Skovgard checked the charts one last time as he slung his coat, tailored immaculately, over his rigid shoulders. He was too late, of course; Ona had clocked out already, so the readings had all flatlined. He didn't have the warrants needed to check her levels when she wasn't at work, but still, he was tempted. He didn't override the system only because he knew it would come back to bite him later. He had people watching him, after all, just like she did.

Poor girl. He'd given her the chance to turn herself around, as she'd requested, rather than chasing the legal channels to force her into a psych's chair, or that of an aeroplane cabin heading to Dubai or Rio de Janeiro or the star-city. Now she had to make good on her promise. For her own sake.[hr][hr]"[color=8d97bf]So what happened, Ona? You all right?[/color]" Jules asked. He wanted to know for his own sake, of course—whether directly, or in the form of his partner being taken away for other obligations around the company—but somehow it seemed impolite to mention that fact. Selfish. Anyway, she didn't answer, and that only meant it was something sensitive. He wondered, but didn't press her further. He was like that elsewhere, too: avoiding participating in cubicle gossip, but being unable to stop himself from eavesdropping, speculating.

Back to the grind. Soon enough he was home again, and this time, in the first night since he'd returned from his trip, he had the time and the energy about him to clean up a little. Food in the fridge which had gone rancid was discarded. The hoard of clothes atop the living room chair was divided, and sorted into neater places. The suitcase was half-unpacked, just to keep the shirts and slacks from getting attached to their wrinkles. The rest remained in that little pleather cocoon as distraction and diversion beckoned for Jules, who sat in front of his screens, and besides getting up for a drink or a bite of something cheap, salty, and instant, did not move til after midnight, when he knew it was time to get his six hours for another day at work.

Tedious. Monotonous. Well, at least it wasn't dangerous. Would it be worth getting out of this droning beehive if it meant having a point-one-percent chance every day of being in a tunnel collapse, or an oil spill, or any other workplace danger? Tucking himself in that night, like so many other nights, he dreamed of having the courage to tell these people where to stuff it. He imagined being a globetrotter and a philanthropist, having just enough money to never worry about food and shelter, but not enough to allure him to one place for long. In this fantasy world he needed no one but himself, answering to no paycheck but his own. And when he woke up he couldn't remember what he'd dreamed about; neither in sleep nor in the restless turning before.