Okay, part three. Whatcha think so far? Leave messages... vote on my new quiz thingie (bottom left, under the Adopt A PNW Tree Octopus)

Love me lots. Oh wait... that's supposed to be me loving you.... forgot about that.

*winks*

George nods to Kyra, then turns toward the bank of elevators without another word. A gentle laugh caresses the office walls as if she were reclaiming the space in the name of peace and bright tenderness. "Do you have the time now, Mr. Thomas, or would you prefer to come back on another day?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Six Months Later ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Michael picks up the phone on his desk, calling down to the reception desk, speaking quickly. "Kyra, I'm expecting a representitive from the Branson Group today. Would you notify me as soon as they arrive?"

"Yes, sir, Mr Thomas. I'll make sure to page you." The responding voice is low and dusky, missing the brightness of Kyra's usual tone. Michael thanks her then hangs up, turning back to the hard copy before him. A slight frown creases his brow and he stops, looking at the phone with confusion brushing faintly at his eyes.

Thoughts arc through his mind as Michael tries to match the voice he just heard. A slight chill traces faint circles at the base of his spine, noting that it wasn't Kyra at her normal post. Almost without thought, he picks up the handset once again. Muttering softly at his lack of concentration, he turns back to the figures before him, cancelling the call before actually dialing. "She probably stepped out for a minute."

Michael crosses two figures off the sheet, penciling in the changes then shakes his head as thoughts of Kyra flutter within the forefront of his mind. For a moment, he wonders if she's ever had a negative thought. As he thinks about it, Michael realizes that he's never seen Kyra frown except in concentration, and a soft smile seems to brighten the corners of his mouth.

He leans back in the comfortable-enough chair, raising his right ankle to rest upon his left knee. The smile broadens slightly; a wall of clouds being burned off by the warmth of the morning sun. A figure in green dances through the halls of his mind, every footfall leaving a fresh spot of brightness and soft warmth behind. The soft laugh and teasing grin, an echo of Kyra's own, are suddenly cut off as Michael turns his head toward the door of his office and the huge bear of a man who stands there.

"Day dreamin again, Thomas? I didn't hire ya for your good looks, man." George's easy grin splits his face comfortably as he quickly adds. "You busy?"

Michael chuckles, shaking his head. "No, not really. What do you need?" He waves a hand toward the chair opposite his own, watching his boss' face for some sign. As George lowers his large frame into the chair, his face sobers, a slightly dark caste coming to his deep-set eyes. The words which pour forth seem to have been thought out and scripted so as to avoid errors.

"Thomas..." He pauses, frowning just a bit then pushes on. "There's a problem we need taken care of immediately. What have you got on your schedule that can't be done by one of your trainees?" George watches MIchael's reaction, interpreting the faint changes in dilation, watching for signs of stress or irritation.

Michael remains still for a moment, giving no sign whatsoever as to his thoughts, then nods briefly, leaning forward upon his desk, staring straight into George's eyes. "Only one project is sensitive at this point, but there is nothing pressing. It should be completed by the end of the month. What's the problem?" Although there is no change to his voice, the atmosphere in the small office is obviously changed. Michael watches the other man with an attention to details which elude even the most practiced.

George also nods slowly, then releases the tide of words, as if attempting to set the hook. "Choose your most trusted trainee for the the sensitive material. By the end of the week, I need you free and clear." George stands then, moving toward the single window to the North of the building. "As you know, there've been some problems with R&D lately. A certain competitor claims that we've stolen their ideas on more than one occassion."

Late morning traffic flows steadily on the street below; horns calling up a ceaseless chorus of impatience. Broad shoulders turn bringing those deep-set eyes to focus on Michael again. "I need you to weed out the R&D department. Prune it back to nothing and start all over again if necessary. I don't trust anyone else with the tech we're puttin out." He pauses, watching Michael's face. "You'll have access to all the intel you need. Anyone within the company as your support staff... just ask and they're yours." Again he pauses, frowning slightly at the lack of reaction. "It's a big project. Can you handle it?"

Michael nods once, his gaze steady. "This might produce some severe cuts." He pauses, guaging his words. "If you're giving me R&D, and if you're saying what I think you are, I need full control. No chain of command and protocall problems." He watches, no change in his expression.

George nods his affirmation almost immediately. "Of course." The sense of relief which washes over the unusually somber face is almost tangible. "Your chain of command includes you and me." HIs eyes take on that faint pre-smile hue, but he doesn't let loose quite yet. "You accept this change in position? I know it's not what you signed on for six months ago, but this company is my life. I'm not willing to lose it in some hostile take-over game."

