He watched her a long time, a very long time, without saying a word. Ona could not quite determine whether it was full-blown disbelief churning there behind his icy eyes, or mere skepticism; anger at having been lied to? Pity. Perhaps he was making up his mind himself on that matter, of how he wanted to feel in response to her words. He seemed cool about it, controlled; truly he had choice picks.

Finally something cracked in him, and he deigned to reply in words, recognizing, perhaps, that she would be no help in probing his brain, and helping him to sort and categorize the many things he thought and felt about this matter: "[color=#FF6363]Well, let's not keep them waiting, then. You're excused, Ms. Ví. Health and happiness.[/color]" Abruptly he was pretending she didn't exist; he turned his attention back the screen, and started clicking away, as if she'd evaporated, or had never existed at all, a mere phantom haunting the office.

He'd typed three letters—"E L L"— into a search directory. He scrolled through the jungle of Ellises and Ellingtons and Ellens. Finally he had navigated his way to the Elliotts. Dozens of them existed throughout the company's many branches, but very few were Elliotts, A.J.

Skovgard brought up the charts and he sighed. If only Alan's habits would rub off on his coworker! His vacations, while a bit frequent, were well-paced, to begin. What else did he do to keep his stress low and his productivity high, wondered the director? If he wasn't so quiet during breaks he could probably be persuaded to give a talk to the struggling employees.

When Ona had returned to the control room, Jewel was just screwing the cap back onto his flask, his chair pushed off against the wall where the cameras couldn't see. "[color=8d97bf]Just finished the fourth one,[/color]" he said. It was a lie, of course. He'd finished it ten minutes ago, and he was taking a micro-nap behind the anonymity of the one-way mirror. Ona had come back sooner than he expected, so although his hands were sluggish in returning the booze to the inside pocket of his windbreaker, with antithetical speed he kicked his wheeled chair back toward the dials and knobs of the control panels.

He didn't try to hide it from her anymore. He hadn't tried in months or years by then (they'd lost count). The hoard of breath mints in his desk betrayed him even when the stink of his sweat didn't.