Chapter 2 #2
They are not.
I grunt, unconvinced, and head toward the breakroom before she can offer further explanations that will only confuse me more.
The breakroom is a small, rectangular space dominated by a large white box that hums ominously and a counter cluttered with a machine that smells faintly of burnt bean water.
The coffee maker, I assume.
Humans worship it like a shrine.
Against one wall are the "vending machines" Orla mentioned, glass-fronted boxes filled with brightly colored packages. I study them briefly, then dismiss them. Packaged food lacks spirit. No honor in eating something that has been sealed in plastic and left to languish.
I turn my attention to the large white box.
It opens with a gentle pull, and cold air spills out, carrying the scent of various foods stored within.
Ah.
A preservation chamber.
Inside, the shelves are lined with containers, bags, and wrapped parcels. Some are labeled with names written in permanent marker.
"Janet."
"Steve."
"DO NOT TOUCH, DEBORAH."
I scan the shelves methodically, considering my options.
The containers labeled with names suggest ownership—territorial claims over specific food items. I reach for the one marked "Steve," a sandwich wrapped in clear film.
It looks substantial, promising. Meat, cheese, vegetables layered generously between thick slices of bread.
This will do.
I unwrap it carefully, pulling away the plastic film, and take a bite.
Good.
Not great, but adequate. The bread is soft and fresh, the meat clearly processed but flavorful enough.
There's a sharpness to the cheese that I appreciate, and some kind of leafy green that adds texture.
I finish half of it in three large bites and am reaching for the other half when a voice cuts through the silence like a blade.
"Hey!"
I turn, still chewing.
A human male stands in the doorway, frozen mid-step.
Thin. Pale. Wearing a shirt patterned with small checks and a tie that hangs slightly crooked around his neck.
His eyes are wide, almost bulging, locked on the sandwich in my hand with the kind of horror usually reserved for battlefield atrocities.
"That's my lunch," he says, his voice climbing an octave.
I glance at the sandwich, then back at him, making the connection. "Your name is Steve?"
"Yes."
"Then this is indeed yours." I hold it up in acknowledgment, nodding respectfully. "It is very good. You have my gratitude for sharing."
"I didn't share," he says, his voice strangling in his throat. "You stole it."
I frown, genuinely confused by the accusation. "I did not steal. It was in the preservation chamber, available for consumption. I consumed it. This is how sustenance works."
"It had my name on it!"
"Yes. Which is how I know you are Steve." I gesture with the sandwich, attempting to be friendly. "Hello, Steve. I am Thraka."
His face turns an interesting shade of red—not quite the crimson of fresh blood, but somewhere in the vicinity of overripe berries. "You can't just eat someone's lunch!"
"I already have," I point out reasonably. The evidence is quite literally in my hand.
"That's not the point!"
I consider this carefully, turning the concept over in my mind like examining a particularly confusing artifact from a dungeon.
The logic seems circular, but there must be something I'm missing, some hidden rule of this strange corporate realm.
"Then what is the point?" I ask, genuinely trying to understand the nature of his complaint.
"The point is that you took something that wasn't yours without asking!" Steve's voice has reached a pitch that could shatter the cursed glass machine in the corner, the one that dispenses bitter brown water everyone here seems to worship.
Ah.
Now I understand.
This is not merely a complaint or a statement of fact. This is something far more significant, far more primal. This is a challenge.
A declaration of ownership and territory. Steve believes the sandwich belonged to him, and I have violated that claim. In my homeland, this would be settled simply. Directly.
"You are right," I say. "I have taken something of yours. This is a matter of honor."
Steve blinks. "What?"
"I propose a duel. If you win, I will compensate you for the sandwich. If I win, the matter is settled, and the sandwich was mine by right of conquest."
"A duel? Are you insane?"
"No. I am fair." I set the remaining half of the sandwich on the counter and spread my arms wide. "Choose your weapon. Or we fight unarmed, if you prefer."
Steve makes a small, choked sound. Then he collapses.
Not violently. Not dramatically. He simply folds at the knees and crumples to the floor like a marionette with severed strings.
I stare down at him, confused. Did I break him? I crouch beside him, checking for breath. Still alive. Pulse steady. Just unconscious.
Huh.
