Barely.
I make a mental note to email facilities about ordering a reinforced chair before this one commits suicide and becomes another line item on my incident reports.
I hand him the keyboard, an ergonomic model that cost the department $200 because the CEO believes in supporting employee wellness through expensive accessories. "This is how you'll communicate. Type here, information appears on screen."
He takes the keyboard with both hands, massive palms dwarfing the sleek ergonomic design as he studies it with the kind of intense focus I imagine he usually reserves for weapons assessment or enemy weak points. He turns it over once, examines the curved shape, the split design meant to reduce wrist strain according to the marketing materials I had to read when approving the purchase order.
"Go ahead," I encourage, keeping my voice level and professional despite the creeping sense of dread building in me. "Type something. Anything. Your name works."
He nods, that earnest expression on his face that somehow makes him look less intimidating despite the tusks and the barely-contained physicality. He positions the keyboard back on the desk, squaring it with the monitor with surprising precision, then places his fingers on the keys with all the delicate care of someone who has absolutely no concept of appropriate pressure control.
Presses down.
The keyboard cracks clean in half.
Not a gradual break, not a stress fracture that develops over time from normal wear and tear—an immediate, catastrophic structural failure. The split ergonomic design becomes a split keyboard in the most literal sense possible, the two halves separating along a fracture line that definitely wasn't part of the original specifications.
Plastic fragments scatter across the desk, keys bouncing to the floor like tiny white casualties, and I watch $200 of departmental budget die a violent death.
"It was weak," Thraka says, examining the broken pieces with mild curiosity. "Poorly made."
"It was ergonomic," I correct through gritted teeth. "And you just destroyed it with your typing strength, which I didn'tknow was a thing that could happen, but apparently anything is possible in this nightmare dimension I now inhabit."
"I will use more care."
"Please do."
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 audibleclickof 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."
