Yulha gestured toward the chair across from her desk. Arthur sat, conscious of how the cramped office felt smaller with both of them in it. Filing cabinets lined every wall, creating narrow pathways between furniture. The desk itself was a battlefield of datapads, paper forms, and color-coded folders arranged in systems only Yulha understood.
"Your warehouse work was exemplary," Yulha said, professional mask sliding back into place. "Which means you're ready for the next assignment. Triangle Squad operations."
She pulled a thick folder from one of the cabinets, setting it before him with a weighty thud. Arthur opened it to reveal dozens of forms—requisition requests, deployment authorizations, equipment manifests, personnel assessments.
"Triangle Nikkes are classified assets," Yulha explained, sliding her chair closer to point at specific documents. "They work directly for Central Government. Every deployment requires three separate request forms—one for the operation itself, one for equipment authorization, one for personnel assignment. When a Nikke goes on duty, you fill out activation paperwork documenting their readiness status, equipment loadout, and mission parameters."
Her finger moved to another section. "After each operation, you complete assessment forms. Goals achieved, conditions encountered, equipment status, personnel performance, recommendations for future deployment. Every detail matters. Central Government uses these to determine funding, resource allocation, and operational priorities."
Arthur studied the forms, recognizing the logical structure from his warehouse training. Categories, subcategories, cross-references. "Who handles these for Triangle specifically?"
"I do." Yulha's tone was matter-of-fact.
Arthur looked up sharply. "All of them?"
"Yes."
"By yourself?"
"Yes."
He glanced at the stacks of datapads, the overflowing folders, the filing cabinets that surely contained years of meticulously maintained records. His mind calculated the volume of work required to keep Triangle Squad operational—three Nikkes deploying regularly, each mission generating multiple forms, all requiring detailed attention.
"That's..."
"Necessary," Yulha interrupted. "Admi would panic if she had to handle mission-critical documentation. She's excellent at routine processing, but anything involving combat operations makes her anxious. And Privaty..." She sighed. "Privaty tries. She works hard. But she's sloppy. No matter how carefully she thinks she's hidden mistakes, I find them."
Arthur saw the exhaustion more clearly now—not just physical fatigue but the weight of carrying responsibility no one else could share. "How much sleep are you getting?"
Yulha's expression tightened. "Enough."
"That's not an answer."
"Four hours. Sometimes five." She picked up a datapad, scrolling through what looked like scheduling conflicts. "It's fine. I manage."
"It's not fine." Arthur leaned forward. "Let me help. Split the workload with me."
Yulha's hands stilled on the datapad. "You don't understand. Triangle paperwork is just one part of my duties. I handle supply chain coordination for seven operational squads, maintain inventory systems for the entire courthouse complex, process requisitions from fifteen different departments, file mission reports to five separate oversight committees—"
"Then let me take Triangle off your plate entirely," Arthur said. "Teach me your system. I'll handle every form, every assessment, every request. You focus on everything else."
"Why?" The question came out sharper than Yulha probably intended. "Why do you care? You barely know me. We had one night that we both agreed to forget—"
"I want to share another drink with you," Arthur said quietly.
The office fell silent. Yulha stared at him, yellow eyes wide with surprise. Her fingers drummed against the desk—that nervous gesture again, revealing the vulnerability beneath her professional armor.
"That's..." She struggled for words. "You want to help me with days of bureaucratic hell so we can have drinks?"
"So you can get some sleep," Arthur corrected. "And then, when you're rested, we can have drinks. Talk. Figure out what that night meant."
Yulha set down the datapad with careful precision. "You're serious."
"Completely."
She studied his face, searching for deception and finding none. "You understand this work is harder than warehouse inventory? Triangle forms require understanding operational protocols, combat assessments, equipment specifications, personnel evaluations. It's not just data entry—it's analysis."
"Then teach me."
Yulha was quiet for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled—tired but genuine. "Alright. But first, you need rest. You've been working since 0800. It's past 1500. Go back to your quarters, sleep, come back tomorrow at 0800—"
"No."
Her smile faded. "Arthur—"
"Show me the forms now," he insisted. "Explain your system. I'll start immediately."
"You'll burn yourself out."
"Says the woman running on four hours of sleep."
Yulha opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. Her expression shifted to something calculating, almost competitive. "Fine. You want to prove you can handle this? We'll split the current backlog. Triangle has six pending deployment requests, twelve equipment requisitions, and eight post-mission assessments that need completing by Friday. Three days from now."
Arthur did the math. "That's over eight forms per day for each of us."
"Plus ongoing operational documentation as new missions deploy." Yulha pulled another folder from her desk, dividing its contents into two neat stacks. "I'll take deployment requests and half the assessments. You handle equipment requisitions and the remaining assessments. We work separately but cross-check each other's forms before final submission. Any mistakes, we both redo that section."
She was turning it into a competition. Arthur recognized the challenge in her tired eyes—she didn't think he could keep pace.
"Deal," he said.
Yulha spent the next hour walking Arthur through Triangle's documentation standards. Her teaching style was precise, methodical, unforgiving of shortcuts. She explained how equipment requisitions required cross-referencing current inventory against projected mission needs, how to calculate ammunition consumption rates based on past deployment data, how to justify upgrade requests with performance metrics.
Assessment forms were worse. Each required detailed analysis of mission outcomes, equipment performance, personnel conduct, tactical decisions, and recommendations for future operations. Yulha showed him how to write assessments that satisfied oversight committees without revealing classified operational details, how to phrase criticism constructively, how to request additional resources without appearing wasteful.
