Okay, this is Designing Destiny, part whatever. I know it's dragging like crazy, but I want to get it finished before I start the re-writes. Suffice it to say, I'll be posting another entry tonight... one that isn't this story. Kinda making it a dual effort, I suppose. I dont' know what I mean. Just smile sweetly, nod and tell me I'm doing a good job. *chuckles*

And, I still welcome comments. I haven't gotten any messages at all on my message board. Well... not for the past couple weeks, anyway. Tell me what's going on, okay?

So, here's the next part of Designing Destiny... Love and all...

I'm sorry, Becca. You told me that I'd never grow old..... that my work would kill me. A soft sigh slips from his throat, barely getting past the lump that seems to swell. You got out before it got bad, Darlin. I hope you're livin well. I hope you're happy an' that you've got a husband who really cares for you. Better than I ever could. Marx frowns once again, guiding the large Stingray further up the Sound. His last thought echoes through the empty night, spoken in a hoarse whisper.

"I'll always love you, Becca. Always."

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

"Is it supposed to look like this, Simon?" The young man looks toward his trainer, voice soft.

A quiet but warm chuckle stumbles from Simon's throat as she moves deeper into Dempsey's lab. The stainless-steel walls, usually spotless, are covered in blood and debris. Wire and mesh cages are strewn about the lab, their contents having been pulled viciously from within. Simon stops in his tracks, the seasoned security man unnerved for the first time in multiple decades.

"Oh my God." In a quiet whisper, a faint tremble skittering along the sound, he waves his trainie away. "Go. Tell stratfield that I've found Dempsey."

The younger man pauses in his movement for just a moment, hurrying out at his boss's next words. "Maxwell! NOW!"

~~~~~~

George nods to the sherriff's words as Volkenwold takes a pull from the glass of gin in his hand. "Sherriff, I hate to admit it, but I didin' know what he was workin on til that lil conf'rence with Crowley."

This time, Volkenwold nods, a faint frown creasing his heavy forehead. "You did a real number on that kid. He was squeelin all the way to the station." He pauses a moment as the fresh draught of gin warms his throat. "You knew the Military was gonna grab him, didnt you?"

George releases a soft chuckle, nodding again. "Well. The Army never was one to leave loose ends laying around."

George closes his mouth on his next comment as the elevator doors open. He stands quickly, but with surprising grace, waiting for the new arrival to state his business.

"Excuse me, sir. May I have your attention?" Maxwell stands just outside the elevator doors. His eyes are clear and sharp, tho they're filled with a slight fear. As George nods, remaining upright, Max speaks again.

"Simon says you gotta come to Dempsey's lab. He asy he found Dempsey."

"That son of a bitch!" George moves with such a speed the papers on his desk flutter slightly. "C'mon Sherriff... you better be there too."

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

Chopper blades beat the air mercilessly, tree tops screaming their protest throughout the angry buffetting of wind. The General barks orders into the mic at his lip as the pilot turns his craft a little further north. Again the General looks to the heat signatures dappling the screen before him. He grumbles loudly, cursing the small forest animals for existing at all.

The pilot's voice comes through the General's headset, interrupting his grumbles. "General Sanderson, We're low on fuel. We've got to turn back soon."

Rage courses through Sanderson's body, carried clearly over the mic as he barks and growls his threats. The pilot's voice is thick with ice, yet he keeps his thoughts to himself. "Yes, Sir!"

~~~~~

Kyra presses her hand gently to Wolf's muzzle, keeping the large dog quiet. her eyes watch Michael's expression as he uses hand signals to communicate with Matthew. Kyra turns her attention from the brothers' conversation, listening to some strange and faint inner voice.

Matthew pauses in his actions, turning his own eyes to Kyra. he watches her face, sniffing the air quietly. A look of shock settles within Matthew's eyes, smelling a power eminating from her form. Turning his eyes back to his brother, Matthew raises a questioning brow, gesturing for clarification on who Kyra is.

As MIchael interprets his brother's gestures, a slight frown alights. He shrugs slightly, hunkering down a little lower under the canope. Fingers reach for the thick fur of Wolf's head as Michael attempts to purge the invasive thoughts of Kyra. All he can see within his mind are her eyes; so perfect and bright and expressive.

