But despite her reservations, she opens the door anyway, holding it with one hand while gesturing me through with the other, and I follow her inside, ducking slightly to avoid the doorframe.
The meeting is, exactly as she promised, tedious beyond all reasonable measure.
Numbers. Charts. Projections and allocations and a debate about quarterly expenditures that makes my brain itch with boredom. I sit in a chair that groans beneath my weight and do my best to look attentive while my stomach begins to rumble.
I should have eaten before the metal box.
Rookie mistake.
Orla, seated across from me, is completely absorbed. She references her own charts, her own projections, countering every argument with precision and data. She is in her element here, fighting with spreadsheets instead of swords, and I can see why the others in the room defer to her even when they disagree.
She is formidable.
Small, yes. Human, yes. Delicate by the standards of my people, with bones that seem almost fragile compared to orcish thickness. But formidable nonetheless. I watch her dismantle another manager's proposal with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and a pointed question about his source data, and I recognize a warrior who knows exactly where to strike.
The meeting drags on.
And on.
And on.
Someone starts talking about "synergy optimization" and "cross-functional alignment," phrases that sound like they should mean something but dissolve into nonsense the moment I try to grasp them. Another person opens yet another presentation, this one with more pie charts than the last. I'm not convinced these charts have anything to do with actual pie, which is deeply disappointing.
My stomach rumbles louder, a low growl that reverberates through my chest like distant thunder. Several heads turn. One woman clutches her folder defensively.
Orla's eyes flick to me immediately, sharp and narrow. A warning. The look says:Do not embarrass me. Do not challenge anyone to combat. Do not eat the intern.
I nod, slow and deliberate. Patient. Controlled. See? I can be civilized. I am adapting beautifully to office culture.
Her expression suggests she does not entirely believe me, but she returns her attention to the spreadsheet in front of her anyway, her pen tapping a precise rhythm against the table's edge.
But when the meeting finally ends and the humans disperse with their folders and laptops, I stand and stretch, my joints popping in a satisfying cascade.
"I need food," I announce.
Orla checks her watch, a slim, expensive thing that probably tracks more than just time. "It's only eleven forty-five."
"That is lunchtime," I point out, because it clearly is.
"Lunch is at noon," she corrects, her voice crisp and final, as though the universe itself has designated noon as the only acceptable hour for sustenance.
"Fifteen minutes is irrelevant," I counter, gesturing broadly at the emptiness of my stomach. "My body requires fuel now. Immediately. The meeting has depleted me. I am a warrior running on fumes."
She pinches the bridge of her nose. "Fine. The breakroom is down the hall. There are vending machines."
"What is a vending machine?" I ask, because I have never encountered one before, and Orla's explanation was insufficient.
She exhales slowly, the sound barely audible but weighted with the effort of someone who has already explained too many obvious things today. "A box that dispenses food when you insert money."
I frown, processing this strange ritual. "The food is held hostage?"
"No," she says, her tone clipped and precise. "You pay for it."
I cross my arms, unconvinced by this explanation. "So it is ransomed. The food is trapped inside the box, and the box demands payment before releasing it. That is the definition of ransom."
"It's commerce, Thraka. Basic capitalism." She says this as though it clarifies everything, as though these words should be self-explanatory and universally understood.
They are not.
