For him.
For whatever this feeling is that I refuse to name.
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'scalling 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.
