Chapter 3 #2
I retrieve a backup keyboard from the supply closet, a standard model that hopefully can withstand whatever ungodly typing force Thraka generates, and return to find him picking up the mouse.
He leans forward, lowering his face toward the device with the focused intensity of a predator assessing potential prey.
Sniffs it.
One deep, investigative inhalation that I can actually hear from where I'm standing, which is somehow more unsettling than it should be.
"Don't—" I start, already moving forward, already knowing with the grim certainty of someone whose day has been one unmitigated disaster after another that I'm not going to be fast enough.
Too late.
He opens his mouth—those are definitely tusks, why are there tusks in my accounting department—and clamps down on the mouse with an audible click of tooth meeting plastic.
Not hard enough to break it, thank god, but enough to leave clear teeth marks in the plastic casing.
"It does not taste like meat," he announces, disappointed.
"Because it's not meat. It's a computer peripheral.
" I take the violated mouse from his hand, wiping orc saliva off with a tissue I find in my blazer pocket because of course I carry tissues.
I carry everything. Tissues, hand sanitizer, emergency granola bars, backup phone charger, and the rapidly fraying remains of my sanity.
"Why is it called a mouse if it is not food?"
"Because it's shaped like a mouse. Kind of. If you squint and have no imagination."
He squints at the mouse.
Still looks confused.
I'm beginning to understand that Thraka approaches the world with absolute literal interpretation, which explains so much about the Steve incident and also fills me with dread about future Steve-adjacent incidents waiting to happen.
"Just," I say carefully, setting the mouse on the desk mat, "don't eat the office supplies. Any of them. As a general rule, if it's on your desk, it's not edible."
"What about the sandwich Steve left in his desk drawer this morning?" Thraka asks, with entirely too much interest for someone who just attempted to consume computer hardware.
"Steve doesn't work at this desk," I say, my voice taking on the practiced patience of someone explaining to a toddler why we don't put forks in electrical outlets.
"He could work at this desk," Thraka counters, gesturing expansively at the cubicle space as if he's offering to share his newly conquered territory. "There is room for two warriors."
"He won't work at this desk," I say flatly, pinching the bridge of my nose where a headache is beginning to bloom like a particularly aggressive weed.
"Because I defeated him in combat," Thraka concludes with unmistakable satisfaction, nodding as if this perfectly logical chain of reasoning has led us to the only sensible conclusion.
"Because this is your assigned workspace and Steve has his own workspace where he will hopefully recover from his psychological trauma without filing a hostile work environment complaint."
I pull the rolling chair from the neighboring empty cubicle, positioning it beside Thraka's desk so I can walk him through basic computer operations without having to stand for the next hour.
My feet already hurt. These stilettos are weapons, beautiful weapons, but they extract a price in blood and blisters.
I sit.
Immediately aware of how close this puts us.
The cubicle walls create a strange intimacy, blocking out the rest of the office, narrowing the world down to this small square of carpet and cheap furniture and one very large orc who radiates body heat like a furnace set to maximum.
It's distracting.
He's distracting.
Not in any way I have time or desire to examine, but the facts are undeniable. He's warm. He smells like something I can't quite identify, woodsmoke and leather and something earthier, wilder, completely at odds with the fluorescent lighting and recycled air.
I pull up Excel on his computer, forcing my attention to the screen and away from the uncomfortable awareness prickling along my skin.
"This," I explain, "is a spreadsheet. You'll use it to track conflicts, parties involved, resolution methods, and outcomes. Each row is a case. Each column is a data point."
Thraka leans closer to examine the screen.
His shoulder brushes mine.
The contact is brief, accidental, but it sends a jolt of something through my nervous system that my brain categorizes as surprise and my body categorizes as several other things I refuse to acknowledge.
"The boxes are very small," he observes.
"They're cells. You can resize them."
"Why are they imprisoned?"
"They're not—" I stop. Regroup. "It's called a cell because it's a single unit of data. Not because it's locked up."
"Your language is confusing."
