Okay folks. Really short tonight. I"m totally exhausted and my brain isn't working correctly.

this head cold thing is really gettin my head. I feel kinda like every single letter that I type is having to traverse a mile of molasses and it's in the middle of antartctica.

Or something.

Okay, so here's part five or something....

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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The wind sweeps through the desert as if being persued by the most foul demons of hell. Rocks whistle with shrill vhemence at nature's discrection. Only one figure stands in place to hear this demented version of Mozart's Magic Flute. Shadows dance upon the whirling gouts of sand. Shaparell, wrenched from the ground, explodes across the figure's vision, each burst being the punctuation of the building, desert storm.

A pair of headlights cut through the debris, flashing upon the lone figure for half a moment, before the vehicle shudders to a stop. Slowly the driver opens his door, stepping out into the miserable storm. Hot desert air mixed with sand seems to blast his face, reminding him for just a moment, of the climax scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark. He stifles a chuckle, turning it into a curse of the foul conditions, then speaks; his voice harsh and forced, trying to be heard.

"Damn it. You always choose this Mission Impossible shit. Just give me the information and let me get back home." The scowl seems, for just a moment, to have been born upon his face, yet he pulls the collar of his jacket up, cutting his face from view while protecting his neck from the worst of the sand-blasting storm. The other figure merely leans forward, speaking just loud enough to be heard.

"Jameson is out of the picture. But there's a new threat. And he's good." The ragged voice, made moreso by the stinging wind, pauses to take in a weazing breath. Long, boney fingers entombed in black leather gloves, snare the driver's arm in a vise-like grip. "How much you really want that piece of research?"

With a feral growl, the driver jerks his arm away. "Don't you ever touch me again. I will not chance your disease. You're the General's pet, not mine." He turns, opening his door with a scrabbling wrench on the handle, a strange sense of panic rising in him. Before he can slip inside the relative safety of his car, the strange figure lashes his left hand out, snagging the driver's throat and applying just enough pressure to make breathing a privilage.

"Remember this, fat man, the general pays the bills but he don't write the rules. I am my own god." Leather-man backs just a little, still applying pressure to the driver's throat. "I am my own god. Never doubt that." Again he backs off, colorless eyes staring from beneath the brim of his ball cap. Before turning, he speaks one last time. "You get the company, Branson. Be happy with your toys and leave the work to me."

The driver doubles over as soon as his neck is released, drawing in great gulps of air between wracking coughs. Slowly he rises to his full height once again, cursing at his contact even though the figure is gone as soon as the last word falls from his pinched mouth. Getting back into his car, Branson, starts the engine, muttering quietly to himself.

"Your own god... yeah right, and I'm King Tuttenkamen." He shakes his head, refusing to admit to himself exactly how nervous he really is. Again he wonders if he has gotten himself involved in something that would destroy his life. "I have so much work to do." His voice slips, strained, from between parched lips. Branson wipes the excess sand from his face, peering into the storm raging around him. For half a second gets the impression of a pair of sightless eyes staring back at him.

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There were rumors that Dempsey was injecting himself when he couldn't get other test subjects. There were rumors of strange sounds coming from his lab. There always seemed to be rumors... No one had actually been able to prove the rumors though. Byron had gotten inside Dempsey's office twice in ten years; that wasn't enough to keep tabs on the strange scientist.

Dempsey had signed the papers, ten years ago, promising his research to Sky-Way Industries. Dempsey had agreed. Obviously he had changed his mind. Some people said the change had occured after a long weekend locked in his own lab. The survielance system mysteriously shut down in his sector; throughout that entire weekend. What had really happened was still known only to Dempsey. Some people whispered that the research was evil and subversive. They argued that Dempsey's project be cut. Still others argued that if Dempsey could make it work the world might finally find true equality.

Those people were fools. And Dempsey knew it. There was no room for equality, only his way. The Formula would see to that. Only the strong survive. Isn't that what the world had been saying for decades? Only the strong survive in the end. The strong... But strength came in many different forms, didn't it? There was strength of muscle, strength of character, strength of intelligence... Too bad the formula wasn't quite ready.

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