Jerome Eugene Morrow—or rather Eugene, since for some reason the man preferred the worst possible name of his three options—was still a puzzle.

Vincent tried not to think about him too much. He'd gotten Eugene's DNA analyzed and that should have shown him everything he needed to know. He'd even talked to him a few times. By now he knew the newcomer as well as he knew anyone in Gattaca, and he suspected better than anyone else in Gattaca knew Eugene. Which should have been enough. The man wasn't all that interesting.

Nice, of course. Sort of nice. He hadn't yelled at Vincent for zoning out in his desk, but they still seemed to argue whenever they met and his handshake was absolutely crushing. But interesting? Well, it was like Eugene said. Of all the people working at Gattaca he was the least likely to actually embark on a voyage, the least likely to achieve Vincent's dream.

Still, it was interesting that Eugene had admitted it. A man like him was not often self deprecating. He had seemed fiercely proud until their last meeting, and not the best of conversationalists either. Now he was still one of the most awkward people Vincent had spoken to at Gattaca, but maybe that was all his earlier standoffish attitude had been—awkwardness. And some of the things he had said had made Vincent curious.

In any case, it wouldn't have mattered whether Vincent had any interest in Eugene or not. The next time they ran into each other was not of his making. Nor was it a coincidence.

It was Eugene.

Vincent didn't ask for company. He watched the launches every day on his own. The Gattaca engineers and office workers had grown immune to the magic of them, taking the fact that people were launching into space in tin cans for granted. The janitors still thought the launches were pretty cool but they had work to do, and when they saw Vincent staring absently out the window, they would shake their heads and maybe call out to him, tell him to enjoy himself. Sometimes ironically, sometimes sincerely. Vincent didn't mind either way. He enjoyed his solitude. When he watched the launches on his own it was easier to pretend that he was one of the astronauts on one of them, or at least feel the tenuous connection stretched out between the roar of the take off and the beating of his own heart.

"Vincent Freeman! Fancy meeting you here."

Vincent startled. The voice didn't belong to one of the janitors. He turned from the windows and almost fell (again) on top of Jerome Eugene Morrow himself, who had scooted his wheelchair only inches behind Vincent.

"Sorry," Vincent said, recovering.

Eugene only raised an eyebrow and smiled genially.

"Um, Eugene," Vincent said. "Good afternoon. How is work?"

"I'm avoiding it," Eugene said.

Vincent tried to make a non-judgmental face, but it was difficult when he wanted to scream at the man who was shirking Vincent's dream job.

He must not have succeeded because Eugene's smile froze. "Difficult equation. I'm sure giving it some space will help."

Vincent nodded. "Probably."

"You aren't working either," Eugene said, crossing his arms. "You're watching the launches. Aren't you supposed to be…" He glanced over at the mop and bucket sitting on the floor next to Vincent. "Mopping?"

At least the janitors had a right to complain. "It will get done," Vincent said. "I like watching the launches."

"I noticed," Eugene said.

"No one watches them anymore," Vincent said. "They've grown used to them. Even you, and you've only been here for a month or so."

"They're pretty," Eugene said dismissively. "But I can't wheel all the way over to the windows every time one of them goes up."

"It's only a couple times a day," Vincent said. "Most of your co-workers—all of them—could just walk. They stay seated." He shrugged. "I think sometimes people forget what we're doing here. Sending people off the face of the planet, into the unknown. It sounds good on a resume, working at Gattaca. People forget our mission, the fact that what we do is incredible. They never look up."

He stopped, blushing as he realized he'd spoken as if he were a navigator rather than a simple janitor. A valid would never let him get away with that.

But Eugene only stared at him for a moment before looking out the window and saying, "Maybe that's why I came over. I wanted to see the launch, remember the dream."

It would have been kind to let him get away with it. So far Eugene had only been polite.

On the other hand, Vincent was tired of valids getting to say whatever they wanted.

"Thought you said it wasn't your dream," he said. "Going to the stars or sending people up."

Eugene frowned.

"You don't care about the launches," Vincent said. "Do you?"

Eugene didn't answer. He stared out the windows, and the expression on his face was one Vincent had seen in the mirror time and again, searching, longing. But he didn't answer. Which was as good as confirmation. Whatever it was Eugene wanted (and he wanted something, that much was obvious), it was not going up on one of those spaceships.

Vincent let out a sigh. For some reason he had been almost afraid of Eugene saying yes. As if by saying he wanted to watch the launches he would take the moment away from Vincent, make Vincent's dream somehow less. That wasn't the way dreams worked, he knew, but he was jealous of his dream, protective. He'd kept it for many years now without flagging in interest. No one, he was certain, dreamed of the stars more than he.

The launch was over, the rocket high up and out of the atmosphere by now. Vincent turned to his bucket and mop. "Shouldn't you go back to your equations?" he asked Eugene blandly.

"Ah," Eugene said, starting. "Yes, I suppose so. Good luck with your work."

"Good luck to you too," Vincent called after him.

