This was the problem about attempting a somewhat (read: very) illegal enterprise: When you started having doubts, when something went wrong, there was no one to talk to about it.

Not that Eugene really had anyone to talk to anyways—not about things that actually mattered. Except, well, maybe he kind of did. Lately, at least.

He avoided Vincent on Monday, and then again on Tuesday and again on Wednesday, even though towards the end of Wednesday he actually saw Vincent approaching him. He wheeled straight into a crowd at full speed, desperately weaving his way between awkward people and half knocking a couple over. He half expected that Vincent would catch up with him despite his best efforts, but no. He emerged on the other side of the crowd triumphant, the approaching janitor lost.

He wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed.

By the time he went home on Thursday, having not spoken to Vincent all week so far, he felt more stressed than he had since the Olympics, about ready to explode.

Honestly, there was no reason for him not to talk to Vincent. Vincent didn't know that Eugene had tried to get him a…business connection…and failed. Vincent didn't know that Eugene had put his own selfish desire to keep his identity over helping Vincent achieve his dreams. Heck, even if Vincent did know that, Eugene doubted he would disapprove. It was one thing to try to help a friend out. It was another thing to give up your life for them. Vincent had certainly never asked for that.

Only, the thought of facing Vincent as if nothing had happened, of speaking to him with the same easy enjoyment, the casual work friend again…

Well, nothing had happened.

But still. At the moment he met Vincent's eyes on Wednesday, bright with recognition and greeting, his body reacted without his even thinking. He had to run away.

Stupid, of course. Stupid. Vincent was probably wondering why Eugene was avoiding him (if he ever bothered to think about Eugene when they weren't talking, that was). And he had never expected Eugene to do anything. It was all very stupid. But Eugene had never really been all that intelligent, genius IQ notwithstanding.

Meanwhile, he had no one to talk to except his more valid coworkers. The only decent one among them being, of course, Irene.

"You skipped lunch again, Jerome," she said on Tuesday, stopping by his cubicle. She perched on the edge of his desk, feet not quite leaving the ground. One of her heels slipped out of her high heeled shoe, but it hung onto her toe. He forced his gaze up to meet her eyes, feeling the vague itch you always do when something hangs by a thread.

"I ate it in the lobby," he said. This was not true. He hadn't felt hungry today, had skipped his lunch, his breakfast as well. His stomach felt restless, but still not hungry. He'd brought in leftovers of last night's picked-over takeout, vaguely wanting to avoid the office cafeteria, but the thought of pork fried rice had little appeal.

Not today.

Irene said, "Here I thought you were making so much progress."

He smiled. "Maybe I'm just hopeless. A leopard can't change its spots. An antisocial curmudgeonly swimmer…"

"Can eat lunch with his coworkers and enjoy it," Irene said. "If he's willing to give it a try." She met his eyes. "You've been in an odd mood lately."

"I'm always in an odd mood."

"Odder."

"A compliment?"

Her lips turned up ever so slightly. At least he amused her. "Would you care to get dinner Thursday?"

His stomach twisted at even the word dinner, not to mention the idea of being stuck making small talk with someone for probably more than an hour. Ridiculous. It had been fun last time. He blew out a breath. "That sounds…good."

"Make nice to your coworkers and it's a date," Irene said, standing up from the desk.

"I'm always nice," Eugene called after her as she walked away, heels clicking on the tile floor. Which was not true, but it made her pause slightly before she continued walking.

He made an effort to say a few words to Thompson that day. In his book, that was more than nice: that was saintly. The man was more boring than a phone book.

The date on Thursday was not his typical, to the extent that he had a typical dating routine. Irene chose the restaurant for one, the privilege of the asker. A Chinese place. He didn't tell her that he got Chinese takeout far too often these days anyhow, and instead ordered himself sesame chicken and broccoli, slightly more expensive than the pork fried rice he'd had earlier in the week. And he tried to be interesting and put together and not a wreck.

And he did not mention anything illegal.

