[whoops]

Ona's face fell in to a somewhat over dramatic frown. "Oh for Pete's sake Jules... you act like I told you to go to time out." She pressed her lips together firmly and rolled her eyes, setting her drink down on the counter. For as much as she was hard on herself she didn't empathize much with how lenient Jules was with himself. He could clean his own house if he didn't want a maid... or he could just hire a maid... he made enough money. Either way there was really no excuse and she didn't feel like she was being overly difficult about it. In her mind, she was just trying to help. "She's a kid... it's not a set up. But whatever. It's not my house, and not my problem. Live in filth if you want."

With that her attention became somewhat blank and distant, staring in to one of the cabinet doors in his kitchen as though it were a window in to the abyss. She idly ran the tip of her index finger around the rim of the glass, letting the smooth pressure distract her from his antics.

If there was one thing that gnawed at Jules' patience, it was passive-aggressiveness. It suggested condescension to him; that the person thought he was too stupid to realize when he was being derided. "Live in filth if you want." Indeed.

It was strange to him how much she seemed to care; what was it to her if his apartment was dirtier than hers? Not dirty; dirtier, comparatively. His walls weren't crumbling like a drug den's; he wasn't sleeping on yellow, crusty sheets with an addict's shamelessness. Neither did he need the place sanitized and spotless-white like a hospital ward when he had guests over. It was a perfectly normal place, as he was concerned.

He could guess and grasp at multitudes of motivations for this behavior in Ona: she revered the rank of guest, perhaps, and when she took such pains to accommodate her guests, she expected of her hosts the same reverence. Or she believed those platitudes about a healthy home being a happy home. Or it was another way to feel superior to people. Whatever the reason, Jewel saw no reason to see this topic further along; it would only make work awkward tomorrow, if things between them were tense. The quality of their work would suffer if the person behind the mirror and the person in front of it, connected via earpieces and hidden mics, were not getting along.

"How's the drink?" he asked. Of course he could justify it however he liked, but at the end of the day, he just tried to avoid conflict with people.

Unfortunately passive aggressive was almost the only type of aggressiveness that Ona knew. Perhaps Jules wouldn't have been so offended if he truly knew how little Ona thought of herself. The standard that she held him to was certainly not that critical in comparison. She blinked mindlessly at the drink... it was an empty question, met with an empty answer. "It's a bit strong... but they usually are when you make them."

She looked up and smiled politely, picking up the glass and taking another sip so minuscule that the level in the glass didn't even seem to lower. She set it back down, taking a deep almost sighed breath as she slid her heeled feet back to the floor, being careful to balance on them before putting her weight down. "Thank you for the drink... I really should get to the office though. I've got a lot of files to go through and get organized before tomorrow." Her head bobbed slightly, silently agreeing with herself that the answer to all awkwardness was to drown herself in work. "You should get some rest. You've had a long flight."

Regardless of the tension in the room, her face was soft and calm smiling outwardly to him. Any interaction gone wrong was always nothing more than a way for Ona to work on improving herself for next time. He needed rest, she needed to distract herself with work... everything would be normal tomorrow. That's how it worked for her. She picked up her keys and attempted to nonchalantly run her hands down her hips to ensure that her outfit laid back out smoothly after having been seated.

Terribly dejected, Jewel straightened out his posture, and took a few meek steps toward the door. It seemed to him too quick yet to apologize, so he reckoned he would do so later, when they saw each other at work. Until then, though, he accommodated her; he'd open the door, and operate the lift, and walk her to the car.

Indeed. He could blame the jet lag for his crankiness later. It was mostly true, after all. He did not want to whine about going back to work before he'd even gotten on another bus, clocked in for another slow, grueling day trapped within the blinding white walls. But beyond the excuses, he could only feel disappointment in himself; failure and defeat. He didn't think he tried to push people away, but that evidently was how it always turned out, nevertheless. Next time he wouldn't stand his ground so fiercely, he decided. Next time he would reach a place of compromise with Ona's ideas, instead of being sardonic and petty.