Kyra turns her eyes, sharply, to Matthew, almost as if she'd been stung. Matthew pulls his senses back, blinking a few times. What the hell? There's no way... Again Matthew reaches out, exuding a slight scent of aggression toward Kyra alone. Once again she turns angry eyes upon him. Damn... she can sense it. But she hasn't been injected..... has she?

Matthew turns his eyes from Kyra, watching his brother. A wave of confusion and worry wash over Matthew's eyes. For half a moment he contemplates running; simply thrusting himself from beneath the canope and running away as fast as he can climb. Suddenly, the feeling fades and he turns to see Kyra's eyes upon him. Matthew frowns again, this time confusion overriding all else in his eyes. With a brief smile, Matthew pulls his thoughts deeper into his mind, as if locking them into a closet, padlocking the door, then bricking the door over.

Kyra nods slightly, as if she had come to a decision from which she could never turn back. Her train of thought is derailed for a moment as she hears the helicopter hover directly overhead. An instant of fear springs up within her, yet Kyra forcefully shoves the emotion back, inhaling deeply, then exhaling slowly. After a few more deep breaths, a thought flashes into her mind. Why aren't we talking? Surely the sound of the chopper would mask our conversation....

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

George strides into the lab, wrinkling his nose at the obvious mess. An involuntary jolt of nausia rumbles toward his throat as he looks upon the mutilated body Simon had found. Ribbons of blood and flesh which used to make up Dempsey's face line the floor, walls and even ceiling. Large puncture wounds perferate chest, arms and legs, while the evicerated belly lays open. To George's trained eye, the wounds look to have been inflicted by something large, angry and inhuman. The big man clamps his mouth shut, telling himself that he will not purge his stomach of its contents.

"Sir? Should I call the cops?" Simon's voice stutters from between his lips, unable to turn his eyes from the grisley scene before him.

The sherriff makes his way forward, pushing past the ravaged debris. He stops with a raised brow upon sight of the corpse. As he pulls a handkerchief from his hip pocket, Volkenwold wipes the fine dappling of sweat from his brow, then draws a cel phone from its belt holster. Before dialing, the sherriff backs from the lab, speaking authoritatively. "Cmon out of there, now. This is officially a crime scene. We don't wanna lose any leads by having your fingerprints and bootprints in the blood."

As Volkenwold calls the dispatcher, George nods, pushing Simon lightly from the lab. The three other men make their way into the sterile hallway. A growl rumbles from George's throat and once again he begins to pace. Something deep within the huge man burns; begging for release; raging at the injustice of Dempsey's premature death: the only benefit being the vicious and painful manner in which the deed was done.

~~~~~~~~~~

"General Sanderson... We really need to go back now." Sanderson completely ignores the pilot's voice, still growling and mumbling at the screen before him. As the pilot speaks again, this time with a tone of command, Sanderson looks up from his screen, mouth open as if to discipline, then closed in acquiescense.

"General! I'm being ordered back to the Fort, sir. We can not stay any longer!"

Again the Sanderson looks to his screen, powering down as he gives to official order to return. As if a switch had been fliped in his brain, the obsession fades. Sanderson looks to the heavily forested mountainside, seeing the trees for the beautiful creations they are, rather than simple obsticals he must overcome.

....

Once on the ground, General Sanderson climbs from the chopper, striding briskly across the landing pad. While the pilot lifts off once again, Sanderson pulls the plastic ID card from around his neck, sliding it through the lock-release mechanism and opening the heavy door to his private office. Tthe door seals shut behind him and Sanderson lets out a soft sigh, looking around his office. Seeing nothing amiss, the General then moves to his desk, reclining back into the oversized chair; his one luxury.

From the darkest corner of the office a faint rustling can be heard, however, the sound is so soft, the General dismisses it as one of the building's myriad noises. In time, Sanderson turns on the computer sitting upon his desk. As the screen comes to life he ignores the multiple files pleading for attention, instead beginning a game of Freecell. He loses himself in the mundane task of matching red to black to red; king to queen to jack, once again making order where there was none.

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