Chapter 12 Thraka
THRAKA
The metal box they call a desk drawer barely holds my belongings. Pitiful, really. Three months in this world, this realm of fluorescent lights and passive aggression, and all I have to show for it fits in one cardboard container that once held copier paper.
I lift the dead rat first. Dried now, preserved by accident when I left it in the desk's bottom drawer.
A trophy from my first successful hunt in these lands, the beast I dragged from the basement depths to impress her.
She screamed. Then laughed. That sound, wild and uncontrolled, was the first crack in her armor, the first glimpse of the woman beneath the blazer and spreadsheets.
I wrap the rat carefully in tissue paper, the soft, delicate kind someone left abandoned on top of the printer weeks ago, probably forgotten gift-wrapping from some office birthday celebration.
My thick fingers fumble with the thin material at first, tearing it slightly before I adjust my grip, gentler this time.
The paper crinkles as I fold it around the small, stiffened body, creating a makeshift shroud for what amounts to the strangest trophy I've ever claimed.
Back home, I would have hung it from my belt or mounted it on a spear.
Here, in this fluorescent-lit realm of spreadsheets and ergonomic chairs, I preserve it in delicate tissue paper like some fragile artifact.
The absurdity isn't lost on me, but then again, nothing about this place has ever made conventional sense.
The stapler goes next. Red, stolen from Chad's desk after he made the mistake of commenting on my reports using words like "primitive" and "unsophisticated." I challenged him to single combat. He filed an HR complaint. I kept his stapler as a spoil of war. It staples with satisfying violence.
A half-eaten protein bar. Three pens that survived my grip. A coffee mug Orla gave me that says "World's Okayest Employee" because she claimed "World's Best" would be a lie and she refuses to lie, even for morale. The mug is the size of a soup bowl. I need both hands to drink from it properly.
That's it, then. That's everything. The sum total of my existence in this fluorescent wilderness, reduced to a handful of objects that fit in a single cardboard box with room to spare.
I stare down at the meager collection, feeling the wrongness of it like undigested meat.
In my old life, a warrior's worth could be measured by his trophies, his scars, the stories told around the fire.
Here, I have a dead cockroach, a stolen stapler, and a mug that insults me with measured precision.
Around me, the office continues its relentless hum.
Keyboards clacking. Phones ringing. The cursed printer whirring to life before inevitably jamming.
The sounds became familiar, almost comforting, the rhythm of this strange tribe's daily rituals.
I learned to navigate their customs, their unspoken hierarchies, their bizarre devotion to email chains and scheduled meetings about meetings.
I learned to adapt, to bend myself into shapes that fit within the confines of their fluorescent kingdom, to translate the language of blood and steel into PowerPoints and performance metrics.
And now I'm leaving it all behind.
Steve from Accounting walks past my desk, his perpetual coffee stain visible on his shirt pocket, carrying a stack of manila folders that threatens to topple at any moment.
He sees my pathetic cardboard box, stops mid-stride, and his expression shifts from his usual harried blankness to something resembling genuine surprise.
"You're really going?" His voice carries that particular pitch of disbelief reserved for when the impossible becomes real.
"Yes."
"That sucks, man. You were fun. Terrifying, absolutely terrifying, but fun." He shifts his weight from foot to foot, shoulders hunching in that awkward way humans do when confronting emotions they'd rather not feel. "Sorry about the sandwich thing. From, you know, when you first started."
"You have nothing to apologize for. I should not have eaten your lunch without permission.
It was a clear breach of tribal custom." I remember that day with perfect clarity, the turkey and swiss on rye, the way Steve's face went pale when he opened the empty refrigerator, my genuine confusion about why he seemed so distressed when food was clearly meant to be eaten.
"I did not yet understand the sacred nature of labeled containers. "
"Yeah, well." He shrugs, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the solemnity of the moment. "You offered to fight me for it afterward. That was pretty metal. Chad still talks about it."
We clasp hands in the warrior's grip, forearm to forearm. His grip is weak compared to orc standards, his bones feeling fragile beneath my careful restraint, but he tries. He squeezes with genuine effort, meeting my eyes with something that might be respect.
