Others come by. Marketing Linda brings cookies wrapped in plastic. IT Derek gives me a flash drive containing "essential survival software" which I suspect is just video games. Even Chad approaches, though he keeps his distance, offering a curt nod that might pass for respect in this land of subdued emotions.
I accept it all with the dignity of a warrior accepting tribute. These humans, strange and soft as they are, became something close to allies. Some might even qualify as friends, though I'm still unclear on where that line exists in corporate culture.
But through it all, every handshake, every awkward goodbye, every well-meaning gesture from these strange corporate humans who've somehow wormed their way past my defenses, I don't look toward her office.
I keep my gaze carefully neutral, directed anywhere except that corner workspace with its perfectly organized desk and motivational poster about synergy. The one where she sits right now, probably reviewing spreadsheets with that focused intensity I've memorized down to the exact angle of her jaw.
Can't look.
If I look, I'll see her. If I see her, this fragile control I'm maintaining will shatter like a cursed sword meeting dragon bone. And then what? I'll storm across the office floor, scatter her precious filing system, and demand she reconsider with all the diplomatic grace of a siege weapon?
No. Warriors know when retreat is the only honorable option.
So I accept the tribute, clasp the hands, nod at the well-wishes, all while keeping her firmly in my peripheral blindspot.
Looking at Orla Peace hurts in a way no battlefield wound ever managed. A physical ache that starts behind my ribs and spreads outward, poisoning every breath, making my chest feeltoo tight for my lungs. Warriors are trained to ignore pain, push through injury, function despite damage.
This is different.
This is choosing to walk away from the one thing I actually want in this bewildering world. From the woman who taught me about Excel spreadsheets and quarterly projections while falling apart in my arms. Who tastes like coffee and smells like anxiety and makes sounds in the dark that haunt me, beautiful and desperate and mine.
Was mine.
I heft the box, pathetically light, and walk toward the elevator. The metal prison that brought me here will carry me out. Poetic, probably. Orla would know. She reads poetry sometimes, when she thinks no one's watching, small paperback books hidden inside reports.
The elevator doors open. Empty. Good. I step inside, turn, watch the office disappear as the doors slide shut.
The descent is smooth, efficient, unremarkable. Everything in this building is designed for maximum efficiency, minimum friction, optimal workflow. No room for chaos or passion or dead rats presented as gifts.
No room for me.
The lobby gleams, all marble and glass, corporate prestige on display for visitors and clients. Security guard nods at me. "Good luck out there, big guy."
"Thank you for everything, Gerald."
The guard's expression shifts, a flicker of something, amusement? Pity? I cannot read the subtle human facial cues as well as Orla can. She catalogs microexpressions like data points, builds profiles of people from the tiniest muscular movements.
"It's Greg, actually," he corrects, voice mild, unoffended.
Heat creeps up my neck. Even now, even leaving, I mess up the small things. Names. Protocols. The difference between afarewell and a threat. I've worked here for months, passed this guard nearly every day, and never learned his name properly. Gerald. Greg. Close enough for orcs, perhaps, but humans place great importance on these details.
"My apologies, Greg." I shift the box, adjust my grip. "I meant no disrespect."
I push through the revolving door, emerge onto the street. The sky, previously clear, has turned gray, clouds rolling in with the kind of dramatic timing that happens in the stories Orla claims are "unrealistic." The first drops hit my face as I step onto the pavement.
Of course it rains. Of course the sky weeps as I leave.
Pathetic fallacy, she called it once, explaining literary devices while we waited for the cursed printer to unjam. When weather mirrors emotional states in stories. I argued that weather has no feelings, cannot comprehend human sorrow. She smiled, told me I was missing the point.
I understand now.
The rain intensifies, soaking through my cheap suit jacket, plastering my hair to my skull. I keep walking. The dive bar three blocks over knows my face, serves drinks in glasses large enough for orc proportions, asks no questions about green skin or cultural differences. I can wait out the storm there, figure out next steps, maybe book passage back to the homeworld if the portal network is accepting travelers.
Maybe forget the smell of her shampoo, the way she bites her lip when concentrating, how she feels pressed against the wall of a tool shed with rain hammering the roof.
Maybe.
Maybe I can erase the memory of her organized chaos, her color-coded calendars, the way she mouths calculations when she thinks no one's watching.