Full understanding filters into Michael's mind and he allows a slight, calculated smile to form. "I take it there is something to the rumors coursing through the halls, then?" The words are more a statement than an actual question. Michael sits back, relaxing once again, his fingers steepled before his lips. His eyes sharpen slightly, no longer their typical soft gray, now with a slightly brown caste. "I'll expect a summary of your needs by..." He pauses, abandoning the warrior's expression as George tosses him a slender file folder. "Excellent. I'll examine this and give you a list of what and who I need by the end of the week."

George grins then, laughing heartily. "I knew you'd be the best man for the job. Friday's good." Without another word, George steps out of Michael's office, practically vanishing as the door softly clicks shut behind him. MIchael leans back, turning slightly to look out the window. Had anyone actually been watching, they would have seen the most out-of-character grin splitting his lips.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kyra wakes slowly, blinking her eyes a few times, yet still feeling a little groggy. She turns toward the warm body beside her, running her fingers gently against the long, silken hair. With a soft voice she wakes her bed-mate. "C'mon Wolf. It's time to get up." Kyra then turns, pulling back the warm comforter and slipping from her nestled refuge.

With a gentle yawn and a full stretch, the husky beside her lolls its tongue out of its mouth in a canine grin. Wolf shakes his head, morphing the shake into a full-body affair, then looks up into Kyra's eyes as if awaiting her first instruction. Kyra laughs softly, ruffling the dog's fur, then nods, pointing to the door. "Alright, I'm going, I'm going. Just chill out a bit. And you can't have my ice cream so don't even think about it." The husky chuffs softly then leaps to the floor, trotting easily to the door.

Running a hand through her own hair, Kyra opens the door, releasing Wolf into the large, fenced yard. With a soft sigh she reaches for the phone, snagging it from the cradle. "H'lo... talk to me." Her voice flows easily, lightly. The morning fog seems to fade as soon as she hears the voice on the other end. Kyra watches Wolf through the window, grinning at the dog's playful antics while she listens to her friend speak.

"Hey there, Ky. Whatcha up to this mornin? I thought you were gonna be workin. You're always workin ya know? Anyway... I gotta tell you what happened with Micky last night..." As the bubbling, female voice continues, Kyra interjects the appropriate interested sounds tho her mind begins to wander a bit. Within her mind, she sees Michael as he appears every morning. He always looks sharp in his suit and tie.

Kyra rests her shoulder against the wall, her eyes focused on the trees. She continues to listen to her friend without really listening. Michael's hand reaches out for hers within her mind, the sun shining down upon their shoulders as he pulls her close, his words of joy and happiness echoing her own. Shaking her head, Kyra snaps her mind away from such a day-dream, refusing to let the scene go any further.

"Yeah, Becca. I bet that was exciting." she chuckles, coming back to the conversation at her ear. Becca's voice continues on, almost as if Kyra had remained silent, yet the line suddenly goes dead. With a slight frown, Kyra looks to the handset, shrugs slightly, then hangs up. "Most likely hit a tunnel." she mutters softly.

As Wolf scratches at the door, Kyra opens it to him, laughing brightly as the large, thickly furred animal leaps up at her. She stumbles back a few steps, laughing again. "Alright, alright... let's get you fed." With that, the husky bounds off to the kitchen, its paws scrabbling for purchase on the slick, hard-wood floor.

Once in the kitchen, Kyra immediately scoops out a large bowl of Puppy Chow for Wolf, pouring it into his dish. She then moves to the fridge, taking a metal pitcher of milk to the counter where she goes about making an Irish Cream Mocha. As she grinds the espresso beans, Wolf looks up, whimpering once. "It's okay, pup. It's just the addiction talking." As if he understood, the husky returns to his food crunching away.

Twenty minutes later, Kyra settles back into her favorite, black leather chair, curling her legs up under her and spreading a throw blanket over her lap. She takes a pull from the mug of flavored coffee, then opens her book and begins to read.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Byron, I don't care what that slave-driver said, I'm not going to hand over everything I've been working on for the past three years." The high-pitched voice nearly etches a groove in the stainless steele walls of the Clean Room. Byron shakes his head, pushing his glasses up one more time. His own voice, a more soothing tone, reaches out as if to placate. "It's not your work, Dempsey. You signed the papers. Your research belongs to Stratfield."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

more later...