"How's Josef lately?" he asked her, sipping the complementary tea. He could have gone for something stronger—he'd been sipping a little vodka most nights to help him get to sleep, or at least red wine—but this place definitely had some nice flavor to it. And they said tea calmed the nerves.

His nerves certainly needed calming.

"You mean the director? Well, he's awful," Irene said. "He's given me twice the work load of anyone in my section and it's due Monday. I'll probably have to do some of it over the weekend."

Eugene whistled. "My condolences."

"But that's nothing new."

"Things can get old without getting any less annoying. At least he hasn't called me into his office again lately." Maybe he was finally realizing that Eugene was an employee at Gattaca, not a trophy.

"Praise the Lord," Irene said drily.

Eugene laughed.

He traded bits of food with Irene when it arrived. She had gotten herself some kind of savory beef dish, and she didn't want much of his sesame chicken, but she was willing to try. She ended up giving him more than she took, but when he protested, she told him he hadn't been eating enough.

"I've been eating plenty."

"Jerome," Irene said. "You came to the cafeteria the past two days and you barely took a bite." She took a bite of beef herself as if to punctuate her point. "It's not healthy."

Her eyes on his face and throat as he chewed and swallowed were almost clinical, but there was a touch of warmth to them too. Then again, wasn't that how she always looked?

He wasn't sure what he loved more: the prim serenity of her face and speech, or the little quirks of emotion whenever it broke. He was getting very used to them. She seemed so often to be pleased at talking to him, and he selfishly hoarded away every smile, every raised eyebrow, every time her eyes met his and softened, just a smidgen. He imagined her pupils dilating. He wasn't sure if they really did.

"Have you talked to Vincent again?"

He started. They'd been talking about innocuous things, and he'd barely been paying attention. He almost spilled his tea. How did she know? "Vincent?"

"Your janitor friend."

He cleared his throat. "No. I haven't seen him all week." Hadn't spoke to him, at least.

"Hm," Irene said. "That's too bad. He seems like a good companion." She took a sip of tea. "I met him the other day."

"Oh?"

That was…odd. He hadn't thought Vincent was the type to just start talking to random valids at Gattaca, and thought admittedly he'd done so with Eugene, Eugene had rather thought he was the only one. Was he actually just like that with everyone?

"Recognized him from your description," Irene said. "Thought I'd introduce myself."

Eugene tried to remember if he'd actually ever described Vincent, and failed. Too many conversations. "Then what did you think of him?"

Irene shrugged. "Well, you can hardly tell from one conversation."

Eugene didn't narrow his eyes, but it was an effort. Something about her tone—well, she was always bland, but somehow he felt like she was holding back. He cleared his throat. "You know, he wants to work at Gattaca."

"Doesn't he already?"

"Yes, but a bit higher up." Eugene's mouth twisted at the pun. "Dreams of the stars."

"I suppose that's a typical sort of dream."

"Is that why you decided to work here?" Eugene asked.

Irene said, "I don't know. I guess I just sort of fell into it."

As he would have guessed. Irene might have dreams, but she was no Vincent. No, whatever dreams she'd had, the world had long since torn them apart. That was why she was like Eugene. That was why they got along.

"It would be nice to dream of the stars," he said quietly. "Don't you think?"

Irene said, "They aren't going to hire him." She paused, and when Eugene didn't respond she said, "You do know that?"

"Yes, I know," Eugene said.

They ate their dinner slowly and ended by opening their fortune cookies together. Irene's informed her that she should, "Be a good friend and a fair enemy." Eugene's said, "Never give up. Always find a reason to keep trying."

Irene laughed lightly. "Do you think I'm fair to Director Josef?"

"If you were fair with him, you would have complained to administration," Eugene said. "I suppose you'll have to make do with being a good friend."

"Are we good friends, Jerome?" Irene said, her eyebrows raised.

Serious or joking?

"The best," he said, taking a sip of his tea. "As for me…do you think the cookies know I've been slacking at work?"

Irene's smile was a bit more neutral. "Maybe."

"Well," Eugene said. "I guess there's always one reason. My paycheck." He sighed. "If I have to keep paying for dinners like this I really will need to get moving."