"Sure," he said, nodding. "Use the autopilot function, Ona. It's what it's there for. Just in case." He glanced toward the glass she had left behind. Half-full as it was, and skilled as she was behind the wheel, she didn't need to operate the thing while she was irritable and tipsy.

He didn't bother throwing a coat on; he hadn't yet taken his shoes off (perhaps to her chagrin), so he simply stepped outside and waited for her to follow suit; scanning the counter and the chair and the coffee-table for anything she might have left behind.

Ona's sweet smile returned to her face. She was always good at that... putting on a happy face no matter what was going on. It was a wonder that she ever smiled though really. Certainly she knew that smiling would eventually cause wrinkles. The smile never quite reached her grey blue eyes either. There was a sadness to those eyes that never seemed to fade or falter. She followed his gaze to her drink and half laughed, waving him off. "I barely touched it Jules... really I'm fine."

She gave herself one last check over before gracefully accepting the open door and heading towards her car. She could consider the ways and reasons why this interaction went wrong, but her mind had already shifted to her work. It was always best to drown herself with work rather than face unpleasantness. She would review the files, prepare a preliminary report, and categorize them based on initial assessments. Then when Jules came in tomorrow he would find that they were all ready for review, which he could do while she contacted them in order to call them in for interviews. Yes, the idea that she could complete all of this single highhandedly, even on a day off, gave some form of satisfaction that was enough to keep her returning, keep her in line. She was perhaps the last person on any potential list of converts or deserters that may have existed. She had nothing left but the company.

As they approached her vehicle to the light ticking sound of her heels tapping the smooth floor of the parking garage she paused and turned to wish Jules farewell. "Thank you for having me. I shall have to return the favor sometime... perhaps next weekend. Get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow." She leaned in to give him one of those strange, cordial hugs where nothing but their hands really touch you. The space between them grew somehow colder than the air around them. She placed the lightest of kisses on the edge of his cheek before turning to the car.

The kiss tingled at his cheek in the manner of a malaise, rather like the strange tickling in the cartilage of one's nose just before the surging-forth of a violent sneeze. By pressing his arms firmly and awkwardly to his sides after he reciprocated the hug, he suppressed the urge to reach at his cheek, to catch the kiss there, to bottle it and poke airholes in the jar lid, and place it on the mantel. He knew it was a cordial, "polite" kiss, like the kisses barons placed on their kings' ring fingers, but nonetheless, even that degree of intimacy, from the lips of the aloof and frigid Ona, sent him aback.

"Leave it to me. See ya, Ona," he said, though whether he meant work, planning that next visit, or cleaning up the paltry mess she had made of his glass and countertop, he did not say; perhaps any of them or all at once. Waving, he stood around and watched her go until she was out of sight. That was the politest thing he could do without chasing the car like an untrained dog.

When Jules took the lift back to his floor, and turned the doorknob, he realized he'd forgotten his keycard on the counter. So much for salvaging a peaceful evening. "Shit. Shi-it!" He slapped his forehead hard against the shimmering door, and just stood leaning into it for several long moments, his arms limp. He'd have to climb the fire escape.

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Ona didn't so much as glance in the rear view mirror as she pulled away. Her mind was already in other places. The only was to drown out her self-loathing was to constantly immerse herself in other things. Most often these "things" were work related, occasionally it was shopping or dressing or makeup. She was so utterly lonely and yet allowed herself no time to ever attempt to meet or speak to other people. She was petrified of it really. Her mind constantly played out all of the ways that she could be rejected by every person she met or even saw. They all judged her. She knew it was so, and it drove the cycle back around to suffocating herself in meaningless busywork that drained her very soul every second of every day.

She went straight to work. A fake smile spread on her face as she greeted those she passed, explaining at the desk that Jules had made it on time and not needed any assistance, so she thought she'd come in and get the files ready. No one cared. To everyone else, Ona was there because Ona had nowhere else to be. No one had ever heard of Ona going out with friends, or going on a date. No one ever saw Ona outside of work. Ona worked, and people assumed that she slept sometimes... and that was about it. The girl at the desk smiled and nodded, politely responding to Ona's story despite her eyes screaming for Ona to shut up and leave her alone. Ona made her way back to the meager office that she shared with Jules for desk work. It was cramped and the files took up more space than the desks and chairs. The surface of her desk was almost indiscernible under the new stacks of folders.

