Absolute Power, Part 4

Notice:  This story has been rated "NC17" for adult language, nudity, strong
sexual content, violence, and explicit smoking.  If you find any of this
objectionable, proceed at your own risk.

Copyright 1998 by G. M. Sullivan.  All rights reserved.  This story may be
copied and distributed for the uncompensated amusement of others only.

Author's note:  This story takes place following the action of "Hybrid Vigor"
and "Eschaton Boulevard" and leads into the events described in "Dying for a
Cigarette" and "Phoenix Ascending."  Yes, it will all come together someday.

Dedication:  For Matt Landry, Tireless, Selfless, and Dedicated to the Cause


"Absolute Power," Part Four of Four


17.  Radisson Hotel, Somerset, New Jersey, August 11, 1:49 AM EDT

How long had it been?  A day?  No, two days, passed in haze of sex, smoke,
and passion.  She had needed this, longed for this, without ever articulating
the need to herself.  It had been well worth the risk.  She was currently
enfolded in the crook of his arm, propped up on the pillows, a cigarette in
hand, her lungs filled with the pleasant vacuum-pressure of sweet smoke.

She released the pressure in waves of billowing clouds, enveloping the head
and shoulders of her lover.  Her lover, once her would-be captor.  Such a
possibility seemed far away now.  Ludicrous to have ever thought it.

There had been only one break in the long bout of sex.  During a lull
yesterday, Adam had said he needed to call in to headquarters.

"What?" she had said, groggy with spent passion and countless orgasms.

"If I don't, I'll be presumed lost and replaced by a new AIC," Adam had
replied, equally drunk with sexual excess.  "Hand me the phone."

"But...you might..."  Never since her conversion had her thought processes
been so muddled.

"Don't worry.  You'll hear everything that's said on both sides.  If you
don't like what you hear, yank out the phone cord and strangle me with it."

"Don't talk like that," she said weakly, and handed him the phone.

Adam had not betrayed them.  He told his contact that Shelly had given him
the slip and doubled back south or turned west, and that he was in pursuit.
He would call back in a few days when he reestablished the trail.

Then it was back to bed, and forgetfulness...and bliss.  She supposed it was
like an alcoholic's bender.

Adam disentangled himself as she launched a spectacular nose exhale.  He
staggered to the bathroom, but emerged almost at once.  "I still feel like I
have to go, then I get there and there's nothing."

"That will pass," she said.

He remounted the bed but did not reach for her this time.  "Shelly," he
began.  "I think we should change our plan to go to New York.  Let's go to
Washington instead."

"Washington?  Why?  What's there besides all the people who want to lock
me...lock us up?"

"Lots of things, Shelly.  Have you ever thought about what...our sort can
really do?  What an edge we have on normal people?"

"Sure, some,' she answered, reaching for a Premium 100.  "Mostly I've thought
how useful those advantages are in keeping us out of the clutches of people
like you."  She laughed to remove any sting from the remark.  She lit the
cigarette and playfully blew smoke in his face, hoping to distract him to
more elemental pursuits.

Adam, though, was not in a mood to be distracted.  "That's kid's stuff,
Shelly.  You and Jimmy could easily have eluded me forever, or put an end to
me for good without half trying.  Why not take the offensive?"

"I'm not sure where you're going with this," she said, exhaling smoke in a
more businesslike manner, "but if it's where I think..."

"Before you jump to any dire conclusions, think about this.  I was raised in
DC, and worked for the feds all my adult life.  Whatever you may have seen on
TV or read in the papers, there's only one rule there; survival of the
fittest."

"Don't patronize me with these 'here's how things really are' speeches, I've
heard them-"

"Let me finish, please, then I'll be happy to listen," he said.  "Do you have
faith in your elected leaders?  Admire them?  Trust them?  You, of all
people?"

"That's not the point..."

"Then what is?  Shelly, baby, the strong rule, the weak follow.  That's all
there is and all there ever will be.  Just think of what we could do..."

"So that's what this is about?  Emperor Adam and Empress Shelly?  Or do we
just stop with the Emperor?"

"I have nothing so crude in mind.  Do I look like a megalomaniac?  Don't
answer that!"

Shelly had to laugh.  If he still had a sense of the ridiculous, all was not
lost.

"The power in Washington is not in the elective offices.  It's in the people
the elected officials listen to.  The 'powers behind the throne,' so to
speak.  Look at J. Edgar Hoover, or Henry Kissinger.  Presidents came and
went, but these men remained.  And for better or ill, they had the power.
What?"

Shelly was laughing helplessly.  "Sorry, Adam," she said, expelling smoke in
all directions.  Then she took a long puff so that smoke would emphasize her
next words.  "Look, I agree that we are ruled by clowns and power-hungry
would-be tyrants.  I even agree that people like us would probably do a
better job.  But in regard to you and me, the discussion's academic."

"Academic?"  Impatience and anger began to enter his heretofore patient
tone.  "Academic how?"

So she finally told him everything.  How she had released the viruses.  How
soon there would be millions of Homo Sapiens Coelensis "converts" in the US
and the rest of the world.  How he would have plenty of competition for the
title of God-Emperor of the earth.  James had described the effects of the
viruses quite succinctly; unrecoverable, undetectable, unstoppable.

