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."