"I'm paying."

"No you're not."

"I asked you out, so I should be the one to pay. Unless you don't think…"

They argued over the check for a while and in the end Eugene let Irene pick it up, mostly because it made her look completely satisfied. Today, she even drove him home.

She was someone to talk to, Eugene supposed. Not the same as Vincent but someone.

Only whatever enjoyment he got from talking to her was mitigated by the fact that despite going out to dinner with her, despite discussing one thing and another all evening, he still hadn't managed to vomit up the one question he really wanted to ask.

Which was: Would she miss him?

If he decided to sell his identity to German and go underground, would she miss him? Was there any point to working at Gattaca instead? Was he doing the right thing?

He wasn't sure she would have been honest with him if he had asked. And an honest answer to that question scared him more than anything in the world.

/…/…/

On Friday, Eugene was deep into work, trying to actually focus, when a security guard tapped on his shoulder. He glanced up. Couldn't tell if the security guard was one of the ones he'd become acquainted with a few weeks ago—he'd been too drunk to remember much of the specifics and mostly his brain had just recorded them as buzzing flies—but the guard's face was fairly neutral, so at the very least he'd probably heard about it.

"Dr. Lamar would like to see you," the guard said.

Eugene nodded. "All right. Now?"

Yes, now.

Fine, then.

Lamar was as distantly welcoming as he had been the last time. He informed Eugene that he was going to administer another drug test (once again, blood from the inside of the elbow since it was easiest) and Eugene sighed and agreed.

"I don't see you very often," Lamar said as he swabbed down Eugene's elbow to prepare for the needle. "Most people here get drug tested at least every week." He raised his eyebrows. "I suppose that means you're a lucky one."

Lucky that he couldn't piss as easily because of his back injury. Sure.

"How does it feel to perform a drug test that's actually a drug test?" Eugene said.

"All my drug tests," Lamar said reassuringly. "Are real and valid drug tests."

"And the fact that you get a peek into our DNA is only a nice little side result," Eugene said. "Nearly every day, though. It seems a little bit paranoid."

"You're in an interesting mood," Lamar said. "I don't decide the frequency of our tests. I only administer them."

He drew the blood.

"And what if you did find a degenerate?" Eugene said. "At a company like this. What then?"

Lamar said, "We never have."

"But you think you might. That's the reason for the drug tests, after all."

Lamar looked at him with a very forbearing expression. As if he were dealing with Eugene drunk again, instead of sober and asking some very reasonable questions of a very unreasonable company. "Taking on someone else's genetic identity is illegal, Jerome."

"So. You call the police," Eugene said. "That kind of thing wouldn't be good for your company's reputation though, would it? Wouldn't suit Josef's philosophy either…if a degenerate were actually able to keep up with work here…"

"We've never found a degenerate," Lamar repeated. "And I doubt we will." He put Eugene's blood into the analyzing machine. "But frequent drug tests are company police. Our standards…"

"Are high, yes," Eugene said. "That's why there was no penalty for me showing up to work drunk."

Lamar laughed. Apparently he thought they were bonding over the incident.

They were not bonding.

Someday, Eugene figured, Vincent was going to be "drug tested" by this man. If he ever got into Gattaca, whether by legal methods or no. He wondered whether Lamar would be equally amiable to someone with a less stellar genetic profile.

"And have you been drinking since then?"Lamar said. He hummed, looking at the results on the screen of his analyzing machine. "Well, you aren't drunk today. But these alcohol levels are concerningly high."

"As long as I'm sober at work I'm not sure that it's any of your business."

"As the drug tester I have to inform you that is incorrect," Lamar said. "Still, I see no need to report this little alcohol. But I must remind you of the psychiatric care we provide for free for employees, which includes services to combat a dependence on alcohol."

Eugene saluted him mockingly. "Well, I have been reminded."

Lamar shook his head. "The one person who really needs to be drug tested regularly, and we're only scheduled once every few weeks. Try to take better care of yourself." He was beginning to sound like Irene.

"Yes, yes."

