Woohoo... I wrote another part of the story.

I'm not real pleased with this one... I think it needs a lot of work. But I"d like opinions.

Thanks folks.

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

~~~~~~~~~

Sun slowly streams through the slightly green window, casting a murky shadow over his face. Matthew tries to stretch in place, not wanting to disrupt the older lady next to him as the bus groans to a stop. A tinny voice chitters from the speaker above Matthew's head. "End of the line, folks: Dalton Parkway. Thanks for choosing Speedway Buslines."

He waits for the other pasengers to crawl from the bus, hitting "play" on his CD player once more. Slowly the perfect mix of power, attitude and class begins to wend its way into Matthew's brain, pulling him along with the rhythm of Outlaw Torn. As the strings kick in, he makes his way from the bus, trying to soothe himself with the local patterns.

Matthew loses himself in the music of Metallica's second S&M disc, his footsteps following the bass line, his thoughts focusing solely on the heavy strings... for now. So much power shines through in the celloes. As Metallica makes the walk a spiritual event, Matthew focuses on his plight. The constant repetition of bass-beat-then-foot-step sets a safe pace. He pours over what he knows, making a mental check list. Matthew looks briefly up to the sky, as if feeling a drop of rain and looking for the source.

"We've got a project for you, Thomas. You're the best man for the job." That's what they'd said six months ago. Would have been nice if they'd been a little more forthcoming. Matthew turns his eyes back to the road ahead of him, moving in a steadily SouthWestern direction as his thoughts play a silent accompaniment to Hetfield's growling vocals.

They wanted me to try out this new medication. It was supposed to be an adrenal supliment. But, it didn't do anything to the adrenals. They said it would make me a "super-man". God, what a fool I was. Shaking his head, Matthew turns a little more toward the West. "Son, this ain't gonna hurt ya none." That's what Colonel Marx had said. I wonder if the Colonel knew what he was really signing me up for.

Let's see... two injections of the syrum and one dose of the supliment... which one was it? Oh yeah... Supliment J is what "hawkman" called it. Damn was he ever ugly. And nervous as hell too. He shakes his head slightly, as if pushing away the memories. Matthew pauses, turning off the CD player and freezing in place, tho he doesn't remove the headphones. For a moment the Lieutenant simply listens.

Then, he hears it again, the sound. A soft, faint rustling off to his right and behind him. The hackles begin to rise and Matthew darts almost soundlessly to his right. Part of his mind actually wonders at how deeply in the woods he is as he ducks back behind a tree, then freezes once again. There it is, about half a mile back there. It doesn't know I've been alerted. Good. Stay and kill, or keep going.... Matthew continues to remain small and virtually soundless, his breath no louder than that of a chipmunk. He watches the dense foliage behind him, sniffing the air deeply, hoping for another hint of his persuer's identity.

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

"I don't want you hurt, sweet heart. I want you to take a vacation. Go away somewhere, tonight." Kyra blinks a few times, watching her Uncle as he sits across from her. Michael shrugs just a little when Kyra turns to look at him, but he offers no hints as to his thoughts. With a slight frown and a touch of confusion in her tones, Kyra speaks quietly. "I don't want to leave, Babbi. And, I'm not all that sure I would be safer away from this place."

Stratfield looks to Michael as if asking for back up, then turns back to his niece. "Kyra... it's getting really dangerous. I've already lost your brother... I can't afford to lose you too." He watches her intently, as if trying to use Luke Skywalker's Force to control her. With another faint frown, Kyra sits back in her chair, then turns to look at the waitress, glad for the interruption.

"Welcome to the Olive Garden, folks. I"m Tammi and I'll be your waitress tonight. Can I get you fine folks some appetizers or something to drink?" The young girl grins to Kyra, Michael and George in turn, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the air. Her entire demeanor denotes perkiness; an irritating amount of perkiness.

Kyra orders a Margarita over ice, waiting as George and Michael both order double shots of Scotch. As Tammi departs, Kyra once again looks to her Uncle, folding her hands before her and resting them atop the table. Her expression seems to convey an understated defiance.

"Babbi... I know you love me. I love you too. But I think that sending me away would be a sign of weakness." She pauses a moment, holding up a hand as George opens his mouth to break in. "No, let me finish." With a soft smile, Kyra begins again, this time saying her piece in full.

"As I was saying... to send me away, would be a show of weakness. It would show whomever is causing trouble that you are scared. I don't disagree with my being in danger. However, I think that you would be hindered more by my absense than by my presense." Kyra pauses long enough to smile to the waitress as Tammi sets the rocky margarita before Kyra. "If you have a problem, Babbi, you don't look at the mountain ahead of you then give up because the backpack is Gucci. You look for another way through, and if there is none, then you improvise."

Kyra watches her Uncle, concentrating upon his face as she takes a sip from her drink. She speaks softly once again, concluding her pitch. "I can do things you can't. To send me away would be the same as scrapping the blue-prints because they were drawn up in pen rather than pencil. Think about that."

Kyra lowers her head as she sips her margarita, then raises her eyes once more, watching George while he aborbs her opinion. With a touch of surprise, Kyra rolls her eyes discreetly as George asks Michael for his opinion. Woah... the Strat-o-caster is actually asking for advice... interesting Kyra schools her features, once again wearing the serious expression so foreign.

"Well, Thomas... What do you think about what she said?" George watches Michael for a moment, then turns his attention to the Scotch sitting before him. The huge bear-paw of Stratfield's hand, engulfs the glass. Holding the glass as if receiving strength from it, George studies the contents, listening to Michael's input.

"George, I don't like her being here either simply because I don't want her hurt." Michael pauses, noting the look of brief disappointment brushing agaisnt Kyra's eyes. He continues, noting with a little surprise that she remains quiet, allowing him to speak his mind. "However, She's right. Kyra's got skills you and I don't have. And, she's got insights too."

Michael pauses, watching his boss. For a brief moment, Michael has the impusle to reach out and squeeze Kyra's forearm reassuringly. The impulse makes way for the desire to simply pull her onto his lap and hold her until he stops breathing. Michael shakes the thoughts from his head, then concludes his opinion.

"If you really want to know, George. I think she's exactly right. It is dangerous. But the pros far out-weigh the cons." As an afterthought, Michael adds. "Besides, I would honestly feel better if I could be close enough to help if a problem did arise."

George looks from Michael to Kyra and back, the war obvious in his eyes. I don't want her hurt... but what if someone attacked while she was away... neither Thomas nor I would be there to help her... God, what do I do?"

Suddenly, tho gently, Krya reaches out to brush her fingers against her Uncle's hand, speaking softly. "You know what you should do. Admit it and do it. You can sort out the loose ends later. Go with your gut, Babbi." Kyra sits back once more, taking yet another sip from her margarita.

The three remain in silent thought until Tammi returns, petitioning their dinner orders. Once Tammi departs with her perky grins and "wonderful choice"s, Michael cuts through the faint tension. "We've got a lead, George. Kyra found the connection. Dempsey's been in league with a specific Army General by the name of Ethias Sanderson."

Michael smiles internally at Kyra's nod, almost seeing the gears turning in her head as she recalls the details. He looks back to Stratfield, continuing. "Branson has a Defense Contract and the Military contact?" Michael pauses for the dramatic effect. "Yup, you guessed it. A General Sanderson."

George raises a brow, watching Michael. The waitress sets Michael's Canelloni before George, Kyra's Fettucini before Michael and George's Steak before Kyra. With soft laughter, Kyra thanks the too-perky girl, handing the steak across to her Uncle. She then accepts her Fettucini from Michael. A slow sense of peace washes over her as she sets about the mundande tasks of moving plates... or perhaps it's the tequilla.

When they are finally alone once again, Michael continues to divulge the knowledge he and Kyra had gained over the past few days. "That's not all, George. It seems that the project Branson has going on with the Army is a formula created by Dempsey Crackowski. And that Branson's got Crackowski on a private payroll."

Michael then turns to Kyra, indicating her. "With her contacts, we've discovered that Crackowski is promoting the formula as a kind of super-man syrum. He's stating that the military will have nearly invincible soldiers who can hear, see and feel at more than 100 times normal. So far, though, we haven't gotten any proof. This is all just heresay and supposition."