She closed the door as she stepped in, pausing and letting her meager weight fall back against the cold surface. The chill of the wood dulled where the straps of leather wrapped her torso. For a moment she felt as though her entire chest might cave in if she opened even one more folder, read one more name. Her throat tightened and she struggled to breathe, imagining herself crumpling to the floor and ceasing to exist right where she stood, but nothing happened, and the files stayed there, so she pushed off the door and moved to sink in to her chair. Once there, the robotic habitual behaviors kicked in. She opened each file, read and re-read. She organized them... categorized them. She shifted them again and again, based on the most minute of details.

In the closet sized office with no windows time stood still. Outside the hours passed, people wrapped up and left, the janitors came in and cleaned, and the lights were shut off and the doors locked. No one bothered to check on Ona, no one cared. No one so much as batted an eyelash at the one last vehicle sitting in the parking garage. Somewhere in the middle of the night, the exhaustion got the best of her and she fell asleep with her face on her desk and a file in her hand. She was surrounded by papers with brightly colored flag markers sticking out of them. The lights stayed on, and her computer gave off a soft humming sound. It was perfect. Ona dreamt that she too had gone on a beautiful tropical vacation, only the water was clear and the sky blue. She was beautiful in a bikini bathing suit. She could feel the warmth on her face and shoulders. It was perfect.

Jules thought that between the physical exertion of climbing up the fire escape and slipping himself through his unlocked window, and downing the last of Ona's Bloody Mary before rinsing the cup in the sink, and the jet-lag, he might be able to tranquilize himself for a few hours. It was not to be. With the knowledge that he had work the next day came stress, with which came a restlessness tingling in his legs and creeping up into his gut. For hours he turned over in his bed, sure that he wanted to sleep, until he decided that it was in vain. He also was the sort to let his failures and embarrassments play on loop in his brain, so despite his best efforts, he spent much of this time cataloguing what he had done wrong with Ona that evening, opportunities he had missed for salvaging himself and their evening; how awkward work would be in the morning.

Eventually he gave up. When he had slithered out of bed he slipped his feet into slippers, and shuffled across the room, where he sat himself down at the many flickering screens and tiny, whirring gears. He booted the machine up from hibernation mode and began to whittle his hours away. He'd been told these brights lights messed with his circadian rhythm, and other such scientific jargon, but if he wasn't going to sleep anyway, he didn't see the harm in it. So by the time he was supposed to be groggily shaking himself out of his micro-coma, and coercing himself at gunpoint into an ill-fitting suit and onto a bus which reeked of other people, he was already awake, and attacked his loose notion of a morning routine in an undead shuffle.

Really it wasn't much of a "routine" when it changed so much from day to day. This morning he bothered enough to shower, but not to shave the itchy stubble on his face. He was neither clean-shaven nor a suave, sophisticated bearded chap, instead occupying that middle territory where he looked like he recently had cared, and was not too far gone from basic hygiene and self-respect; quite unlike people who had hit rock bottom months or years ago, and could not be exhumed from that state.

Today he had enough time for breakfast, so he whipped something up in a pan which he wouldn't clean for another half a week, abandoning it in the sink like a mother with her unwanted bastard baby. And he decided that he was going to crack open that bourbon today, so he did; he broke the seal, sniffed the cork, and then began to drip-pour it into his receptacle. He was too cheap to buy a real flask, so instead he had been recycling an empty glass bottle of cheap cologne; being seen taking a swig from it was strange enough, but he could at leave it in his desk and anyone with the audacity to snoop through his drawers would not suspect it at all. It held at least four and a half ounces when it was full, and that was barely enough to take the edge off the long and grueling shifts, and not get written up as a sloppy, slobbering mess; so he filled it all the way up, and quaffed a few straight from the bottle to prepare himself for the odorous belly of city transit. His esophagus burned with this torrent; he grimaced and scoffed.