"Degenerates," Lamar said with another put upon sigh. "I don't think any of them would venture here. Security is far too tight. Still…we do what we must. Anyways, an invalid wouldn't have the skill set for this job—the director is right about that. Most of them haven't gone to college. Though I suppose the salary would be tempting." He clicked his teeth. "You know, they say gene dealers are sharks."

Remembering German's patient face and voice, Eugene had to suppress a shudder. "Really?"

"I don't mean that they're violent—though there's that too, nasty crowd honestly—but the fees they charge. You'd have to get a salary like yours or mine just to live comfortably with a gene shark demanding half your pay. Things like these, people say they're all about rights, but really it's all about money." Lamar shook his head. "Anyone borrowing a ladder is just digging himself a hole."

"You give a lot of cautionary speeches," Eugene said. "But in case you hadn't noticed, I don't need that one."

Lamar said, "Just making conversation." He held the door for Eugene to leave. "Have a good weekend, Jerome." But he was already turning to the next person he had to drug test.

As he wheeled down the hall back towards his desk, he found himself smiling the fiercest smile he'd smiled all week.

All about money, huh?

/…/…/

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Click.

"Hello?"

Alone in his silent house, Eugene smiled lightly. "Hello, German."

A long pause. "You took less time to make up your mind than I expected."

"I'm not selling you my identity."

"Indeed?"

"That's out of the question."

"Then why did you call?"

All about money. German always put on an act that he was interested in Eugene personally, and Eugene had been almost convinced, in a paranoid sort of way. But Lamar, from a distance, was wiser.

All about money.

"I'd be willing to pay you a considerable sum if you find Vincent a match."

He held his breath for a long moment before German answered, voice skeptical.

"And what do you think is a considerable sum?"

"How much do you want?"

"You first, Jerome."

Fuck. He'd wanted to sound German out first. Well, in that case, you always went lower than you expected would be accepted. Way lower. "How does five thousand sound?"

A low laugh. "Jerome."

"Then what do you want?"

"Offer fifty thousand and I'll consider it."

Eugene bit his lip. Fifty thousand. That was slightly less than his salary for a year, but not by much. Of course, his family was rich, but this was a matter of pride. (And he had no intention of making German believe he would dance to German's tune.) "I'll offer seven thousand."

"Jerome." The same reproving tone.

"Ten thousand, then. You know Vincent will still be paying you his dues. No need to skin me as well."

"I'll accept thirty thousand," German conceded. "But dropping below that…I would only do it for a friend."

Eugene barked a laugh. "I thought you said you liked me. How about twenty thousand?"

"Twenty-eight thousand," German said. "And you consider my offer to match you up as well."

"I'm not lending my ladder."

"I'm aware. But if you change your mind, you promise to come to me."

Who else would he come to?

"Fine. It's a deal," Eugene said. "When will you see Vincent?"

"Tell me when he's available. I try to cater to my clients. Oh, and I expect ten thousand of your offer ahead of time. I consider it an advance against future services."

Shark was right. "I'll write up a check but you'll have to pick it up. I don't exactly have your mailing address," Eugene said.

"Fair enough."

"One last thing. Vincent doesn't hear about this."

"Oh? You want to be an anonymous benefactor, then?"

"All he needs to know is I'm helping to set him up. He doesn't need to know about the twenty-eight thousand."

"Fine with me. Just have the first check ready to go."

/.../.../

/.../.../

/.../.../

AN: Updates are getting kind of spaced out, but since Nanowrimo is over I'll try to make them more regular. Shout-out to Shadow, my guest reviewer whom I cannot respond to: Thanks for the encouraging words! I'll try to write this story to its end, which for me is actually within sight...though there's still quite a bit to go.

My real question for Gattaca fans is, what is your favorite minor Gattaca character? Are you a Lamar person or a German person? Or hey, maybe you're into Caesar. He's a cool dude too, though he hasn't shown up in this fic in a little while.

This chapter was all Eugene, but I promise there will be plenty of Vincent next chapter. Until then, I'd greatly appreciate reviews. Hasta la vista.