we cannot, in fact, solve disagreements through trial by combat.
"This is a budget review meeting," she says in a specific tone of patient weariness I've come to recognize. "It will be extraordinarily boring. Possibly soul-crushing. You don't actually need to attend this one."
"I wish to observe," I tell her, straightening my shoulders in what I hope is a professional manner. The seam of my jacket protests slightly. "To learn the customs of your people. To understand how decisions are made in this place."
Her eyes narrow fractionally, studying me as if trying to determine whether I'm being genuine or simply stubborn. Possibly both.
"The primary custom," she says slowly, articulating each word with precision, "is sitting quietly in an uncomfortable chair for an extended period and not breaking any furniture. That's literally the entire requirement."
I nod enthusiastically. "I broke the table in the break room earlier by accident when I leaned on it. I have learned from this experience. I will be significantly more careful with weight distribution."
"That's..." She pinches the bridge of her nose, a gesture I've learned means she is reconsidering life choices. "That's not remotely as reassuring as you seem to think it is."
But despite her reservations, she opens the door anyway, holding it with one hand while gesturing me through with the other, and I follow her inside, ducking slightly to avoid the doorframe.
The meeting is, exactly as she promised, tedious beyond all reasonable measure.
Numbers. Charts. Projections and allocations and a debate about quarterly expenditures that makes my brain itch with boredom. I sit in a chair that groans beneath my weight and do my best to look attentive while my stomach begins to rumble.
I should have eaten before the metal box.
Rookie mistake.
Orla, seated across from me, is completely absorbed.
She references her own charts, her own projections, countering every argument with precision and data.
She is in her element here, fighting with spreadsheets instead of swords, and I can see why the others in the room defer to her even when they disagree.
She is formidable.
Small, yes. Human, yes. Delicate by the standards of my people, with bones that seem almost fragile compared to orcish thickness.
But formidable nonetheless. I watch her dismantle another manager's proposal with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and a pointed question about his source data, and I recognize a warrior who knows exactly where to strike.
The meeting drags on.
And on.
And on.
Someone starts talking about "synergy optimization" and "cross-functional alignment," phrases that sound like they should mean something but dissolve into nonsense the moment I try to grasp them.
Another person opens yet another presentation, this one with more pie charts than the last. I'm not convinced these charts have anything to do with actual pie, which is deeply disappointing.
My stomach rumbles louder, a low growl that reverberates through my chest like distant thunder. Several heads turn. One woman clutches her folder defensively.
Orla's eyes flick to me immediately, sharp and narrow. A warning. The look says: Do not embarrass me. Do not challenge anyone to combat. Do not eat the intern.
I nod, slow and deliberate. Patient. Controlled. See? I can be civilized. I am adapting beautifully to office culture.
Her expression suggests she does not entirely believe me, but she returns her attention to the spreadsheet in front of her anyway, her pen tapping a precise rhythm against the table's edge.
But when the meeting finally ends and the humans disperse with their folders and laptops, I stand and stretch, my joints popping in a satisfying cascade.
"I need food," I announce.
Orla checks her watch, a slim, expensive thing that probably tracks more than just time. "It's only eleven forty-five."
"That is lunchtime," I point out, because it clearly is.
"Lunch is at noon," she corrects, her voice crisp and final, as though the universe itself has designated noon as the only acceptable hour for sustenance.
"Fifteen minutes is irrelevant," I counter, gesturing broadly at the emptiness of my stomach. "My body requires fuel now. Immediately. The meeting has depleted me. I am a warrior running on fumes."
She pinches the bridge of her nose. "Fine. The breakroom is down the hall. There are vending machines."
"What is a vending machine?" I ask, because I have never encountered one before, and Orla's explanation was insufficient.
She exhales slowly, the sound barely audible but weighted with the effort of someone who has already explained too many obvious things today. "A box that dispenses food when you insert money."
I frown, processing this strange ritual. "The food is held hostage?"
"No," she says, her tone clipped and precise. "You pay for it."
I cross my arms, unconvinced by this explanation. "So it is ransomed. The food is trapped inside the box, and the box demands payment before releasing it. That is the definition of ransom."
"It's commerce, Thraka. Basic capitalism." She says this as though it clarifies everything, as though these words should be self-explanatory and universally understood.