By the time he arrived at work he had grabbed a coffee from some decent little shop or other, precisely to his whimsical specifications, and he only waited for it to cool before he would throw a surreptitious pour of whiskey in there and get some motivation pumping in his veins. He didn't like the culture which had come to sprout around people being "zombies" before they'd had their coffee, but it was certainly true enough.

He had headed straight for the interview room, the side of the one-way mirrors which let him peer through them. Finding not Ona nor a potential hire, nor their controller for the double-blinds, he got curious; hadn't she said she'd do all the paperwork, so they could skip straight to the interviews when he showed up? And she knew his schedule well, too: he always showed up early (the company only allowed two late days before it declared them "liabilities" needing replacement), but not as early as her, always scraping much too close to the hour mark by the time he'd clocked in and made his pitiful rounds across the cubicles and water coolers. She knew when he'd be there and she hadn't showed up, and that was queer even for Ona. So he went to her office and tried to open it, and finding that it was locked, thought to knock. An answer did not immediately arrive, and he began to humor the thought that she had called out sick, or worse, flaked.

No, that was impossible. Ona did not break promises; and she certainly wasn't "fashionably late," not by even a second. Where the hell was she? He began to meander off, back toward the interview rooms.

Each tap of his knuckles against the wood was like an earthquake tearing through the serenity of her vacation. Her eyes shot open with a start, and for a moment in her groggy confusion she wasn't sure where she was. Her heart was racing and she could hear the blood pounding in her ears. The left side of her face ached from the pressure of laying on the hard desk for so long. When she raised her head her skin stuck to the wooden surface, peeling off like a worn bandage and snapping back in place. The papers in her hand crumpled as she put her weight down to help steady herself without even realizing their existence.

The world worked its way in to focus and before her mind could catch up with why she was in this location, it recognized the location itself as her office. Dizziness rolled through her. Shaking her head, she released her grip on the papers and began to check herself, quickly putting the pieces together... she was in yesterday's clothes... she hadn't gone home last night. The knowledge made her feel sick. Her eyes darted to the clock... 7:36. People would already be arriving for their shifts that started at 8. Her heart sank... Jules always arrived a little early. Her groggy dizziness left her as swiftly as the snow melted when it touched down in the polluted waters of the river. She cleared her throat, shooting up from her chair and trouble shooting what she needed to do... immediately... 10 minutes ago. She moved to the door and opened it just enough to peek out and ensure that the hallway was empty.

When she felt it was safe, she darted to the women's restroom. Once inside she looked over herself quickly. She had to make her outfit different... she had to look fresh. She quickly pulled off and apart the leather wrappings that had served as her top yesterday. There was nothing she could do to change the materials that she was wearing, but perhaps she could make it different enough to fool anyone out of thinking they were the same clothes. She stripped out of her pants and took a minute carefully analyzing the clothing. After dispelling several ideas that came to mind she began wrapping the leather straps between her legs and around her hips, once it covered her crotch she wrapped it around her thighs then up over her bum. Once she got to her hips she tied a bow and had created somewhat questionable, but decently covering leather shorts complete with a front bow accent. She then examined her pants for an extra minute before taking the geometric headdress off and sliding her arms down the legs of the pants with the waist opening folded carefully to her chest. She fastened the headpiece to one side of the pants using the belt loop, then stretched it across her back and fastened it to the other side. The end result was a midriff bearing over-sized backless bubble shirt of sorts. She examined herself in the mirror. It was certainly a bit more abstract than usual for work, but it was passable. She took a minute to arrange her hair up in to a high, slick pony tail that fountained off the back of her head and poured down her spine.

A few minutes of checking and adjusting her makeup in the mirror and Ona was as ready as she was going to get without going back to her house. She took a deep breath, staring at herself in the mirror and trying to convince herself that she'd done a good job at disguising her horror of a morning. She gargled some water quickly to clear her breath then set out for the lobby. On her way she stepped in to the break room and grabbed a cup of the stiff, bitter coffee that was offered by the company... at least it would brighten her eyes and cover up any nighttime breath that still lingered. She stepped in to the lobby and glanced at the front desk girl. "We're ready... go ahead and send in the first, then you can keep them coming one after the other til noon... then we'll start again after lunch." The girl nodded and looked over at the collection of bodies in chairs that was building in the room. Ona disappeared back down the hallway without waiting for the first on to follow her closely enough to have a conversation. Along the way, she ducked in to the office and grabbed a large stack of folders to take to the interview room. It would be strange that they weren't already there, but she couldn't fix that now.

