Okay, yet another installment in this seemingly never-ending story. Gah, will I EVER stop? Who knows. Perhaps I'll post a "real" entry tomorrow. Heh... Don'tcha just wish. *smirks*

Love and all to you and yours, friends.

Michael nods just as his door softly clicks closed. He moves lightly to his desk, allowing himself the small smile at Kyra's reaction. You knew she'd like it. And you did it just to see her smile. You're such a sap, Mike He laughs at his own thoughts, then settles back into his chair, turning on his own computer and sending a quick message to his boss. I'm in. You want me to come to your office, or will you show up here? Almost immediately George fires back a response telling Michael to come up to the top floor.

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

George looks across at Michael, a frown on the older man's face. Michael sits, in shock, merely staring at his boss. Slowly, he begins to speak in a soft voice. "You're sure?" Quickly he adds. "I mean... Well... her brother?" Michael shakes his head, closing his eyes as he lets the information sink in. "I take it you haven't told her?"

Shaking his head, George smiles sadly. "No. I couldn't bear the look in her eyes." With a slow hand, George pushes a file folder toward Michael. "This is the project that got him killed. And Dempsey is the number one suspect in my eyes." Gray eyes blink once as Michael takes the folder. Again his voice is soft, slightly husky with a sort of empathetic emotion. "She might need some time off."

George nods quickly, pushing away from the desk. He turns, looking out the huge windows. Somehow the bright sunshine of the day seems to be a mockery. "Can you tell her?" An obvious shiver quakes across his shoulders. The usually energetic voice takes on a depressed tone. "Nepetism is frowned on throughout the business world unless you're the relative. I can't stand to see her hurt, Thomas. And, Damn it... Ronny was such a good kid."

George turns, tears falling from his eyes. "They're my brother's kids, Thomas. I got Ronny his first chemistry set for cryin out loud. That kid was always so curious but down to earth too." The mountain, reduced to nothing more than rubble, retakes his seat. The huge leather chair seems to dwarf him. "I can't tell her, Thomas. I just can't." George raises his hands to his face, sobs wracking his massive shoulders.

"The company ain't worth this, Thomas. It's just a company." Michael watches George shaking, the strength and humor previously to common seem to have taken a sabatical. Realizations dawn, slowly at first, then building speed. She's his niece. Byron was his nephew. Branson is mixed in with all this. And Dempsey... Michael blinks a few times, revelations coming so rapidly he can't seem to recover from one before the next hits. Suddenly the memory of a teen-age trip to the ocean surfaces in his memory.

He'd been learning to surf that summer. Michael hadn't gone more than a hundred yards out when a tremendous wave hit him. The water had seemed to reach up to drag him under with a death grip about his throat. Seaweed had snared his legs; panic sweeping in to remove all logic from his mind. Each time he'd found the surface, another wave would crash over him, sending Michael spinning further down into the churning sand and surf. He had never gone out into the ocean again.

Faintly, Michael could smell the cloying saltiness of the waterfront. He shakes his head, breaking free from his brief reverie, looking toward the huge man crying across from him. Clearing his throat discreetly, Michael stands, moving toward the elevator. "I'll tell her, Mr. Stratfield." Without another word, Michael steps into the ready elevator, leaving the man to his grief. As the doors close, Michael whispers softly, "You will never lose this company. I'll make sure of that!"

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

"Fine! I'll meet him when I'm through with my work." Dempsey's voice grates into the receiver. Without waiting for a response, he slams the phone back down on the cradle, spitting in rage at the interruption. Damn bitch. She's next! The thought slams through his mind as an evil grin turns up the corners of his mouth. Dempsey then turns to the counter upon which rest a glass of water and two pills.

Clawlike fingers of ice crawl toward the cup of water, grasp it, then bring it shakily to pinched lips. Dempsey takes the pills, Supliment K, swallowing them with the miniature tidal wave of water. His throat constricts for a moment, threatening to repell the incoming invasion with extreme prejudice, yet he forces the liquid salvation down. As soon as the pills hit his empty stomach, Dempsey feels the accellerator kick in, forcing the componants into his bloodstream at what seems to be the speed of light.

Long, narrow feet carry Dempsey accross the lab. His arms twitch and spasm with a nervous energy. Lightening bolts of power arc and snap within his cells, the alterations coming faster with every accellerated heart beat. Suddenly Dempsey falls to the floor, a wild scream exploding from his throat. Pain levels soar, jumping through his body, into his brain. Fingers claw at narrow cheeks as if Dempsey could remove the needles of pain with sheer force.

Explosions of white-hot fire burn through his brain. Leaving a trail of seared flesh in its wake, the seeming demon races through Dempsey's bloodstream, entering his heart again and again. Blood begins to trickle from his nose, crawling over his pursed lips then down to his chin and off to splash drop after drop upon his crisp, white shirt.

As suddenly as the pain sets in, it is gone. Dempsey rises to his feet once more, looking around the lab. His muscles ripple with power. His ears pick up the faint whirring of an electrical motor. With wide, wild eyes, Dempsey focuses on the microscopic camera imbedded in the microphone of his computer. With a snap of his wrist, he rips the microphone off the computer table, crushing it into a fine powder between his hands.