I appreciate the effort more than he could possibly know.
Others come by. Marketing Linda brings cookies wrapped in plastic.
IT Derek gives me a flash drive containing "essential survival software" which I suspect is just video games.
Even Chad approaches, though he keeps his distance, offering a curt nod that might pass for respect in this land of subdued emotions.
I accept it all with the dignity of a warrior accepting tribute. These humans, strange and soft as they are, became something close to allies. Some might even qualify as friends, though I'm still unclear on where that line exists in corporate culture.
But through it all, every handshake, every awkward goodbye, every well-meaning gesture from these strange corporate humans who've somehow wormed their way past my defenses, I don't look toward her office.
I keep my gaze carefully neutral, directed anywhere except that corner workspace with its perfectly organized desk and motivational poster about synergy. The one where she sits right now, probably reviewing spreadsheets with that focused intensity I've memorized down to the exact angle of her jaw.
Can't look.
If I look, I'll see her. If I see her, this fragile control I'm maintaining will shatter like a cursed sword meeting dragon bone. And then what? I'll storm across the office floor, scatter her precious filing system, and demand she reconsider with all the diplomatic grace of a siege weapon?
No. Warriors know when retreat is the only honorable option.
So I accept the tribute, clasp the hands, nod at the well-wishes, all while keeping her firmly in my peripheral blindspot.
Looking at Orla Peace hurts in a way no battlefield wound ever managed. A physical ache that starts behind my ribs and spreads outward, poisoning every breath, making my chest feel too tight for my lungs. Warriors are trained to ignore pain, push through injury, function despite damage.
This is different.
This is choosing to walk away from the one thing I actually want in this bewildering world.
From the woman who taught me about Excel spreadsheets and quarterly projections while falling apart in my arms. Who tastes like coffee and smells like anxiety and makes sounds in the dark that haunt me, beautiful and desperate and mine.
Was mine.
I heft the box, pathetically light, and walk toward the elevator. The metal prison that brought me here will carry me out. Poetic, probably. Orla would know. She reads poetry sometimes, when she thinks no one's watching, small paperback books hidden inside reports.
The elevator doors open. Empty. Good. I step inside, turn, watch the office disappear as the doors slide shut.
The descent is smooth, efficient, unremarkable. Everything in this building is designed for maximum efficiency, minimum friction, optimal workflow. No room for chaos or passion or dead rats presented as gifts.
No room for me.
The lobby gleams, all marble and glass, corporate prestige on display for visitors and clients. Security guard nods at me. "Good luck out there, big guy."
"Thank you for everything, Gerald."
The guard's expression shifts, a flicker of something, amusement? Pity? I cannot read the subtle human facial cues as well as Orla can. She catalogs microexpressions like data points, builds profiles of people from the tiniest muscular movements.
"It's Greg, actually," he corrects, voice mild, unoffended.
Heat creeps up my neck. Even now, even leaving, I mess up the small things.
Names. Protocols. The difference between a farewell and a threat.
I've worked here for months, passed this guard nearly every day, and never learned his name properly.
Gerald. Greg. Close enough for orcs, perhaps, but humans place great importance on these details.
"My apologies, Greg." I shift the box, adjust my grip. "I meant no disrespect."
I push through the revolving door, emerge onto the street. The sky, previously clear, has turned gray, clouds rolling in with the kind of dramatic timing that happens in the stories Orla claims are "unrealistic." The first drops hit my face as I step onto the pavement.
Of course it rains. Of course the sky weeps as I leave.
Pathetic fallacy, she called it once, explaining literary devices while we waited for the cursed printer to unjam. When weather mirrors emotional states in stories. I argued that weather has no feelings, cannot comprehend human sorrow. She smiled, told me I was missing the point.
I understand now.
The rain intensifies, soaking through my cheap suit jacket, plastering my hair to my skull.
I keep walking. The dive bar three blocks over knows my face, serves drinks in glasses large enough for orc proportions, asks no questions about green skin or cultural differences.
I can wait out the storm there, figure out next steps, maybe book passage back to the homeworld if the portal network is accepting travelers.