Another part of the story... This one's short tho... Peace and such...

Never could they understand. They can not evolve. I am the dawn of a new age. I am the man everyone wants to be. I can live on nothing and I grow stronger with their hate. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god. I am my own god.....

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First Lieutenant Matthew Thomas zips up the side of his leather over-night duffel, looking back into his footlocker for anything he might need in his exile. Only one thought runs through his mind. Where am I going to go? Matthew pauses, hearing a faint rustle, the sound of boots crunching on the gravel outside the barracks. The footsteps seem stealthy, setting off alarm bells in his mind.

Slinging the duffel over his shoulder, Matthew takes one last look around his bunk, noting with satisfaction that the area looks as if he will be returning after an extended weekend. With a note of sadness to a faint sigh, he turns away from the pictures of family, having taken only one; that of his brother, Michael. Making his way from the barracks hall, Matthew snaps to attention as his Comander Major takes up the door way, blocking the exit.

"Lieutenant Thomas. Where are you going with that duffel?" The comander's face remains impassive, tho his eyes are hard and cruel. Matthew's reply is prompt and respectful with a touch of excitement. "An extended weekend pass, Sir. By order of Colonel Marx." He pauses a moment, watching the comander's eyes, then hastily adds, as if he'd almost forgotten. "To ask my girl's father for her hand, Sir." The grin which breaks out across Thomas' face is bright enough to eclipse the moon.

Seeming to be mollified, at least for the moment, the senior officer steps away from the door, effecting a brief salute. Matthew lowers his hand, speaking quietly, but with the strain of eagerness basting his words. "With your leave, sir?" With a brief nod, the comander walks on through the barracks hall, leaving Matthew to his escape.

Once out of ear shot, Thomas releases the iron control on his body, his heart suddenly jack-hammering within his own ears. He forces himself to continue walking at a steady pace, tho his legs take on the consitancy of jell-o. With a casual wave to the Lieutenant on Watch, Matthew slips through the gate, every step forward taking him a little further into obscure safety. A stray thought rebounds within Matthew's mind as he makes his way toward the bus stop.

Is there any "going back" or am I stuck like this forever?

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

George strides quickly into the 70-story high-rise, his eyes watching everyone around him with easy peace. Stopping before the bank of elevators, he waits for the doors to open then steps inside, depressing the button for the 35th floor. As the doors slide closed, George's smile fades a little with the knowledge that life is short; shorter for some.

The doors slide open, waiting to spill their contents into the entry of Dempsey and McKeller, George's lawyers. Upon sight of him, the receptionist pages Kenneth Dempsey, then points George toward the private office. "He's waiting for you, Mr. Stratfield. Go on in." He nods politely, then moves inside the office.

A small, diminutive man stands from behind the imense, teak desk. He reaches his hand out to George, moving toward the large man. "How are you this morning, George?" Kenneth waves a hand toward the wing-back chairs before the fireplace, indicating his client should sit. "Tell me what brings you here today."

With a hearty, but forced, chuckle George cautiously lowers himself into the chair, his voice light and bantering, belying the pain in his eyes. "Seems I"m payin ya too much, Ken. You got your own fireplace. Better'n my own office."

Ken narrows his eyes, not swayed by the easy tones of his long-time client and friend. "Out with it, George. What's got you under the gun?"

A faint sigh falls from his lips as George looks to the flames for a moment. With haunted, hunted tones, he tells Ken the story.

"Well, Ronny's gone, Ken... He was murdered in his office a bit ago.... I've recieved a few threats and I think they're tied up with Branson's latest push to buy Sky-Way; or steal it...... I don't like what's goin on, lately........ I think Kyra's in danger..... And....... I want to rewrite my will."

Ken watches as the big man stumbles through his oration, hesitating and sighing with high frequency. The small voice, almost an echo of its possessor's stature, pipes up softly. "You told the police about the threats, George?"

With a sad shake of his head, George mumbles quietly. "Naw.... nuthin they could do bout it an'way."

A touch of shock alights in Kenneth's eyes, watching his friend looking so defeated. Again he speaks quietly, but this time as a friend. "You know I"d do anything for you, George. I'm here."

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