It was later than JACE had intended to return in the morning, but his late night meeting with Ophilia had forced him to sleep longer than was usual.  It shouldn't be a significant problem, however.  None of the experiments currently running were particularily time sensitive.  In addition, it was unlikely anyone else would be in today, unless they were forced to be.  As he moved down the hallway towards the laboratory, he continued his mental list of what experiments he needed to remove and how to do so safely.  The viral manipulation experiment was, by far, the most sensitive and dangerous.  He prefered it here.  If something went wrong he would much rather destroy the cathedral than his home.  After his discussion with Angelo last night, however, he

He never looked forward to the Harvest Festival. Not even a little. It wasn't simply his aversion to physical sports, no real art or craft or knack with the livestock; he was never the competitive sort, so these contests never inspired him. He hadn't his older brothers' strength or dexterity, or his younger brother's creativity, or even his sister's dashing looks or charm. And he had long since accepted his father's disapproval for it, as well. Despite this gnawing feeling of inadequacy, however, it was rather, above all else, yet another affirmation that he was alone that festered this dislike of the annual event.

She'd taken to wandering around his brothers room, now that he was gone.

Renaldo could find her there at least once a day, either sitting at his brothers desk flipping through one of his books, or staring blankly at his monitor, her once-tanned face now pale and drawn. Sometimes she would flip through the books and journals, her movements careful and slow. The movements of the elderly, or the addict. Her eyes were more often than not heavy-lidded from the medications she insisted on taking "For the pain, dear. For the pain" she would say to him, cupping his cheek in her palm before descending the stairs, her fingers cool upon his face.

Certified Pre-Owned. It was another name for somebody else’s worn out ride. But cars seemed to sell themselves when Jeff Melbourne got hold of them. Salesman of the week. Of the month. Of the year. Twelve hours a day, five and a half days a week (Saturdays they closed early so the boss could make his tee-time). It wasn’t a glamorous job, but it paid. And he was good at it. They gave him the sales manager position and things were working out okay.