Okay, a few things... I have a cold *coughsneezehackweeze* so my head aches and this little tiny bit of the story was really tough to put together. But... it's posted. So there.

Secondly... Charles has posted another entry to his diary. WOOHOOOOOO. Please go read the short story he wrote. It's a sci-fi piece. AND, please, please, please, leave him a message on the message board. It doesn't take that much effort. Just post a brief message to let him know that there is SOMEONE other than me who reads his diary. *grins*

Third... Sympatico kicks ass. He just does. Admit it, folks.

Fourth... I'm tired, so I'm going to stop typing this and post. *winks*

Love and all to you and yours.

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.

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"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 ten years." The high-pitched voice nearly etches a groove in the stainless steel 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."

Dempsey turns back to his computer monitor, scowling at the information scrolling on the screen. He taps a few keys, downloading the data onto the high-density CD, then turns to look at Byron again. "You know I've put my life into these plans. I'm not gonna let some southern fat bastard steal my research." Byron watches the tall, skinny man before him. The thought flits through his mind, "He may be southern, but he's not a dead-ringer for Lurch on heroine." Keeping his mouth shut, Byron simply exits Dempsey's lab, heading toward his own small office.

Upon entering, Byron closes the door, taking a long, slow look around his cluttered office. The walls are decorated with diplomas, certifications and awards in plain, black frames. A messy pile of papers lays sprawled across the modest, formica-topped desk. Byron chuckles quietly, the tone strained, as his imagination begins playing tricks with him. For half a moment the papers seem to come alive, forming a chorus line, singing "File us, File us."

Byron shakes his head, muttering softly. "Damn, you need a vacation. You're gettin old in your young age, Ronny." He sighs slowly, turning to the row of filing cabinets against one wall. His fingers seem to guide his legs, propelling him toward the cold, steel boxes. Cool brown eyes scan the three pottery chips atop the far left file cabinet. Byron falls back into the memory of traveling through the high desert of California where he found those shards.

There had been that month when he'd gone hiking through Apple Valley, just an hour West of San Bernadino. He'd been called an idiot by friends. He'd been told he was running away from his divorce by his parents: but he'd felt the call of the high desert. Byron had seen the sunrise calling to him, begging him to explore the secrets of the shaparell. He had gone more for the mysteries of nature than to escape the pains of life.

In the next breath, the memory jumps to his 8th birthday and the chemistry set he had waited six months for. A slow smile flickers on thin lips like a shadow upon a mirror. Ronny, come in and open your presents. The voice was that of his mother. You've been waiting. You don't have to wait any longer. Sinking back into the memory of balloons, friends and family, Byron doesn't hear the knock at his office door. Nor does he hear the click of his door being shut.

Oh, sweety, don't take so long. Just rip the paper off. I want to see what you got. Her eyes were so bright, brimming with love for her oldest son. He turned to look at his father, as if asking permission from the imposing man. After the briefest of nods, young Byron quickly ripped the wrapping paper from the large present. His grin had been so bright, so filled with expectation and promise. Thanks Mom, Dad. This is the best present ever. You're just the best. He had been so happy. He had jumped with surprise as a balloon had popped behind him.

Byron frowns slightly, as a warmth begins to seep downward. He realizes, with a little surprise, that he is on the floor. He can't seem to remember a balloon popping during that birthday celebration. No one sees the figure leaving Byron's office. No one smells the cordite. No one sees the blood on the wall or the drop on the test tube clutched in Byron's lifeless hand.

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"What is it, Wolf? What's the matter?" Kyra watches as the husky paces back and forth from window to window, whimpering softly. A faint frown caresses her brow as Kyra stands from her chair, dropping the lap blanket into it. With soft steps, she moves toward the front window, looking out at the Ford Expedition which pulls into her driveway.

Before opening the door, Kyra snaps a leash to the dog's collar, stepping out onto the porch. Late afternoon sunlight dapples the yard, coloring Wolf's thick fur a dusky copper. Bright laughter and a broad grin break out as Kyra watches Michael step out of the SUV. Her words are cheerful. "Well, look at that, Wolf. The knight in shining steel armor."

Michael laughs in spite of himself as he moves up to the porch. His words are easy and light, as if merely being in Kyra's presense relieves the tension of the day. "Yeah... Armor by Ford, patent pending." Before she can respond, Wolf jumps forward, barking happily at Michael's approach. The leash pulls at Kyra's wrist, eliciting a slight grunt.

"Wolf... stop it." She rolls her eyes, looking to Michael. "He's a nice dog. He won't bite or anything. But he's big and very.... uh... happy." With a soft grin, Kyra steps back into the house, tugging once on the leash, then speaking softly. "C'mon in, Mr. Thomas. Can I get you a cup of coffee?"