/…/…/

It turned out that, even though Eugene wasn't subjected to drug tests as regularly as pretty much everyone else on Gattaca grounds, that did not actually mean he could show up to work drunk and get away with it.

Miraculously, it took him a full month of working at Gattaca to test this theory. Of course, it wasn't a perfect test—he suspected he could still have gotten away with being slightly buzzed as long as he kept quiet about it.

Instead, although he showed up to work mostly sober (couldn't drive there too drunk after all) he spent his entire lunch break in the bathroom gulping down sweet rum he had brought in his work bag. He had only intended a few sips to ease the day, but fuck it. He never wanted this job in the first place, and it wasn't a day to play the good boy.

He'd never been good at self control. Always the kid in college who spent half the party drinking and laughing and the other half yelling at people, trying to start fights, tripping over nothing and eventually vomiting. No regrets, really—people at college never took his drunk self seriously and mostly thought it was hilarious to see such a composed, perfect, popular valid completely lose it. He'd hated most of them anyway. Of course, at Gattaca he was sure everyone would be considerably less amused, but that only made him smirk more as he clumsily steered his wheelchair back towards his desk. Director Josef might even be disappointed. Maybe it would teach him a lesson about hiring people based off their genes. Sure, he got a lot of uptight perfectionist prodigies that way—Eugene wasn't blind; he knew the type Gattaca mostly attracted—but you couldn't always avoid the screw-ups. Sometimes you would still get a guy who was just trash, and Eugene was the case in point.

He almost ran over a couple people—a woman in a pencil skirt and a blonde bun, two different muscular and clean shaven suited men, none of whose names he could actually remember. The woman, he actually apologized to. She was wearing heels and fell over, which looked pretty painful. She didn't respond, just gave him a long, skeptical look and hurried off. Probably he had slurred. As for the men, they were almost apologetic, ready to claim the blame for the collision, until Eugene looked them in the eyes and smirked.

Then they skittered off too, emanating confused resentment. One did not expect aggression from the man in the wheelchair. In Gattaca, one did not expect aggression at all. Eugene smiled wider. He was a snake in Paradise.

He headed towards his desk, those who generally sat near him giving him odd looks. By now they were used to him being somewhat more coordinated. There was probably a smell of rum on his breath as well.

He smacked his elbow leveraging himself into his desk chair and swore loudly. Around him, the clack of keys paused as his co-workers took another moment to stare at him.

"What are you looking at?" he asked.

No one answered.

He chuckled. "No answer for me? Here I thought you were all supposed to be geniuses. Genetic brilliance not functioning properly?" He arched his eyebrows. "Or are you just too scared to answer? Too scared to talk to the cripple?"

A couple people laughed uneasily, pretending Eugene meant it all in good heart. One man got up and walked over. Thompson, Eugene remembered. The man's name was Thompson.

"Look, Morrow, maybe you should quiet down."

No one ever called him Eugene anymore. It was quite depressing. "Maybe I shouldn't."

"Ramirez is already going to get security," Thompson said. "You want trouble?"

Eugene hadn't noticed Ramirez leaving—though he couldn't, actually, remember which one Ramirez was. He didn't even know if that was a man or a woman. He shrugged. "What comes, comes."

Looking for trouble? It had been a long time since he'd really looked for anything else. Maybe he would get fired. That would be lovely.

A few minutes of yelling later, security was "assisting him" down the hall. Only two of them, one leading the way and one pushing his wheelchair (which was rude—he hadn't given permission). Eugene smiled. "Are you kicking me out?" he asked.

The security guard pushing his wheelchair said, "Not yet."

"Oh? What's a man got to do to get kicked out around here?" Eugene asked. "If I punched you, would that help my case?"

His fist was already clenched and ready, and he was sure he could twist into a position to get the man in either the face or the neck. Being paralyzed from the waist down had done nothing to his upper body strength, and while he hadn't punched anyone since before the accident, he was sure he could manage it.

People who touched his wheelchair without his permission were basically trash anyway.

Before he could get around to it, though (he had been waiting to hear the guard's response) the man turned down a new hallway, as did the woman walking in front of them. They were now in a section of the building Eugene hadn't been in before. He figured out what it was within seconds, though. Even drunk, there was no mistaking the medical section.

He was wheeled over to a man in a lab coat, who apparently was expecting them. "Mr. Morrow," he said, peering down at Eugene intently. "Nice to meet you at last. Usually I meet new workers pretty quickly, but with you, it's been a whole month. I'm Dr. Lamar. I handle drug testing."

Eugene smiled. "Nice to meet you too," he said. "So what now? I empty my catheter?" Chances were any piss in there was from before lunch, and would have lower alcohol content. Not that Eugene cared. The sooner he got kicked out, the better.

"Mm, no. Today we're going to try a blood test," Lamar said. "I'm going to need you to hold still while I draw blood from your inner elbow. Think you're capable?" He raised a dry eyebrow.

"Sure," Eugene said. "Just tell that idiot behind me to let go of my wheelchair before I give him a black eye." He continued smiling sincerely to show that yes, he did mean that.