I stand and dust off my hands. "I will mark this as a successful conflict resolution," I murmur to the empty room. "Steve has conceded through strategic withdrawal."
I finish the sandwich methodically, savoring each remaining bite with the satisfaction of a warrior who has claimed his spoils. The bread is soft, the meat pleasantly salty, the cheese melted to perfection from sitting in the communal refrigerator's inconsistent temperature zones.
It tastes even better now, knowing that I have faced Steve in honorable combat and emerged victorious. The flavor of conquest seasons every mouthful.
Behind me, the door to the breakroom crashes open with such force that it rebounds off the wall with a sharp crack, the handle leaving what will undoubtedly become another small dent in the plaster.
I turn slowly, still chewing the final bite of my hard-won meal, ready to face whatever new challenger has arrived to contest my claim.
Orla stands in the doorway, holding a binder so thick it could double as a shield. The cover reads "EMPLOYEE CODE OF CONDUCT" in bold, official letters.
She looks at Steve sprawled on the floor, his chest rising and falling in the shallow, steady rhythm of someone who has simply checked out of reality for a bit.
She looks at me, her eyes tracking from my boots to my face with the kind of cold, methodical precision usually reserved for damage assessments and insurance claims.
She looks at the empty sandwich wrapper on the counter, the crumpled wax paper and scattered crumbs serving as damning evidence of my recent victory feast.
The silence stretches between us like a taut bowstring.
"What," she says finally, her voice dangerously calm, the kind of calm that precedes volcanic eruptions and corporate restructurings, "did you do?"
I swallow the last trace of sandwich, suddenly aware that my answer may determine whether I see tomorrow's sunrise. "I resolved a conflict."
Her perfectly shaped eyebrow arches upward by exactly two millimeters. "By making someone faint?"
"That was unintentional. I offered him a duel. He declined by losing consciousness."
"You offered him a what?"
"A duel. For honor. It is customary in my homeland when disputes arise over property or resources."
Orla closes her eyes with the deliberate precision of someone activating an emergency shutdown protocol. Takes a breath, long, measured, the kind of breath that meditation apps probably charge premium subscriptions for. Opens them again, and the green of her irises has gone from forest to tundra.
She looks tiny standing there in her expensive heels, barely reaching my shoulder even with the added height.
She looks ferocious in a way that has nothing to do with physical size and everything to do with concentrated will, like a nuclear reactor condensed into a five-foot-six frame.
She looks like a blade that has been sharpened down to a single killing edge, honed through countless boardroom battles and corporate warfare until there's nothing left but purpose and precision and the absolute certainty that she will cut through any obstacle in her path.
I am intrigued.
More than intrigued, if I'm being honest.
"Thraka," she says, and her tone is the verbal equivalent of a tightly coiled spring. "We need to talk."
"About the duel?"
"About everything."
She steps into the breakroom, sets the binder down on the counter with a heavy thud, and flips it open to a page marked with a neon yellow tab.
"Section Four, Subsection C," she reads. "Workplace conduct and the prohibition of physical altercations."
I nod. "Good rule. I did not engage in physical altercation. I offered one. Steve refused."
"By fainting."
"Exactly. He showed wisdom."
Orla's eye twitches. "You ate his lunch."
"I did not know it was his until after I had begun eating. At which point, I offered restitution through honorable combat."
"That is not how restitution works here!"
"Then how does it work?" I lean forward, genuinely curious. The mechanics of this office-tribe confuse me more with each passing moment.
She opens her mouth. Closes it. A muscle jumps in her jaw. Opens it again, and I can practically see her marshaling her thoughts into neat, organized rows like little soldiers preparing for battle.
"You..." She takes a breath, and I notice the way her shoulders rise and fall with the effort of maintaining composure. "You apologize. Verbally. You express remorse for your actions. And then you buy him a new lunch to replace the one you consumed."
I blink. "Buy?"
"With money. You go to a restaurant or a store, and you purchase food, and you give it to him."
I consider this carefully, turning the concept over in my mind like an unfamiliar weapon. "That seems unnecessarily complicated. A duel is much simpler. Direct. Honest. Two warriors face each other, the stronger wins, honor is satisfied, and everyone knows where they stand afterward."
"A duel is absolutely not an option!" Her voice rises half an octave.
"Why not?" I spread my hands, genuinely baffled by this restriction.