Claws scrabble on the hardwood floor as Wolf hurries to obey his mistress and keep Michael in view simultaniously. As Michael steps through the door, he scans the comfortably furnished livingroom of the small house. A large couch, two large chairs and a recliner, all in black leather, make up a lop-sided triangle for conversation. Two table lamps of brass and etched glass adorn wraught iron end tables. The matching coffee table displays a broken fan of Hot Rod and Amazing magazines.

Soft gray eyes quickly scan the lap blanket and the nearly-completed paperback novel. Her voice cuts into his exploration before he can get the title of the book. "Can I get you something to drink or eat?" Kyra stands poised in the doorway of the kitchen, the husky sitting at attention immediately before her. He barks once followed by her soft laughter as she crouches to remove the leash. "Be nice, Wolf. And I'll bring you a snack too." She stands up again, nodding once as Michael speaks.

"Uh, sure... Whatever you're having." He follows her with his eyes, tilting his head slightly to the side. For half a moment he contemplates leaving, unsure as to what exactly to say. Her voice stills that thought, however, and he takes a seat on the couch. "Alright, one Baked Alaska coming right up." She laughs softly, then continues. "Grab a seat. I'll be right out."

As MIchael sits, Wolf pads up to him, stopping about a foot away, sniffing at him as if gauging this new experience. Michael looks to the husky, extending his hand slowly, not quite sure if he should trust the previous 'he doesn't bite' comment. "If you don't bite... why'd she name you Wolf, huh?" At the sound of his gentle voice, the dog pricks his ears forward, a look of curios inteligence flickering behind the canine eyes. Wolf chuffs once, as if deciding that the man is okay then leans his head forward, in the hopes of additional patting.

Moments later, Kyra enters the living room with a tray in her hands. She sets the tray upon the coffee table, placing a glass of lemonade on a coaster before Michael, taking a glass for herself and setting a shallow dish of lemonade on the floor beside her chair for the pup. Her voice rings out easily and lightly as Kyra settles back into her chair, once again spreading the blanket over her legs. "Well, since I'm really not all that keen on small talk... What brings you out here, Mr Thomas? What can I do for you?"

As if buying time, Michael takes a sip from his glass of lemonade, leaning back in the comfortable couch. He watches Kyra for a moment, as if weighing the pros and cons within his mind. He then begins, slowly. "First off... it's Michael." He smiles, almost a touch hesitantly. "We're not in the office, so... casual seems the way to go." Wolf raises his head, looking to Michael with lemonade dripping from his muzzle. He chuffs once as if in agreement. "And, I'm sure if I said anything it didn't like..." Michael nods to the husky. "...he'd be sure to let me know."

Kyra smiles softly, nodding. "Yes, you're right. So, Michael it is." She smiles softly, then raises a brow, evaluating the man before her. "Alright, Michael. Spill it."

A wry chuckle slips from his lips and he nods, something inside of him putting up another mark on the continual 'pro' tally in his mind. "Well, I'm sorry to bother you on your day off... but there are some sensitive business things to discuss and I'm not sure who to trust in the company." Kyra raises a brow, watching Michael, waiting for him to continue at his own pace. "George has given me a new project and the right to recruit anyone I deem fit." He pauses, watching her eyes. "I'm here to find out if you're interested in a change of responsibilities."

Kyra nods slowly, taking in the information. Tho her expression is serious, her eyes remain bright and cheerful. An easy smile spreads across her lips, tho her tone is quite serious. "Is this the problem that's kept Strat so worried lately? The whole weapons/take-over thing?" This time Michael raises a brow, watching Kyra more closely this time. His words are slightly accusing as a warning klaxon rings within his mind. "Where do you get your information?" Michael's shoulders seem to stiffen slightly, of their own accord, as if he were preparing for some blow; steeling himself for a let-down.

She watches MIchael for a moment, then speaks softly, slowly. "Don't back off. I'm no threat to you or the company, but especially Strat. Secondly, Strat and I are on extremely good terms. And finally, I get my information through reading between the lines." She pauses a moment, taking a sip from her lemonade and taking the time to pet Wolf's head as he sets his muzzle upon her thigh. "I don't like secrets, Michael. I don't like keeping secrets from people I trust. However, I am not sure how much to reveal to you at this time." She watches Michael intently, a touch of sadness to her eyes.

Michael nods once, thinking about her comments. His eyes move toward the book on her end table, finally seeing the title. His eyes widen slightly, jaw dropping for just a moment before he regains his mask of composure. Seeing his reaction, Kyra picks up the nearly-completed book, scanning the cover. "You like Cob Shadowfox? From what I've been able to glean, he's still fairly unknown." She pauses a moment, chuckling lightly. "He's gonna be big tho. Real big."

A slight frown is his response to her question and subsequent comments. He had thought the book would fade into obscurity. Grudgingly, Michael places another mental check mark in the 'pro' column when it came to Kyra. Finally he speaks, quietly. "I understand your reluctance to break a confidence. I admire that. I need someone to be my number one. But the job is going to be tough, long hours and possibly very frustrating." He looks into her eyes, intently. "Are you willing?"

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