Lamar gave the security guard a look.

The security guard backed off. "He's all yours. But we'll be within calling distance if he gives you any trouble." He glared at Eugene.

Eugene snorted. It wasn't like he'd actually punched the guy. Some people were so touchy.

Lamar, meanwhile, had gotten out a swab and a hypodermic needle. He rolled up Eugene's sleeve and swabbed it with the cotton.

"How often do these tests come up positive?" Eugene asked.

Lamar said, "Not often. Usually it's a formality." And of course a way to check people's genes, make sure they were who they said they were, but that went without saying. Borrowed ladders weren't something you talked about casually, and genoism was such a fact of life that it had become something of a joke to remark on it.

Eugene held his arm still with some effort. He wouldn't have been able to walk in a straight line right now (if he were able to walk at all) but Lamar steadied him and he could still do something as simple as this. Drunk and paralyzed from the waist down, he could still do something as simple as this.

Lamar inserted the needle and was quiet for a moment while the blood went in. Eugene watched. He'd done this routine a thousand times—common practice during the Olympics, high profile events, even college, although of course other methods of drug testing were even more common—but he still got a kick out of seeing the blood leave his vein. Genetic material, the currency of his life. All anyone had ever valued about him. And yet, see how easily it could be sucked out, how divorced it was from Eugene himself. He was entirely separate from the life running in his veins, a parasite of the DNA his parents had chosen for him.

Within seconds it was through, the needle was out, and Lamar offered Eugene a bandage. Eugene accepted (although honestly, who needed one for such a small puncture? But it was only polite) and fumblingly stuck it on.

"Security said you were being very loud," Lamar said. "They called me before they brought you over, gave me the basics." He leaned back against his desk. "You know, I didn't think you'd be the type."

"I'm sorry," Eugene said. "I didn't think we'd met before."

"We haven't," Lamar said. "But people talk. I've heard about you."

"Oh, of course," Eugene said. "That one cripple who thinks he has a right to work at Gattaca. Bit of an odd one, isn't he?" He shrugged. There was always talk.

"Odd, maybe. They say you're quiet," Lamar said. "But you do excellent work very quickly, and it's a little intimidating. You're a perfectionist, but you don't act condescending to people who don't do as well. You don't talk much and you don't go to company events, but maybe that's because you just joined up. But you don't seem shy. You're an Olympic athlete, but you don't talk about athletics. You have DNA better than almost everyone even at Gattaca, but you dislike the idea of genetic superiority and get cold when anyone acts genoist."

"People talk a lot, then," Eugene said.

"I'm just the drug tester. You can talk to me about anything," Lamar said. "So they do."

"Are you going to test my blood or not?" Eugene said, raising his eyebrows. The doctor still had the full tube of blood in his hand, but he hadn't put even a drop of it in the test machine.

"The main thing people say is that you're quiet," Lamar said. "And here you are, screaming at everyone for no reason. Doesn't sound like you. Care to tell me why?"

"Because," Eugene said. "I'm drunk."

Lamar sighed. "I guess you are."

He emptied the blood tube into the test machine. It came up with first Eugene's identification information—his company ID and his basic genetic profile. But there was also a beeping sound, and when Lamar hit a button the screen showed high alcohol content.

Lamar shook his head.

"So what now?" Eugene said. Now, he was guessing, was the part where he got fired.

"Protocol would be I talk to Director Josef, and he talks to you," Lamar said. "Unless you'd like to talk to me now. I can speak on your behalf."

"You don't know me," Eugene said. "You've just heard people talk. You aren't exactly a reference."

The word reference came out a bit mangled. Lamar looked unimpressed, but his face softened and he said, "I've also read your medical file. The accident was two years ago today, correct?"

Eugene didn't answer.

"You know, you can take a day off," Lamar said. "Go home, Jerome. I'll tell the director you were sick."

From Mr. Morrow to Jerome in ten short minutes. At least he wasn't saying "Eugene". That level of familiarity remained reserved, though if Lamar knew Eugene's preferences Eugene doubted he would hold back.

"You're terrible at drug testing," Eugene said.

Lamar shrugged. "It's up to my discretion to judge if an employee requires disciplinary action. I don't think you're quite there yet. Don't do it again. And get someone else to drive you home."

Eugene mock saluted. "Yes sir. Wouldn't want to get in another car crash. Maybe this time I'd actually die."

There must have been something off about his tone, beyond the base level of drunkenness, because Lamar called after him as he left, "Gattaca also provides therapy for employees. It's free and confidential."

"Goodbye, Lamar," Eugene called back.

The security guards gave him dirty looks on the way out, but he ignored them. He fetched his things from his desk quietly (this time ignoring the stares, which were only more intent now, doubtless wondering if he had just lost his job and was leaving for the last time), headed to the exit and called a cab business. It cost far too much for the city, but why not splurge? After all, it was an anniversary.

As soon as he got home, he would have to down a few more bottles to celebrate.

/.../.../

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AN: Reviews are always much appreciated. Little else to say for now.