Clarke considers. "If I was a monkey to begin with, maybe."

Uh oh. Sounded too flippant by half, didn't I?

Acton looks at her for a moment. Something else does too, drowsily, with one eye open.

"At least I don't get my endorphins by playing victim," he says, slowly. "You should really be a bit more careful who you choose to look down on."

"And you," Clarke replies, "should save the pious lectures for those rare occasions when you actually know what you're talking about."

He rises off the bed and glares at her, fists carefully unclenched.

Clarke does not move. She feels her whole body hardening from the inside out. She deliberately lifts her head until she's looking straight into Acton's hooded eyes.

It's in there now, fully awake. She can't see Acton at all any more. Everything's back to normal.

"Don't even try," she says. "I gave you a couple of shots for old times' sake, but if you lay a hand on me again I swear I'll fucking kill you."

She marvels inwardly at the strength in her voice; it sounds like iron.

They stare at each other for an endless moment.

Acton's body turns on its heel and undogs the hatch. Clarke watches it step out of the cubby; Caraco, waiting in the corridor, lets it by without a word. Clarke holds herself utterly still until she hears the 'lock beginning to cycle.

He didn't call my bluff.

Except this time, she's not sure that that's all it was.

* * *

He doesn't see her.

It's been days since they've said anything to each other. Even their shift schedules have diverged. Tonight, as she was trying to sleep, she heard him come out of the abyss again and climb up into the lounge like some invading sea creature. He does it now and then when the place is deserted, when everyone is either outside or sealed into their cubicles. He sits there at the library, diving through his 'phones down endless virtual avenues, desperation in every movement. It's as though he has to hold his breath whenever he comes inside; once she saw him tear the headset off his skull and flee outside as though his chest would burst. When she picked up the abandoned headset, the results of his litsearch were still glowing in the eyephones. Chemistry.

Another time he turned on his way out to see her standing in the corridor. He smiled. He even said something: "—sorry—" is what she heard, but there may have been more. He didn't stay.

Now his hands rest, unmoving, on the keyboard. His shoulders are shaking. He doesn't make any sound at all. Lenie Clarke closes her eyes for a moment, wondering whether to approach him. When she looks again the lounge is empty.

* * *

She can tell exactly where he's going. His icon buds off of Beebe and crawls away across the display, and there's only on thing in that direction.