Dempsey lets loose a loud roar of triumph, screaming his challenge into the air, the bullet of sound ricocheting off the walls repeatedly; a psychotic echo. "I AM MY OWN GOD!!!"

~~~~~~~~~~~

Kyra looks up from her desk as Michael steps out of the elevator. Her bright smile fades a bit as she sees the sadness and trouble etched upon his face. Her voice is soft and tender, her eyes filled with empathetic compassion. "Michael? Are you okay?" Kyra half rises from her desk chair, intending to move to him. She sinks back into her chair as he waves dismissively.

"Kyra, George wanted me to tell you something. He would have done it himself, but he couldn't..." Michael pauses, not sure how to say it without putting his boss in a bad light. Instead of beating around the bush, he simply spills it. "Your brother was killed in his office last week. We don't yet know by whom. Nor do we know why." He pauses, watching her reaction. "The police are on the case." Again he stops, the awkward silence stretching to infinite lengths.

Kyra sits back a little further in her chair, her eyes never leaving Michael's. For a moment a deep sadness and dispair seem to flood her expression, yet she blinks a few times, then her face clears once again. She exhales slowly, closing her eyes as if to concentrate on the mechanics of the task. Slowly, Kyra opens her eyes again, a deep-seated calm filling her countenance. Her voice is softer than usual, but not sad. "How was he killed?" She pauses a moment, then continues. "I mean, was it painless?"

Michael nods slowly, lowers his head just a little, then moves toward Kyra. His tone, already soft, becomes more tender and compassionate. "Are you going to be okay, Kyra? I mean... is there anything I can do?" A flare of anger shines in her eyes, momentary anger. "Was it because of this project we're now working on?" Her eyes are sharp, the sorrow pushed behind her. She'll grieve when it's over. Again Michael nods. "Yes. We think so anyway."

Reaching a hand toward her shoulder, Michael sees the strength within her eyes. Yet another mark goes up in the 'pro' column when it comes to this woman. As Kyra looks up into Michael's eyes, her own expression remains clear, attentive and sharp. She will not give in to hysterics in the face of adversity. Her next question rocks Michael to the core with an emotion he had never before felt.

"I suppose I, being Strat's niece, am a target now?" Her eyes, once again, are fearful, for just a moment. With quick motion, MIchael pulls Kyra from her chair, close to him, holding her tightly against his chest in a tight, almost smothering, hug. His voice cracks slightly with emotion, and yet there is such force and strength... such conviction. "No one will hurt you, Kyra! I will see to that. NO ONE!"

Michael releases a soft but explosive breath, feeling a need to protect this woman. Again he feels that strange emotion. Could it be love? Could he actually love this person he knows almost nothing about? Tho he knows he's holding her too tightly, Michael can't seem to release the tenderness he knows by the name of Kyra. He realizes suddenly who she is, what she is. Softly, very softly he whispers the words. "I won't let anything happen to you, Kyra."

~~~~

Pulling back away from Michael, just a little, Kyra looks up into his eyes. She can't remember when she slid her arms around him, but the feeling seems right. Everything inside her tells her to reach up, just a little... to brush her lips against his own. Instead, Kyra turns her head to the side, looking to her computer screen. She pulls further away from Michael, speaking quietly, a faint touch of denial touching her eyes. "If you don't mind... I would like to not think for a while. Is there anything you need done? Some mundane and boring task?"

Michael slowly releases her, his muscles fighting against his mind. She's here, you can tell she doesn't want to let go. Don't let her hide from this. Michael supresses the words of his mind, nodding slowly. "If you think that is best, yes. If you need some time off... Just say the word." Kyra nods half heartedly, sinking back down into her chair. She looks to Michael watching him for a moment. "When this is all over... not just today, but all of it. When I'm no longer a target. I want to go get drunk. Give Ronny a good send off."

He nods slowly, the voice at the back of his mind whispering its approval. Michael turns then, heading back into his office. He returns, carrying a box of file folders. Setting the box upon her desk, he watches her face, then gives her the instructions. "Alright... these are personnel files. I want you to go through each one, cover to cover. I want you to look for anything out of the ordinary."

Kyra nods, looking at the box. "Is there anything specific you're looking for? Affiliations? Hobbies? Tie ins with any specific groups or companies?" The look in her eyes is all business. At the very corners of her eyes remains a touch of sadness, but Kyra seems determined not to think about her rightful sorrow. "From what little I know of you, you wouldn't give me a project to serve only one purpose." She laughs softly, the sound musical though brief.

Michael chuckles softly in echo of her own faint laughter as yet another mark goes up in the 'pro' column. "You're right. And yes, I'm looking for anything that ties in with the Branson Group in any way. Former military involvement. Current military involvement. Hell, anything you see that either doesn't fit, or fits too well." He watches her for a moment longer then turns back to his office as she nods her understanding.

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