~~~~~~~~~~~

Matthew steps back out onto the trail, finally satisfied that whatever had been persuing him was long gone. He turns West once again, continuing his hike through the dense forest, his footsteps light and easy. With every step he feels more in tune with the natural environment. His eyes take in the light difference as the sun slowly crawls toward the ocean.

After nearly an hour of straight hiking, Matthew slows his pace, paying greater attention to the ground around him. He scans forward a few feet, then back, his eyes never ceasing in their movment: first left, then right, then left again. He then sees what he was searching for.

A huge tree looms before him, looking old but proud. At the base of the tree, Matthew presses the fingers of his right hand gently against an old carving. A gentle smile brushes the dark away from the corners of his mind as the young man traces the letters in his brother's name. Reaching his left hand out, Matthew feels the letters of his own name carved into the wood. He looks up into the branches of the tree, crouching slightly, then springing with all the strength of his legs. A branch seems to reach out to catch Matthew's hands more than he catching the branch, then Matthew begins to climb.

Upon reaching the midway point of the tree, nearly 60 feet off the ground, Matthew settles back against the trunk of the tree, sitting comfortably on the plywood floor of his childhood treehouse. He looks up into the branches above him, knowing the supplies he and Michael had usually kept would be up there. A whisper of sadness enters his mind as the sun's last rays fade from the sky. I miss you, Mike. God I hope you're happy. Just be happy. Please.

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