And yet another part. I think it's almost done.

Michael turns to see her expression, smiling gently as he places a hand on her shoulder. His voice is soft, tender, almost loving. "It's alright, Kyra. It's supposed to do that."

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

The sun shines brightly, a squall of light rolling through the treetops. Matthew pulls himself to full alertness, brushing the remnants of sleep from his eyes. Leveling his gaze upon the ground, he looks over the edge of the platform, checking for tracks below. Seeing nothing unexpected, matthew then taps into his heightened aural receptors, listening for any odd sounds. Faintly he can make out hushed conversation coming from the East. With a few quick mental calculations, Matthew estimates the intruders to be a little over a mile distant.

With a slight frown, the Lieutenant quickly slips the rolled sleeping bag back into the footlocker. He pauses a moment, looking at the Barretta wrapped snugly in its moisture-free case. Deep within Matthew's mind he hears the voice telling him that he is in no danger, however, he removes the semi-automatic, taking out four magazines and the box of 9mm hollow-point, hydra-shock rounds before closing the footlocker once again.

With slow hands Matthew leans back against the broad trunk of the tree, slipping into an easy rhythm. There is something comforting in the mundane task of loading the magazines and cleaning the barretta. Matthew allows his senses to shut down throughout the brief task. Simple actions: pick up the bullet, press it into the magazine, repeat, and again, and again.

Birds sing to each other, oblivious to the possible confrontation of petty humans. Wings flutter and double eyelids blink as tiny hearts pound a schizophrenic symphony of sound. Holograms of rainbows arc through the air as the sun glints through dew drops not yet evaporated. A short caw of curiosity scrapes the air as talloned toes grip a tree branch.

Matthew raises his head slowly, his senses alerting him to the scrutiny of a single eye. With a soft smile, he watches the raven perched upon a tree branch five yards to the South. He opens his mouth, planning a soft greeting to his feathered kin. Suddenly the raven leaps into the air, catching itself on outstretched wings.