"Your existence is confusing, and yet here we are, making it work."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close.
I show him how to navigate the spreadsheet, click and drag, basic data entry, and he watches with intensity that suggests he's either genuinely interested or planning how to weaponize Excel.
Both possibilities seem equally likely.
"Try typing something," I say, gesturing to the keyboard.
He positions his hands carefully this time, awareness of his own strength evident in the slow, deliberate way he presses each key.
The letters appear on screen.
THRAKA IS MIGHTY.
"That's not—" I sigh. "Okay, you successfully typed words. Progress. But we're entering conflict data, not personal affirmations."
"It is still data."
"It's not relevant data."
"All data about Thraka is relevant."
He says it with such absolute conviction that I almost laugh, the sound catching in my throat and turning into something between a cough and a strangled noise of disbelief.
"Fine. Delete that and type this instead." I point to the training template I prepared. "Case number. Date. Involved parties. Nature of conflict."
He deletes his mighty proclamation and begins typing the template information.
Slowly.
One key at a time.
His hunt-and-peck method is painful to watch, but at least he's not breaking anything.
Small victories.
I'll take them.
The minutes crawl past, marked by the hesitant clicking of keys and the low hum of the computer fan and the distant sounds of office life beyond our cubicle walls. Phones ringing. Conversations floating past. The coffee machine gurgling its endless cycle of mediocre brew.
Normal sounds.
Ordinary sounds.
Except nothing about this situation is ordinary, and the longer I sit here, the more aware I become of Thraka's presence beside me.
He's too big for this space.
Too warm.
Too everything.
I shift in my chair, putting a few more inches between us, professional distance that my body seems determined to notice as loss rather than appropriate workplace boundaries.
"This is tedious," Thraka announces, with a particular note of barely-restrained frustration that I've come to associate with his encounters with modern technology.
He hasn't broken anything yet, which I'm counting as a win, but I can see the tension building in his shoulders, the way his massive hands hover over the keyboard like they're contemplating violence.
"Welcome to office work," I say, not looking up from my tablet where I'm already pulling up the next training module.
"Tedium is the foundation upon which civilization is built.
Every empire, every great society, it all runs on the meticulous recording of data and the careful documentation of processes. "
"Civilization is weak," he counters, and I can practically hear the implied comparison to whatever blood-soaked battlefields he considers the height of cultural achievement.
I do look up then, meeting his gaze with my best boardroom stare, the one that makes junior analysts check their calculations twice. "Civilization is stable. It's predictable. It's safe. Those aren't weaknesses—they're features, not bugs."
"Boring," he says flatly, leaning back in his chair with enough force that it protests with an alarming creak.
"Effective," I reply, my tone brooking no argument, though I suspect effectiveness isn't high on his list of desirable qualities if it doesn't involve immediate, visceral results.
He glances at me, something sharp and curious in those amber eyes. "You defend this cage with much passion, Little Manager."
"It's not a cage. It's a structured environment that allows for maximum productivity and minimal chaos."
"You have not seen chaos if you believe this is minimal," he says, sweeping one massive hand toward the cubicle farm beyond his partition like he's gesturing at a battlefield strewn with corpses.
I follow his gesture with my eyes, taking in the orderly rows of workstations, the neatly labeled filing systems, the precisely scheduled calendar notifications pinging softly across the office.
"I've seen your first day," I counter, my voice dry as the company's health and safety manual.
"That was chaos. Actual, quantifiable chaos with property damage and three separate incident reports.
This—" I gesture to the peaceful hum of productivity around us, "—is controlled order. There's a difference."
He shifts in his chair, turning to face me more fully, and I feel his attention like a physical thing. "You enjoy control."
It's not a question. It's a statement, delivered with the same certainty he probably uses when identifying which end of the axe does the damage.
"I enjoy efficiency," I correct, pulling my tablet back up to review the next section of training materials. "Control is simply the tool that achieves it."
"And when control is not possible?" His question rumbles through the small space between us, deep and genuine, like he's actually trying to understand how my mind works.