Alright folks... You're not getting a "real" entry tonight. However, I would greatly appreciate some feedback on my message board or via email. Is this story just boring you to death, or do you enjoy reading it or what? I know I'm asking a lot by requesting some kind of reply on the message board. I mean, you do have to run the risk of spraining your clicking finger by clicking on the link for that little old message board.

Cmon folks... think about it. If you don't like what you're reading, the only way you're gonna get to read something different here is if you tell me. I may be a wonderful and powerful woman. I may be filled with wonderful and thrilling abilities and skills, but telepathy is not among those. I'm sorry, friends. If I could change that, I wou....... well..... no, I probably wouldn't. but anyway....

Seriously, tho... If you'd like to see something different, please tell me. The last thing I want is to be boring you into early sleep.... or maybe that's a good thing. Except for those of you who have computers in your car. You shouldn't be sleeping while driving.

Regardless... lemme know if you like or dislike the story. I don't need a whole lot of comments, I don't need a whole lot of praise. I already know I"m wonderful and the bestestestestestest thing you've ever read. But please... For those of you who might have the slightest inkling of doubt about my great wonderfulness... Tell me what you'd like to see different.

I reserve the right to ignore your desires and hopes. but I'd like to hear them anyway. *winks*

Love to you all, my friends. Thanks for reading this story. I'm likin it. But since I'm writing it, I think my opinion is a little biased.

Peace unto thy hearts.

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.

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"Colonel Marx, Sir?" The young man, slender with a strong face, looks to his superior with admiration and respect. His voice is questioning, as if he didn't want to offend. Marx looks back, a crisp expression decorating his countenance. "Yes, First Lieutenant Thomas? What can I do for you?" Marx allows his gaze to move from the soldier before him to the rest of his men. A touch of pride enters the older man's eyes.

Thomas opens his mouth as if to speak, but closes it quickly, turning slightly and sending an immediate and rigid salute to the General who approaches the pair. Marx salutes his General then turns to Thomas once again as the General speaks softly. "Go ahead, First Lieutenant. Speak your piece. I'll wait."

For half a moment the young man hesitates, then he speaks surely and with conviction. "Colonel Marx, Sir. I just wanted to compliment you on your speach. Very inspiring, Sir." Marx nods dismissively, noting the brief look of irritation at the General's interruption. The Colonel's words are carried on a light tone, yet Thomas understands the unspoken message. "Thank you, Thomas." Marx pauses just a moment. "See me after Watch. Dismissed." Thomas nods briskly, exicutes a flawless pivot then strides from the assembly hall.

Marx turns to his General, speaking quietly, a controled tone. "What can I do for you, General Sanderson?" Settling into a parade rest, Marx watches his superior. Sanderson claps Marx on the shoulder, slightly surprised at the complete lack of motion, as if he'd just slapped a brick wall. "You're doing a great job with your men, Colonel." He pauses just long enough for the last straglers to leave the hall then pierces the Colonel with his intense, black-eyed gaze. "I need five of your best men, Marx. Without family ties. It'll be hazzardous duty. Strictly Need-To-Know."

Marx nods once, his stiffness unnatural, even for an Army Colonel. "Understood General. You'll have their files, including the latest fit-reps, on your desk by 15:30." Sanderson nods, returns Marx's salute then strides from the hall. As the emptiness creeps toward him, slow and stealthy, thoughts churn within a mind already full. Marx exits the near-dark, moving into the late-morning sun. A frown creases his forehead as he moves toward his office. With each motion, the picture of Tom Skerrit from Top Gun changes direction within his mind. He wants to be like Skerrit's character. Maybe, one day, I'll be that wise Marx smiles slightly, pushing his way into his office. Again he frowns at his thoughts. Maybe, one day, I won't be a part of a corrupt government.

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"Michael, do you have a minute?" Kyra's voice is gentle as she knocks on the office door. Michael looks up from his papers, recognizing that her voice isn't quite normal. "Yes, Kyra. What is it?" He looks to the file folders she holds, raising a brow. Waving to the conference table off to the side, Michael stands, moving toward it. "Show me what you've found."

Kyra pauses for a moment, looking back to the box of other folders on her desk, turning back toward the outer office. "Just a minute." Michael nods, watching as Kyra places the file folders atop the box, then picks up the phone. "Jessie, this is Kyra, Mr. Thomas' personal assistant. Would you please cancel all his appointments today? Something has come up." She turns to look at Michael, smiling softly. Kyra nods, more at the response from the other end of the line than actually communicating with her boss. "Thanks, Jessie. I'll shut down the elevator from up here... uh huh..." Kyra rolls her eyes at Michael, then growls out her last comment, slamming the phone down as if in punctuation. "NO! That's not even funny. Good bye!"

She closes her eyes tightly, bracing herself on the edge of her desk for just a moment. With a deep breath, Kyra's countenance shifts again, tho no longer hostile, merely controled. Exhaling slowly, Kyra moves to the elevator, taking a key from her pocket in order to lock the doors. Again she inhales deeply, holding the breath for a moment then expelling it slowly. With a delicate grace, she picks up the box of files, moving into MIchael's office once again. "Sorry about the slip there." Kyra's smile seems to carry a little shame, embarrassment coloring her nearly gray eyes.