In theory there were cameras in the control room of the interview chambers; in theory. Jewel had discerned their blind spots long ago, and it was in one of these blind spots where he had wheeled one of the rolling, padded chairs, and for a few minutes, crashed. It certainly was not a panopticon, by any means, and for that he was immensely grateful. If an interviewee wasn't here yet, and Ona was killing herself with all the paperwork, then he had nothing to worry about. So in his lap he cradled his coffee, its body heat slowly dying like a sick child's.

Conspicuously he took note of her new look as she entered; it was hard not to. He didn't know what to say; he literally lacked the vocabulary, most times, to describe what about an outfit he liked or detested, even if he thought he had a decent eye for the color wheel, and shapes and silhouettes, and the art of contrast—even if he never applied these to himself. Was this new outfit ugly, then or just "different"? He was sure that the bow at her hip belonged at her shoulders instead, to help her with that hourglass figure; but he wasn't going to offer criticism now, he decided, opting instead to give her the usual smirk-nod, like he had not even noticed. He of course was wearing another baggy shirt, and a simple tie, and slightly runny pants, and stiff, block-toed Oxfords, all in sensible but boring colors; outdated, ill-fitting, a hallmark of low shame and no ambition to impress.

What he did notice were those features of her face which spoke to the same fatigues afflicting him: she was wishing right about now that she could acquire an immunity to this world which crawled with people, slithering along in their daily routines. She yearned for warm bedsheets and better coffee. Jewel glanced down into his lap, at the little morning treat he'd been cherishing for himself as it cooled to a palatable temperature. No, he decided. Now isn't the time to be selfish. "Morning, Ona," he said, extending the cup to her. "Don't drink that mud. I bought this for you on the way here." He smiled weakly, but more alarmingly, it was a sincere, eye-wrinkling smile, a rare unicorn to behold in his features.

The dual click of footsteps on the sterile looking floor echoed as the two women made their way silently down the hall. Ona opened a door and held it, waiting for the girl to catch up and quickly slip inside. The room was blank, stark and unmemorable save for the stainless steel table in its center. There was a single chair on either side and Ona waved her free hand towards the chair in the back. The girl sat down quickly, silently cowering as though she was about to be interrogated for murder. It was the first time Ona took a good look at her... young, just barely legal to work. Probably her first job. Thin, but not as thin as Ona, and taller than Ona naturally. Her hair and eyes were brown, her face common. She was perhaps one of the least memorable people Ona had ever seen.

Ona stepped out and closed the door, leaving the girl alone momentarily. She stepped to the observation room and opened the door to find Jules waiting inside. Ona shot Jules a quick glance that was a little slow to soften and brighten in to a smile. It didn't look mean or angry, just slow to the punch... like her mind was occupied. The layer of makeup on her face was a little thicker than usual leaving her smile sticky and creased. "Oh good morning Jules... thank you... that's so sweet of you.

She set the folders on the table in front of him and adjusted the bottom of her blouse to ensure that she wasn't accidentally exposing herself. "The front desk girl was late this morning... I had to wait for her to get everyone checked in. Probably cost us half an hour." She put as much of a fake growl in her voice as she could muster, not wanting anyone to take it too seriously and actually be mad at the girl who most likely wasn't actually late or in the wrong. She pulled the first file off the stack, sliding it over to Jules before flicking open the cover. "Would you like to lead the first one, or shall I get us started?"

