"Please," she wheezes, wiping her eyes, still giggling helplessly. "Please tell me you didn't touch anyone's lunch with those hands."
"I washed them after the hunt."
"Oh my god."
"In the bathroom on the third floor. Very thoroughly. I used all the soap."
She dissolves into fresh laughter, and I realize I would hunt a hundred rats if it meant seeing her like this again. Unguarded. Real. Human instead of corporate robot.
When she finally catches her breath, she looks up at me from the floor, mascara smudged, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
"Karen from HR is going to have an aneurysm," she says.
"Is that bad?"
"Extremely bad. For you. For me. For everyone involved in the dead rat incident."
"Should I not have brought you the rat?"
She wipes her eyes again, smearing her makeup further. "No, Thraka. You definitely should not have brought me the rat. But thank you. For solving the pest problem. In the most horrifying way possible."
"You are welcome, Little Manager."
She starts laughing again, softer this time, and I decide that making Orla Peace laugh is now my favorite activity in this terrible fluorescent prison.
Even if it gets me fired.
Especially if it gets me fired.
A few hours later, everyone knows about the rat.
HR has sent four emails.
The CEO has sent two.
Orla has had three meetings about "appropriate workplace behavior" and "acceptable gift giving practices."
I have been banned from the basement.
Worth it.
Completely worth it.
Because now, when Orla looks at me, there is something different in her eyes. Something softer. Something that looks almost like fondness, buried under layers of exasperation and professional responsibility.
Progress.
We are in the conference room for the weekly department meeting. Orla sits next to me, rigid and proper, her makeup fixed, her armor back in place.
But I know what is underneath now.
I know she can laugh like that.
I know she can be undone.
Chad, the VP of Sales, swagger into the room late, smelling like expensive cologne and arrogance. He is tall for a human, muscular, with teeth that are too white and hair that is too perfect.
He reminds me of the warriors back home who spent more time polishing their armor than actually fighting.
