 He had, at one time, decorated his walls and desk as every other employee took pleasure in doing, but the cheap posters and knick-knacks only amplified his agony in the abhorrence of his surroundings.  He had removed them, almost immediately, and found a sort of peace in the simplicity, the cheap fabric existence of fuzzy grey walls, light tan desk, and brown carpet.
Using this personally significant memory as a catalyst, Jack cultivated a space of serene contemplation.  Breathing calmly, evenly, Jack fingered the computer interface nodes to his temples and began to navigate his computer screen through the virtual landscape of the corporation’s online system, the space in which he performed his job; reaping.  Moving cautiously at first, afraid to ruin the ripe conceptual frame of mind he had worked half the day to create, Jack could not hear the tiny whirring and humming of the miniature ceiling camera focused on the back of his head.  Identical to the other hidden cameras watching the other employees at Reap-Tech, it recorded every movement and every decision he made. 
Jack thought of his work as he moved aimlessly around the electronic landscape.  Data reaping.  The concept still half amused him, as it was supposed to, even after a year of the same tedious occupation.  The job title was aesthetic embellishment for an otherwise bland resume entry, crafted by the company to appeal to prospective employees of Jack’s general temperament and psychology.  It was, really, a fancy way of saying data analyst; a data analyst with special skills and a few months of training, but still just a data analyst. 
Jack suddenly felt a sickening chill pass over him.  Without turning he knew it was Paux, his once sometimes “friend”.  Only Paux had that minty smell, that soggy atmosphere of chewing tobacco, and that thin, forced breathing pattern.  
“What’cha doin… Jack?” Paux asked in a tone that was a thick mixture of ingratiation, challenge, self-control, derision, smugness, and anger ranging from irritation to hatred.  A practiced smile, tense at the corners and loose in the lips, split his sallow, ashen skin, as he waited for Jack to turn around.
“You know, work,” replied Jack, tugging the control nodes from his skin as he turned in his chair to face Paux, in a tone that was a mixture of uncaring and purposely distanced disconcern, inconsolable depression due to feelings of being trapped in an inhuman and torturous system, slight annoyance, and boredom.  He kept his face passive as he watched Paux mentally tabulate possible responses.   
“Don’t look like it,” Paux said bluntly, with heavy touches of amusement and contempt.  
“Yeah, well… I’m having trouble concentrating,” Jack replied bitingly, implying that Paux was not helping the problem.
“That sucks.  Wanna get some lunch?” Paux said with nearly complete sincerity, just a hint of loneliness, and only a nascent conception of transference of self-loathing.
 