"I'll take the cockpit today," Jewel volunteered, knowing full well that the job behind the glass was much easier than in front of it; sure, the interviewer just had to ask the same questions that he asked every other day of the week, and there was no real brainwork in that, but at least in the control room Ona could catch a wink, just a few minutes, of calmness and rest. And she wouldn't have to spend more time in front of the new hires, in case she had a wardrobe malfunction, or if her new look wouldn't work out. Jewel felt good about it; he was redeeming himself for being a poor host by being a better coworker. It felt surprisingly nice being generous to others.

But he wondered if it made him a bad person. In fact he was very kind, because when he did nice things for people, often enough he expected nothing in return. But was it really a good thing to do if he only did it out of debt? Obligation? Was it truly a good deed if he treated Ona well just to clear his own name, and to fill the cracks in their relationship? It felt good but he felt a bit sleazy, too. No matter. Before long he had moved to the cabinet files, and unlocked one of the upper drawers, which contained his concealable earpiece. He plugged it in and although he looked totally normal, he'd be able to hear Ona when she gave him instructions. If she noticed something odd about this girl, it was her job to inform Jewel, who would take it upon himself to direct his questions in that direction, to test and probe at the applicant's brain a bit harder. And the intern was there just to "learn"; in short, to be a slave for a few years before the company let her start at the bottom rung.

Jewel crossed the vestibule between the two rooms; one door opened while the other was closed, so the applicant never got a good look into the control room. "Hi," he said cheerfully. "You must be Ms. Boulanger." And yes, he was the softie of the two, the one who disarmed the applicants and became buddy-buddy with them. Ona was better for PR; she kept it professional, and drew distinct, crisp lines in the sand about what this company was about...even if she slung their propaganda in that regard. "Fast-paced work environment," indeed; it was politically incorrect, Jewel supposed, to inform these people that they'd be worked to the bones like dogs.

Ona nodded and took a seat as Jules made his way to the interview room. It was a little unlike him to be this kind in the morning, but Ona was too exhausted and frazzled to make much of it. She had already gone through and earmarked the files, highlighted, notated, and otherwise dissected them in anticipation of being on the other side of the glass with Jules taking his first look at the files. She was sure that her notes would suffice to remind her of anything that she might have wanted to touch on. She allowed her body a moment to relax then eyed the coffee that Jules had left her. She considered leaving it there, not drinking it for perhaps no real reason other then self-deprivation, but her need for a clear mind won out and she picked it up and sipped at the sweet warm liquid.

The girl in the room snapped to attention when he entered, but just as quickly as she'd jumped, her eyes examined this new person before her and her shoulders relaxed some. Something about Ona's outfits, pale skin, and thick makeup seemed to always put people on edge. It was alien in nature to the common man. The girl herself was dressed in a simple and ill fitting three piece suit. Probably something that belonged to her mother that was borrowed just for today's events. She swallowed her nervousness and forced a smile to meet his. "Yes'sir, nice to meet you sir." She stood up just enough to reach across the table and offer him her hand to shake.

Her change in comfort levels wasn't something that went unnoticed for Ona. She loathed how people seemed to clam up around her. Simultaneously, it gave her a sense of power she rarely felt in her life. At this moment, it made her jealous and distrusting of the girl. Ona could see what was happening. Of course this girl would try to suck up to the male interviewer. She would try to sway him to her favor, but Ona would make sure that no stone went unturned in this interview. The change in mood resulted in Ona sitting forward, losing that relaxation she'd momentarily experienced and instead focusing carefully on every movement of the manipulative young girl before her.

Although the interview process was likened often to a double-edged sword, Jules didn't like that analogy, because it implied that one blade would hurt the wielder while the other was pushed into an enemy. That was not the case here; while one sought to trap the applicant, the other was yet another layer in the company's legal defenses. Sword and shield, then?

Anyway, Jules began with the shield: "Ms. Boulanger, we've reviewed your files," he said, "but as we begin, I'd really like to hear everything from you!" It seemed polite enough but it concealed in his cheeks his retracted venomous fangs: he had just informed the woman of her rights. After all, they had seen many more files than just her résumé and her references; they had seen her police record, her social media accounts, and everything else that could be scrubbed from the bottom of the Net's barrel. In their underhanded, sheisty way, they had just informed her of this, so if she proceeded with the interview she could no longer sue them for defamation of privacy rights; she consented to having been searched in past tense.