Only then does Matthew recognize the change in the forest. The trees themselves seem to have stopped rustling. Matthew's intruders are coming closer.

~~~~~~~

Branson watches Hawkman with thinly veiled contempt. Through his mind flies a vision of the tall scrawl of humanity catching and devouring a field mouse. Branson struggles to hold back the laughter, succeeding only after clamping his teeth down on his fat tongue. Though Hawkman seems oblivious of the scrutiny, Branson is sure his physical counterpart knows of Branson's every heartbeat.

"So, Hawkman. You gonna tell me exactly what this formula of yours is?" With a faint acceleration of his pulse, Branson leans against his car outside the Army base. His eyes watch the other figure, unable to conceal his apprehension.

A low growl seems to accompany Hawkman's words, though his voice is a near-whine. "It's good that you are afraid of me. I am more dangerous than you will ever realize."

Branson fails his attempt to control the shiver which courses over his entire body. Something inside him tells him to get into the car and drive away. Steeling himself, the fat man silently mutters his now-common litany, refusing to leave until he has an answer. I've played the game for thirty years, I won't quit now.

Sharp, predatory eyes examine Branson's round face as if determining which parts to shred and which to leave whole. "The formula works to stimulate the adrenals which heightens aural reception and ocular reception. The suppliments work on Serratonin levels, to counteract the paranoia which comes from the over-stiumlation of the adrenals." Hawkman pauses, watching his prey intently.

As the Eastern sky begins to bring light to the high desert, claw-like fingers slip a pair of protective shades over Hawkman's eyes. He then continues in his high-pitched whine. "The adrenal stimulation heightens physical strength...."

"How?" Branson interrupts without thinking. Hawkman's lips turn down further, making his sharp features even more predatory.

"To put it in the most elementary and mundane terms for those without intelligence..." Again Hawkman snears. "It is the same phenomenon which gives women the strength to lift cars off their children. Simply a matter of sufficient adrenal stimulation." Again the Lurch-like figure turns his face toward the faintly rising sun, pulling down the brim of his Fedora and pulling up the collar of his overcoat.

"The formula also works on the pheremones, secreting the animalistic scents associated with battle, those which cause the fear reaction in the opponant, and those which determine who will win and who will lose." This time the pause is longer as Hawkman fixes his concealed eyes upon Branson's weak face. "The formula spreads, increasing its potency the longer the subject is alive.... it mutates after six months, re-aligning the subject's genes."

As Branson gasps softly, Hawkman concludes his speach. "My formula will create a new species, each generation being stronger and more violent than then the one preceding it." Again Branson shivers, this time not even trying to control it. His next and last question is spoken so softly anyone else would be unable to hear it. "I--i-is there any antidote?"

Haunting, screaching laughter is the only response as Hawkman turns away from his fearful companion, becoming nothing more than a faint silouhet in the early morning sun. With a long, slow shudder, large fingers reach for the door handle as Branson scrambles to find some safety. Thoughts ricochet through his troubled mind.

My God... all I wanted was the damned company... that's all... just the company... not a ride on the insanity train. Somehow Branson finds the motor control to start the car and begin his drive back to reality. It can't posibly be true... but I saw it tonight... and that man..... The thought remains incomplete as an explosion rocks the early morning desert.

A gyser of fire spews into the air as if to rival Old Faithful. Tongues of flame scour the ground, errupting from the crater where Branson's car used to be. From his vantage point, Hawkman smiles thinly at the scents of burning flesh and scorched metal. Any who may have heard the blast would blame the Army base. Some missle had missed its target. No one heard the whispered caress falling from wicked lips.

"I am my own god."

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

Michael turns to Kyra, pressing a finger to his lips as he nods toward Wolf. The husky stands still and silent, as if he were a Pointer. His furred ears swivle forward then back as he tilts his canine head slightly to the side. When the dog relaxes his vigil, Michael speaks softly once again.

"So, when Uncle Jackson died, he left this land to us. Aproximately 30,000 acres within the Cascade range. Whenever Matt or I were in trouble we'd come out here to think through our problems." Michael shrugs slightly, concluding his tale. "We'd kept the treehouse in excellent condition, well stocked and all. It's our safe place. We come out at least twice a year to make repairs and restock."

As Michael stops speaking, he pauses in their trek, Kyra stopping beside him. She turns her eyes to the trees surrounding them, looking for a place to rest her feet for a few moments. Kyra's voice slides gently, musically from her throat, her own fears long since forgotten.

"There's a lot about you I never would have suspected, Michael." A soft smile caresses her lips as she settles a little more comfortably on a fallen log. Kyra slowly massages her left calf, subtly studying Michael's features. She realizes, not for the first time, that she would enjoy spending more time with him; time away from danger. Softly she continues.

"I would like to come back here some day. When you're not trying to protect me from an axe murderer." Her soft, light chuckle prompts a grin from Michael as he turns to her. His own voice is light, matching her teasing tone.

"How do you know it was an axe? He might have had a chain saw."

Kyra laughs more loudly this time, unable to stop herself. The sound sends a flight of birds into the air, their chittering seeming to be a harsh scolding from an old woman. Kyra grins yet again, winking at Michael before speaking again.

"Well, now that I've let the cat out of the bag, should we keep going? If this tree house is so well stocked, I expect a grande mocha, fresh and hot."

Michael laughs heartily sending the remaining birds into the air. He answers Kyra's grin, nodding toward Wolf who stands 10 yards ahead of them, as if he were scouting the trail. "Seems our guide is impatient this morning."

Kyra nods, standing and moving toward Michael once again. She looks up into his eyes, a tender smile caressing the corners of her mouth. "Well, we shouldn't keep such a fine guide waiting, hmmm?"

For half a moment, Kyra thinks about slipping her hand into Michael's, though she refrains. Her eyes darken slightly as she remembers that she is being hunted by someone... by something. With light footsteps, she continues their hike, following in her dog's wake.

After another twenty minutes, Michael places a hand on Kyra's shoulder, stopping her without a word. He points to a few crushed fern fronds, indicating the faint boot track. Kyra nods, closing her mouth on the question, leaving it unasked. She turns her eyes to the husky, watching his slow and silent steps. With a slight surprise she marvels at the canine's ability to walk over dry leaves without disturbing them.

Michael continues walking, though slows his steps, noting that the woods around them have grown still with a pregnant silence. His eyes remain sharp, scanning the dog, the trail and the bordering trees ceaselessly. As they come upon the base of an immense tree, easily 8 feet in diameter, Michael holds up his hand in a silent signal to stop.

Listening to some inner voice, Kyra freezes in place, her right foot an inch above the ground. As she looks down, she sees a dry twig anticipating her weight, ready to sound the alarm with a snap she is sure will echo like a rifle's report.

Wolf remains frozen in his place as well, his nose working tripple time as he slowly raises his hackles. The scent of another human, slightly familiar, brushes against his keen senses and Wolf raises his head, his eyes seeking the source high in the thick branches of the tree before him. The faintest growl stumbles from his thick-furred throat, turning into a soft whine of confusion.

Kyra looks to Michael, frowning, then nods as he mouths the single name. Matthew.

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