Chapter 4
THRAKA
The break room is small and bright and smells like burnt coffee and disappointment.
I stand in front of the coffee maker, watching dark liquid drip into the pot with the patience of a hunter watching prey. The machine gurgles and hisses like a dying beast. I respect this. At least it announces its suffering honestly instead of hiding behind polite words and fake smiles.
Behind me, several humans huddle near the far wall, pretending to look at papers while watching me from the corners of their eyes. They think I cannot see them. Humans are terrible at subtlety.
"He's so big," one whispers, their voice barely audible over the coffee maker's final, gurgling death throes.
Another human shifts nervously, papers rustling in their trembling hands. "Did you hear about Steve's sandwich? He's still complaining to anyone who'll listen."
"Karen from HR is already drafting new policies," a third voice adds, slightly louder but still pitched low, as if speaking quietly will somehow make me deaf to their words. "She's calling it the 'Refrigerator Food Safety and Cultural Sensitivity Initiative.'"
I ignore them completely, my focus unwavering.
Their whispers mean nothing. Their nervous chattering is like the buzzing of insects, constant, irritating, but ultimately harmless.
They could stand there discussing their policies and their precious sandwich thief all day long, and it would not change what I came here to do.
I am a warrior on a mission. Everything else is just noise.
She needs coffee. Her cup was empty when I left, and she clutched it like a warrior clutches a weapon before battle. I saw the way her knuckles whitened around the ceramic, the way her eyes tracked the dregs at the bottom with something close to desperation.
She runs on this bean water like my tribe runs on glory and meat.
So I will bring her bean water.
The pot finishes its death rattle. I pour the dark liquid into a white cup, black as night and thick as blood. Perfect. I bring it to my nose and sniff.
Bitter. Burnt. Terrible.
But she seems to like terrible things. She works in this fluorescent prison by choice. She wears shoes that make walking look like torture. She eats sad desk salads from plastic containers.
Orla has strange tastes.
I carry the cup back through the maze of grey cubicles, my shoulders brushing the walls on both sides. This building was not made for warriors. It was made for small, hunched things that stare at glowing screens and slowly die inside.
When I reach her cubicle, she is typing furiously, her small fingers attacking the keyboard with precision strikes. Her jaw is tight. Her shoulders are up near her ears.
She looks like she is fighting an invisible enemy, some terrible foe that only she can see, locked in combat with shadows and deadlines and the expectations that seem to press down on those narrow shoulders.
I set the coffee on her desk with deliberate gentleness, careful not to slosh the precious bean water over the rim.
She jumps like she's been struck, her whole body going rigid, one hand flying to her chest where I can see her heartbeat fluttering like a trapped bird beneath her palm. Her eyes go wide, startled, all that fierce concentration shattered in an instant.
"For you, Little Manager," I announce with pride, gesturing at the steaming cup like I've just presented her with the head of a conquered enemy. "Fresh from the dying beast."
She blinks at the cup, her expression cycling through confusion and surprise. Then she looks at me, really looks at me, like she's trying to determine if I'm joking or if I've lost what little sense I possess. Then back at the cup, as if it might provide answers.
"Did you just call the coffee maker a dying beast?" she asks slowly, her voice caught somewhere between disbelief and something that might be amusement.
"It sounds like one," I point out, because this is simply truth. "All those groans and hisses. The way it shudders and rattles like it's breathing its last. Very dramatic death throes."
Her mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Not quite. But almost.
The corner of her lips curves just slightly upward before she catches herself and forces it back down into her usual stern line.
Progress.
Small progress, yes, but progress nonetheless.
"Thank you," she says carefully, like the words cost her something. She picks up the cup, inhales the steam, and something in her face softens. Just slightly. Just enough that I notice.
She takes a sip and her eyes close for just a heartbeat, maybe two.
That expression.
I have seen warriors savor their first drink after a hard-won battle. I have seen chieftains relax around victory fires. I have seen celebration and relief and the sweet surrender that comes after long struggle.
This is like that, but smaller. Quieter. More fragile.
And I want to see it again.