It sickened Jules to his stomach. But he never knew a time when things were not like this.

Then it was time to begin their attack, wielding the sword of his new analogy against her, testing her mettle: "So let's start with your work experience. I'm informed that this will be your first job. What have you been doing with your time until now?" he asked, interlocking his fingers together like fleshy cogs. Thus he had begun to test her story for discrepancies. If she was lying then she had to remember what she'd written on her résumé, in addition to handling the pressure from the interview. This entire conversation was being taped and it would be measured later against the story she had put to paper.

And thus the assessment began. Jules mentally checked off all the signs of nervousness: her palm, which when he had shaken her hand was cool and clammy, she fidgeted with and kept in constant motion. Her body language was closed and defensive. She avoided eye contact. She shrunk in her seat, trying to make herself look as little as she could. All these were the cues not of predator but prey.

Interviewing for your first job... The world claimed to prepare you for it. There were classes in school specifically aimed at it, your parents spoke about it, your aunts and uncles and grandparents spoke about it. You practiced it, thought about it, lost sleep over it, but at this very moment Sarah realized how utterly inadequate all of those processes were. The room itself was enough to make her want to turn and run for the hills, but the hovering expectations of everyone around her kept her rooted in place. She felt like a sheep walking voluntarily in to slaughter. Life revolved around getting a job though. Trying to find the best, strongest organization with the best pay and the best benefits and create a family loyalty to that line that encouraged the company to keep hiring out of your stock so that future generations were nearly guaranteed a job as well. It was how people survived.

"Yes'sir, I am a full time student. I just turned 15 last month, so I wanted to put in an application as soon as possible. I submitted a copy of my transcripts. I work really hard at school and I'm working towards a scholarship for when I graduate. I think work experience would be very beneficial to my scholarship application, and my parents have loyally worked for this company for many years." The ideas were a bit jumbled and smooshed together as though she'd prepared a script but in the heat of the moment two paragraphs had become three sentences. Young eager children had a hard time keeping their composure in the interviews, not unusual.

The small ear piece tucked neatly out of sight in Jules's ear made a soft click sound before Ona's voice filtered through it. "Her grandfather was a transfer from the Vitality Corporation. No record of grandmother working... parents are line level workers in sector 7 and 9." Just as abruptly as the transmission started it stopped, feeding him only enough information to allow him to guide his follow up questions and better flesh out the limited information that the interviewee had given him. Rather did interviewees provide actual details... they always gave the sob story - working hard, scholarships, starving family... whatever reason they felt would compel the interviewer to feel pity for them and give them a job they didn't deserve.

"Volunteer experience? Clubs at school?" Jules smiled but he could feel that it was bittersweet like sugared tea. On one hand he felt the warmth and compassion radiating from this person; hers was a smile which could heat the drab chrome walls of a cubicle on the forty-fifth floor. She sported that tiniest tinge in her features, revealing her desire to admire, to be admired, to succeed. Only the most talented saboteurs could artificially reproduce such hopeless sincerity, and a talented saboteur a fifteen year old girl very likely was not.

On the other, behind Jules' jealousy and his resentful realization that he could learn a thing or two from this girl's plucky smile and from the eagerness in her eyes the size of dinner plates, he harbored a desire to reach across the table and slap her, convinced that such an action would be to her benefit. He wanted to warn her that working here was not something she wanted; that she had only a few years of freedom until she signed her ankles and wrists over to the shackles in a lifelong binding contract. She would live and die here, damn it, if this could really be called "living" at all. Then, then! Then he needed to warn her that even if she passed this interview, she still had to win the position from more qualified, more charismatic applicants, with smiles which gleamed brighter and warmer and with posture straighter and with more experience and references and witty anecdotes; why should she ever bother, when she did not know what this company wanted in its slaves, or if she did, when she could not supply them with these traits?

In short, Ona's fear was well-founded; if she spotted anything sheisty about the little critter's story, its wide, glossy eyes and its thigh-baring skirt blinded Jules.

