I grunt, unconvinced, and head toward the breakroom before she can offer further explanations that will only confuse me more.
The breakroom is a small, rectangular space dominated by a large white box that hums ominously and a counter cluttered with a machine that smells faintly of burnt bean water.
The coffee maker, I assume.
Humans worship it like a shrine.
Against one wall are the "vending machines" Orla mentioned, glass-fronted boxes filled with brightly colored packages. I study them briefly, then dismiss them. Packaged food lacks spirit. No honor in eating something that has been sealed in plastic and left to languish.
I turn my attention to the large white box.
It opens with a gentle pull, and cold air spills out, carrying the scent of various foods stored within.
Ah.
A preservation chamber.
Inside, the shelves are lined with containers, bags, and wrapped parcels. Some are labeled with names written in permanent marker.
"Janet."
"Steve."
"DO NOT TOUCH, DEBORAH."
I scan the shelves methodically, considering my options. The containers labeled with names suggest ownership—territorial claims over specific food items. I reach for the one marked "Steve," a sandwich wrapped in clear film. It looks substantial, promising. Meat, cheese, vegetables layered generously between thick slices of bread.
This will do.
I unwrap it carefully, pulling away the plastic film, and take a bite.
Good.
Not great, but adequate. The bread is soft and fresh, the meat clearly processed but flavorful enough. There's a sharpness to the cheese that I appreciate, and some kind of leafy green that adds texture. I finish half of it in three large bites and am reaching for the other half when a voice cuts through the silence like a blade.
"Hey!"
I turn, still chewing.
A human male stands in the doorway, frozen mid-step. Thin. Pale. Wearing a shirt patterned with small checks and a tie that hangs slightly crooked around his neck. His eyes are wide, almost bulging, locked on the sandwich in my hand with the kind of horror usually reserved for battlefield atrocities.
"That's my lunch," he says, his voice climbing an octave.
I glance at the sandwich, then back at him, making the connection. "Your name is Steve?"
"Yes."
"Then this is indeed yours." I hold it up in acknowledgment, nodding respectfully. "It is very good. You have my gratitude for sharing."
"I didn't share," he says, his voice strangling in his throat. "Youstoleit."
I frown, genuinely confused by the accusation. "I did not steal. It was in the preservation chamber, available for consumption. I consumed it. This is how sustenance works."
"It had mynameon it!"
"Yes. Which is how I know you are Steve." I gesture with the sandwich, attempting to be friendly. "Hello, Steve. I am Thraka."
His face turns an interesting shade of red—not quite the crimson of fresh blood, but somewhere in the vicinity of overripe berries. "You can't just eat someone's lunch!"
