"I am not fidgeting," I counter, though I realize my free hand has been running along the metal railing that circles the elevator's interior, testing its sturdiness, gauging whether it could support my weight if we began to fall and I needed to brace myself against the walls. "I am assessing the structural integrity of this contraption. Standard battlefield reconnaissance. One must always know the weaknesses of one's surroundings."
"It's an elevator," she says, and now she does glance at me, just briefly, her expression caught somewhere between exasperation and that particular brand of weariness I seem to inspire in her with alarming frequency. "It's been inspected. Multiple times. By certified professionals. There are regulations. Safety protocols. Redundant systems. It's fine."
"You cannot know that with certainty. Many warriors have been felled by overconfidence in untested machinery."
She exhales through her nose, a sharp, controlled sound that I'm beginning to recognize as her version of counting to ten before violence.
The number changes to 3.
The doors open.
I step out before she does, scanning the corridor for threats, ambush points, possible escape routes. Old habits. Good habits. The kind that keep a warrior breathing long enough to become a mediator instead of a corpse.
This floor looks identical to the one below. Same pale walls. Same gray carpet that muffles footsteps and makes everything feel muted, dulled. Same humming lights that sap energy instead of providing it.
How do these humans survive in such a place?
"Conference room is this way," Orla says, already walking with that brisk, purposeful stride that eats up ground despite her small stature.
I follow, briefcase swinging at my side, and notice the way people react as we pass.
They freeze.
Stare.
One woman drops her coffee mug. It hits the carpet without breaking, and she scrambles to pick it up, her eyes never leaving me.
I nod at her in what I intend to be a friendly, reassuring manner, the kind of greeting that says, "I am no threat to you, fellow office dweller. We share this space in peace."
The woman's face drains of all color in an instant, going from a healthy pink to the shade of week-old porridge. She makes a small, strangled sound in the back of her throat, then practically throws herself sideways into the nearest office, the door slamming shut behind her with enough force that the frosted glass rattles in its frame.
I blink at the closed door, genuinely confused. What did I do wrong?
"You are scaring them," Orla observes from beside me, her tone flat and matter-of-fact, as if she's noting the weather or the malfunction of yet another piece of office equipment.
"I am being polite," I protest, turning to face her. "I smiled. I acknowledged her presence. These are the social customs you told me to practice."
"Your version of polite involves too many teeth," she says, not breaking stride as she continues down the corridor. "You're showing your canines. It looks like you're about to bite someone."
I consider this. "Perhaps. But teeth are honest. Better than the false smiles I have seen here. Everyone showing teeth but meaning threat."
She doesn't argue. Smart.
We reach the conference room. Through the glass walls, I can see several humans already seated around a long table, papers spread before them like battle maps.
Orla pauses at the door, one hand resting on the polished chrome handle, and glances back at me over her shoulder. Her expression is the same one I've seen her wear when explaining why we cannot, in fact, solve disagreements through trial by combat.
"This is a budget review meeting," she says in a specific tone of patient weariness I've come to recognize. "It will be extraordinarily boring. Possibly soul-crushing. You don't actually need to attend this one."
"I wish to observe," I tell her, straightening my shoulders in what I hope is a professional manner. The seam of my jacket protests slightly. "To learn the customs of your people. To understand how decisions are made in this place."
Her eyes narrow fractionally, studying me as if trying to determine whether I'm being genuine or simply stubborn. Possibly both.
"The primary custom," she says slowly, articulating each word with precision, "is sitting quietly in an uncomfortable chair for an extended period and not breaking any furniture. That's literally the entire requirement."
I nod enthusiastically. "I broke the table in the break room earlier by accident when I leaned on it. I have learned fromthis experience. I will be significantly more careful with weight distribution."
"That's..." She pinches the bridge of her nose, a gesture I've learned means she is reconsidering life choices. "That's not remotely as reassuring as you seem to think it is."