With a start, Michael notices the change in her eyes. He blinks once, twice and then again, jerking the thought back before it can find voice. My God, her eyes change color with her mood. How could I have missed that? He shakes his head briefly, thrusting himself back into the present with enough force to propel a satelite into orbit; around the moon no less. Once again Michael focuses on her words, turning from her face for fear of getting side tracked by her beauty.

"... anyway, I just... I had no right to yell like that. Just a little stressed out, I guess." Kyra starts to rake a hand through her hair, knocking the high pony tail loose before she stops. "uh... Should we....." She looks up at Michael as he interrupts her. "What did Jessie say that irritated you?" He tries to maintain a business-like voice, hoping to sound merely curious, but the tone comes out sounding protective. Michael mentally berates himself for letting that slip, listening to her response.

Instead of speaking right away, Kyra quickly removes the pony tail, allowing her hair to fall forward, hiding her madly blushing face from Michael's site. Her words are soft, embarrassed but clear. "She asked if we were going to be having sex." As if to stop herself from having to think, Kyra pushes forward, setting the box upon the conference table. She lifts the lid, removing a few different files, a set of multi-colored hi-lighters and a legal pad with a few notes scribbled on it.

Michael arches a brow at her words and then raises the other at the obvious blush, noting almost absently that her neck looks quite delicate when colored with her embarrassment. He thinks for a moment, trying to figure out what to say, everything seeming so trite. Finally, as he moves to the mini-bar behind his desk, the words appear within the forefront of his mind. "It's irritating when other people impose their lack of moral fibre on someone else." Michael grabs two rocks glasses and a bottle of Scottland's best single-malt, returning to the conference table. He cracks the bottle open, watching Kyra spread files, opened to specific pages, upon the table. After pouring a double shot into each glass, he sets the bottle down, picking up both glasses and offering one to Kyra.

"Mr. Thomas, I ......" Kyra stops as she feels her boss press the glass into her hand. "Take it and drink it. This is going to be a long day and we're likely to be stuck here for a while." With a faint nod, Kyra takes the glass, immediately bringing it to her lips. She pauses, looking to Michael. "To life and truth." She then mutters softly, "Damn the manners." and drinks down the contents in one swift shot. Kyra closes her eyes, exhaling slowly through her nose, feeling the instantainious, tho slight, burn as the liquor slides, like silk, past her throat. She sets the glass upon the table, then points to the first file.

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"Come!" Colonel Marx orders as Thomas knocks on his office door. The younger man opens the door, with a nearly haunted expression in his eyes. Closing the door behind him, Thomas takes up a position immediately before his superior's desk, executing another flawless salute. Dismissively Marx returns the salute, pointing to the chair across from him. "Sit down, Lieutenant and tell me what's bothering you."

Again Thomas seems to peer at the walls of the office, handing a picture across the desk as he takes the seat commanded. "Yes, Sir." Marx raises an eyebrow at the note scrawled on the back of the snapshot, reading quickly. Upon completion, Marx examines his soldier's face, speaking in a falsely casual tone. "Well son, what is it you need?" With a nod, Thomas speaks lightly, his casual tone equally as fake. "I wanted some advice, Sir. May I speak freely?" Marx grins, despite himself, nodding. "Of course, Thomas. Is this about this girl?" Marx casually indicates the picture.

As if he had been an actor playing a soldier, Thomas lowers his head just a little, a faint blush touching his young face. "Yes, Sir. She's a real nice girl too." Marx nods again, smiling as if his son had just asked for advice about women. The Colonel reaches forward, taking up the gold zippo his wife had given him for their anniversary. Slowly he flips the lid, spinning the wheel as if he were bored. Thomas watches his superior's actions with controled curiosity, speaking clearly.

"I was thinkin bout askin her to marry me, Sir. An' I was wonderin' how I should do that." Marx nods, his eyes never leaving the zippo. As he alternates from flame to no flame, the snap of the Zippo's hinge sets a faint rhythm. Open; strike; pause; close. He repeats the process, absently, thinking about his response. "Well, son... and this is from me to you, not Colonel to Lieutenant..." Marx smiles as if he were the proud father, continuing slowly. "I'd suggest you get to know this girl real well before you actually plan to marry her." Thomas nods, leaning forward a little, looking every part the young military man about to propose. He answers quickly, boyish joy in his voice, as Marx asks, "How long have you known her, Matt?"

"Almost six months, Co..... Sir." Marx nods again, then curses sharply, jumping back from his desk as the picture catches fire. Thomas jerks out of his chair as well, making a move toward the picture, but stopping before actually touching it. "Shit, son. I'm sorry bout that. Can you get another picture?" Marx looks to the Lieutenant, allowing the picture to continue burning, noting with internal pride that it landed upon the only bare space on his metal-topped desk. When the picture is nothing but ash, Thomas speaks, watching his Colonel sweep the ashes into the trash. "Yes sir. I have more in my footlocker. That wasn't even one of the better pictures." Marx nods again, then gestures to the door. "I need to deliver some files. We'll continue this as we walk." Thomas nods his ascent, following his leader out into the open.

Once they leave the confines of the office building, Marx places his left arm behind his back, resting the back of the wrist at his waist, against his spine. He again gets the image of Skerrit, a faint smile teasing the corners of his mouth as he speaks, quietly. "So, Matthew, what is this really about? You don't want the ears of Big Brother listening in. Talk to me." A distant look comes to Thomas' eyes as he walks beside his trusted Colonel. As the young man begins to speak, his tone quiet, his expression schooled into absense, Marx's heart beat punctuates each word.

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