"The language matters," she emphasized, pointing to specific phrases in her example forms. "'Equipment performed adequately under standard conditions' means different things to different committees. Supply chain reads it as 'no upgrades needed.' Tactical oversight reads it as 'potential improvement areas exist.' You need to know your audience."
Arthur absorbed everything, taking mental notes, asking clarifying questions. By the time Yulha finished her briefing, evening had arrived. The courthouse had emptied, leaving only the hum of ventilation systems and distant footsteps of security patrols.
"You should go," Yulha said, handing him half the documentation stack.
"Where are you going?"
"Nowhere. I have three deployment requests to complete tonight."
Arthur settled into the office's second chair—barely more than a stool tucked in the corner. "Then I'm staying. I have four equipment requisitions to finish."
Yulha looked ready to argue, but something in his expression stopped her. Instead, she simply nodded and turned to her own work.
They worked in silence, broken only by the scratch of styluses on datapads and occasional questions about protocol interpretations. Arthur discovered quickly that Yulha hadn't exaggerated the difficulty. Equipment requisitions required understanding not just what Triangle needed but why, supported by data from previous missions, projected operational tempo, and comparative analysis against other squads.
His first form took two hours. He cross-checked it three times before showing Yulha.
She scanned it with professional speed, then circled two sections in red. "Your ammunition calculations are off. You used standard consumption rates instead of Triangle-specific patterns. And this justification for upgraded tactical vests doesn't account for budgetary constraints—supply chain will reject it immediately."
Arthur redid those sections. It took another hour.
The second form went faster—ninety minutes. Yulha found one mistake.
By the third form, Arthur was beginning to understand the rhythm of Triangle's operational needs, the language that satisfied bureaucratic requirements, the data points that mattered most. Yulha's corrections became less frequent.
At 0200, she set down her stylus and stretched, spine cracking audibly. "You're learning faster than I expected."
Arthur looked up from his fourth requisition, eyes burning from screen glare. "You're a good teacher."
"I'm a demanding teacher," Yulha corrected. "Most people quit after the first round of corrections."
"I'm not most people."
Something flickered in Yulha's expression—respect, maybe attraction, definitely surprise. "No. You're not." She stood, moving to her small office refrigerator. "Coffee?"
"Please."
She poured two cups from a thermal carafe, handing one to Arthur. Their fingers brushed during the exchange. Neither acknowledged it, but neither pulled away immediately.
"Why Triangle?" Arthur asked after a long sip. "Why take on all this responsibility yourself?"
Yulha returned to her desk, cradling her cup. "Because someone has to. Triangle Squad keeps Central Government functioning during crises. If their paperwork falls behind, if forms get rejected, if assessments aren't completed properly, the entire administrative infrastructure suffers. Admi can't handle that pressure. Privaty isn't precise enough. So it falls to me."
"That doesn't mean it should only be you."
"It does if no one else meets the standards." She met his eyes over the rim of her cup. "Until now, apparently."
They returned to work. The night blurred into morning. At some point, Admi arrived for her shift and found them both still working, surrounded by completed forms and half-empty coffee cups. She took one look at the scene and quietly retreated.
By 0800, Arthur had completed his four equipment requisitions and two of his assigned assessments. Yulha had finished all three deployment requests and her remaining assessments. They cross-checked each other's work, finding only minor issues that required quick corrections.
"Day one complete," Yulha announced, filing their finished forms in the appropriate submission folders. "Two more days to finish the backlog."
Arthur should have felt exhausted. Instead, he felt energized by the challenge, by working alongside someone who demanded excellence and accepted nothing less.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asked.
Yulha's tired smile held genuine warmth. "1500. I have morning briefings. Don't be late."
Arthur returned to the Outpost long enough to shower, change clothes, and grab a quick meal. Scarlet asked about his training; he summarized the work without mentioning staying up all night. She studied his face with knowing eyes but didn't push.
At 1500, he was back in Yulha's office. She had another stack of forms waiting—the ongoing operational documentation she'd warned about. New deployment requests, updated equipment manifests, revised assessment criteria from oversight committees.
"The work never stops," she said simply.
They divided the new assignments and continued where they'd left off. The second day followed the same pattern—hours of detailed work, careful cross-checking, Yulha's exacting standards pushing Arthur to refine his understanding of bureaucratic language and operational analysis.
By the third day, dark circles had formed under Arthur's eyes. His goddesium prosthetics never tired, but the rest of him was running on willpower and caffeine. Yulha looked similarly exhausted, though her pace never slowed.
They worked past midnight again, finishing the final backlog assessments and most of the new operational documentation. The office had become their shared domain, a bubble of focused effort isolated from the rest of the courthouse.
"Last one," Yulha said, passing Arthur the final equipment requisition that needed review.
He scanned it with practiced efficiency, found no errors, signed off with his stylus. "Done."
Yulha took the datapad, verified his approval, and filed it with the others. Then she leaned back in her chair and exhaled deeply. "We actually did it."
"Was there any doubt?"
"From you? No." She smiled, exhausted but genuine. "From me? I didn't think I'd let anyone help. But you kept pace. Maintained standards. Didn't cut corners even when you were obviously tired."
Arthur gestured at the dark circles he could feel forming under his eyes. "How obvious?"
"Very." Yulha stood, moving around the desk. "But attractive. Dedication is attractive."
She'd said that before. This time, she followed it with action—leaning down to kiss him gently, briefly, before pulling back with uncertain eyes.
"That drink," she said quietly. "I think I owe you one now."