Want to be the one who puts that small moment of peace on her sharp face, who coaxes that tiny softness from behind all her armor and angles.
Want to learn what else makes her close her eyes like that, what else makes the tension drain from her shoulders even if only for a breath.
"You are very tense, Orla Peace," I observe, leaning against the cubicle wall. It creaks under my weight. "Like a bowstring pulled too tight."
"That's just my face."
"That is not a face. That is a warning sign."
She glares at me over the rim of her cup, but there's no real heat in it. More like habit. Like she glares because glaring is what she knows how to do.
"I am perfectly fine," she insists, her voice clipped and efficient, as though saying it firmly enough might make it true.
I tilt my head, studying her the way I would study an opponent before battle, looking for weaknesses, for tells, for the places where the armor doesn't quite fit.
"You are the least fine person I have ever encountered in my entire life," I tell her honestly.
"And I once met a berserker who fought for three days straight without sleeping and then tried to duel a tree because he thought it insulted his mother. "
Her jaw tightens. "I'm functional."
"Yes," I agree, nodding slowly. "Things that are about to shatter into a thousand pieces are also functional.
Right up until the exact moment they shatter.
" I gesture at her with one massive hand.
"You are like a sword with a crack in the blade.
Still sharp. Still dangerous. But one good strike and you will break completely. "
She opens her mouth, probably to argue, she seems to enjoy arguing with me, I have noticed, but then closes it again. For a moment, just a moment, something flickers across her face. Something tired. Something that looks almost like acknowledgment.
Then it's gone, locked away behind her spreadsheet expression once more.
She sets down her cup with deliberate care, and I can see her gathering her professional armor around herself again, rebuilding the walls I almost breached.
"We need to finish your training," she announces, all business, all sharp edges restored. "You have a report due at the end of the week for the CEO."
"A report."
"Yes. A written summary of your first week observations and conflict resolution strategies."
I grunt. "I will write: Hit things less. Talk more. Humans are fragile and cannot be shaken vigorously even when they are being unreasonable." I pause, considering. "Also, the printer is cursed and should be thrown into a volcano, but apparently this violates the equipment warranty."
She peers at me for a long moment, her lips pressed into a thin line that suggests she is experiencing what she calls a migraine and what I call the body's natural response to spending too much time in fluorescent lighting.
"That's not going to cut it," she says finally, her voice clipped and precise. Professional. The voice she uses when she is trying very hard not to murder someone with a stapler.
"It is honest," I point out reasonably. "You said I should be honest in my reports. Those were your exact words during orientation. I remember them because you said them seventeen times."
"It needs to be at least five pages," she continues, ignoring my perfectly valid point. "Double-spaced. With citations."
I blink at her. "Five pages of what? There are only so many ways to say humans are fragile and should not be dropped or exposed to direct sunlight or unexpected honesty."
She pinches the bridge of her nose, and I notice the small wrinkle that appears between her eyebrows when she does this. I have seen this wrinkle many times today already.
I want to smooth it away with my thumb.
This is not a professional thought.
I am having many unprofessional thoughts about the Little Manager.
"Let's just get through today," she sighs. "Tomorrow we'll work on report writing."
"As you command."
Her eyes narrow. "I'm not commanding. I'm suggesting. There's a difference."
"You are definitely commanding."
"I'm being reasonable."
"You are being very small and very bossy, and it is extremely—" I stop myself before I finish that sentence, because the word that wants to come out is not appropriate for the workplace.
The word that wants to come out is arousing, and I have been told multiple times today that this kind of honesty makes HR nervous.
"Extremely what?" she challenges, chin lifting, eyes daring me to finish.
Brave little thing.
"Effective," I finish instead. Safe. Boring. Professional.
But my voice comes out rougher than intended, and I see the way her pupils dilate slightly, the way her breath catches just a fraction before she controls it.
She feels it too.
This pull.
This recognition.
She just hides it better.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of incomprehensible corporate rituals. Orla shows me how to log into something called "the portal." She explains "expense reports." She tries to teach me about "appropriate email etiquette."
I break another keyboard.
She brings me a backup keyboard.