"Oh... of course! Actually if you look at my school transcripts, I was in the chess club and the math society. I also served as the treasurer for the student government. I volunteer with the Student's Reach Out society. I intend to complete the hours required for my scholarship application with them. Eventually I hope to go to college on scholarship and work towards a finance degree. If I were to become employed with a company before that time, or to be sponsored by a company, then I would be open to their suggestions on what degree would be the most beneficial or what areas of finance I'm needed most in."

It all seemed so well thought out in her mind. She'd been practicing for this moment, but the perception on opposite sides of the table was something she would never have truly been able to prepare for. Ona's method of reading in to every word and twitch was something that few even really knew about, let alone knew how to overcome. The ear piece clicked in his ear.

"Non-specific reference to the company indicates a lack of loyalty to any one group. Contraindication of long-term employment based on a seeking of 'best case scenario' placement. Further indication of intent to appeal for exceptional contributions from the company at point of entry. Applicant is sub-prime. Terminate the interview." The ear piece clicked off with the same abrupt, soulless sound that ignored every potential positive attribute of the young girl sitting across from Jules.

Damn it, Ona. That's not what we're here for!

It was difficult to listen to her in one ear and the applicant in the other. But Jules heard the last sentence well enough—the instruction to end all interactions with this young lady—and knew that he had to disobey. Plain and simple. It kept them out of trouble with the handlers; their department was meant to minimize its presence, and disguise its few jutting bits and pieces as more mundane parts. Their psychoanalytic process was an "interview"; their paperwork sat on their desks as blatantly as any other neglected pile. Locked cabinets and big "Classified" stamps made people curious. Polygraph machines and wire nodes attached to their wrists and temples made them defensive. So what would it look like if the chubby office drone in the dull white room, who clearly possessed no more authority than over a water cooler, could decide her fate?

No, that's not how the patchers operated. If they thought so suspiciously of this young woman, they would call her in for a second interview. Then the police would have an easier time detaining her.

Later Jules would have to comfort Ona in the fact that the girl would be rejected in one of the later departments; maybe even the one directly following theirs. Just as Jules couldn't give her the advice which would help her impress his superiors, neither could he detain someone who, by his reckoning, was completely innocent.

The interview went for nearly twenty minutes more. When it ended the two in the room had talked about the company for quite a long time; she had asked what he liked about working there, and he gave her a series of perfect little lies to boost her optimism. Then when they had shaken hands again, he passed through the vestibule and into the control room with a sigh, feeling like a virus invading a cell membrane.

There was the slightest stiffening to his shoulders when he made up his mind to defy her recommendations. To any regular person it would have been completely unnoticeable... to Ona it was a slap in the face. They were meant to be a team. She hadn't sent him out to conduct the interviews just for him to waste both their time. Suddenly his offer seemed less charitable and more controlling. Subconsciously she reached over and took the fancy coffee that he'd given her and dropped it bluntly off the end of the desk in to the waiting waste basket. She would not be buttered up like this little floozy of a girl was doing to him. She could not be bought. She had a purpose here.

A couple more times he would hear the earpiece click on just long enough for the order to be repeated: "Terminate the interview." After that it merely fell silent and heavy with the fact that Ona was watching them... sitting there behind the glass in her own steaming cage of building anger and frustration. In the outfit she wore today her mood would perhaps look somewhat comical; one of those things that you know you're meant to look away from but simply can't peel your eyes off.

Ms. Boulanger on the other hand was more than happy to oblige the continued attention. She was sweet and bubbly, and perhaps slightly flirty. The more the spoke the less demand seeped in to her voice and the more casual her conversation seemed. Perhaps she was genuine. Perhaps Jules was just a good, comfortable conversationalist for her... but Ona saw a manipulative child playing on the edge of pedophilia to bend Jules to her will. Finally she'd seen enough and she abruptly removed her headset, firmly setting it down just hard enough that it screeched a high pitched squeal in Jules's ear before going silent again. Ona pushed off from the desk and stood, leaving her tiny prison through the door to the hallway so as not to be seen by Jules and his pet as she headed towards the waiting room to personally collect their next candidate.