Get Right to Work

Alasdair turned his chair towards the glass slider doors. Beyond their white, translucent curtain overlooked glistening roads and buildings of his large city welcoming the declines of day.

"Alis, Lights, On, Forty percent," his deep voice echoed, granting permission for the automated dimmed illumination of his interior.

He decided.

Was it the right decision? That's debatable. Continuous rumination, bordering on obsession, was never a pleasant look. Bad thoughts had a peculiar way at hacking at your mentality, but was ignoring them the better alternative?

He made the best of his behaviour towards Mister and Missus Green during his meeting with the ARK Industries Representatives. Maybe his simple questioning was more of him angrily venting his frustrations, but he did not think he was in the wrong for putting the dickgirl in her place.

The Latitude cN turned men into pussies.

In no way that is copacetic!

Another deep breath.

No more hinderance of the mind.

He scratched at his generous, sculpted biceps; a profound chuckle escaping him upon acknowledging his circumstance. Yes, he lacked power altering his fate, cemented in his responsibilities to inSite and Martina, but accepting his hand might help him carry out a change down the line. At the present moment, only he cared about his situation. If anything, managing this project alone meant he could make anything out of it. That sole thought diminished the toiling defeat eating at him. He needed more of these considerations else risk landing himself in more scorching water.

Besides, primal emotional performances were reserved for women. As a man, he was not helpless. He had control over his circumstance, thus must bring into being what he got to do, no matter how he felt.

He sat upward, reaching over to the Latitude cN on his desk before looking over to his desktop computer.

Time to set everything up.