The color drained from Adam's face.  "I wish you hadn't done that," he said.


18.  Las Vegas, Nevada, August 11, 12:52 AM PDT

Legends were created by Mary Lou's gambling that night.  In the first casino,
her initial $600 stake soon grew to $5000 and more.  As her bets and winnings
multiplied, she was offered free alcohol (which she declined, preferring
Coke) and cigarettes, which she gratefully accepted.  In a city accustomed
to  heavy smoking she set a new standard, exhaling clouds that almost
resulted in several false fire alarms.  She also consumed trays of free hors
d'ourves like a vacuum cleaner, putting some spectators in mind of the "mass
consumption" habits of the Coneheads on TV.

The first jarring note in her night of triumph came when a tuxedoed man
approached the table to tell her that her business was no longer welcome at
the casino.  Confused for a moment, Mary Lou whipped out a forearm and sent
the man spinning into a nearby table, scattering gamblers and croupiers alike
in a tumbling heap.  Spectators applauded with delight at her show of
defiance.

While she basked in the crowd's approval, another tuxedoed man approached
from her blind side and pressed something hard in her side.  The taser
delivered a 50,000 volt static charge that blinded her with agony, the
electricity finding an easy route through her highly conductive nervous
system.

When she recovered her senses, Mary Lou was outside the casino, sprawled on
the sidewalk.  The electric charge had suppressed her short-term memory, and
she had no idea how she had ended up there in such an undignified manner.

She did know three facts, however.  She now had money, cigarettes, and she
was still very hungry.  She lit a Kool 100 and set off.

Trailing a column of smoke behind her to rival a steam vent, she made her way
to a nearby McDonald's.  She barely noticed the crowd of people who left the
casino to follow her, hoping to absorb a little of her phenomenal luck.  The
crowd waited patiently outside the restaurant while she consumed a series of
Big Macs, chocolate shakes, and fries that only added to her growing renown.
When she emerged after her post-meal pack, they continued to trail her.  Mary
Lou basked in the glory.  This was what she needed, what she craved;
idolization, worship, love.  It made her feel safe and secure.

Visits to three more casinos resulted in a further $100,000 in winnings and
an ever growing parade of followers as she progressed down the strip in
triumph.  The second jarring note came when she found her entry barred to all
the remaining casinos.  It hardly mattered at that point.  Her legend was
secure.  She began removing $100 bills from her bulging pack and hurling them
to the worshipful throng.  The crowd quickly grew to a frantic mob, blocking
all traffic for several blocks.


19.  Interstate 15 Southbound, approaching Las Vegas, Nevada, August 11, 1:30
AM PDT

Tunneling down the black highway, Callaghan started monitoring the police
bands as soon as the van was within range of Las Vegas.  This was their third
time in Vegas on the three-day sweep, and this time proved to be the charm.
It was not long before he heard what he long expected.

"See, Jackson?  What did I tell you?" he grated.  "She thrives on chaos, the
bigger the better.  That takes crowds."

Like the "crowds" in Baxter?  Jackson thought.  Most of the chaos there was
supplied by us.  But he said nothing aloud.

Callaghan listen to the reports as they grew increasing frantic in tone.
"It's an ideal setup," he said.  "The riot she's started with that cash
giveaway will tie up the locals all night.  If we play this right, we can
slip in and out with no one the wiser."  He thought for a moment.  "Jackson,
Dieter, doff the armor and change into civvies.  This one is covert, with a
limited team.  And we want no more goddamn MIB stories."

The two agents so ordered climbed out of the matte-black Nomex body armor
they had worn throughout the mission...not quite willingly.

"We'll make a quick stop at the local FBI headquarters and hope they have the
toys I radioed for.  Then we hit the strip."  Callaghan chuckled at his lame
joke.

"What if the locals arrest her before we get there?" asked Jackson.

Callaghan turned a flat stare to the agent.  "You're kidding, right?"


20.  Las Vegas, Nevada, August 11, 1:32 AM PDT

Dane Peters emerged from the main terminal at Las Vegas International
Airport, wondering how to begin his search.

On instructions from Dr....Engleman, Peters had used the considerable
computing resources at OST to hack into the FBI network.  Since his exposure
to RCJ, such things had become much easier.  There was a great deal of
message traffic between Washington and a "Search Team Beta" that suggested
this unit was in pursuit of Mary Lou, whom he was instructed to retrieve
ASAP.

The last message, monitored only hours ago, had indicated that the team was
headed to Vegas on a "solid lead."  Peters had needed to rush, but he figured
if he hadn't beat the team here, it wasn't by much.

"I've learned Mary Lou was given ECT at Henderson General," Dr. Engleman had
said.  "That's electrocranial therapy, which was once call electroshock
treatments.  For someone with her...with our enhanced neural conductivity,
such treatments could prove damaging."

"How bad is she?"  Peters had asked.

"No way to tell until I get her to CDC.  But you should approach her
cautiously."

Approaching cautiously might be a problem with a crack team of FBI agents hot
on her tail, Peters thought.  He was not discouraged, though.  Good men were
hard to find, even in so-called "elite" units.  Dane Peters had been a good
man before.  Now he was an infinitely better one.

He approached a taxi stand, where the drivers had congregated and were
discussing something excitedly.

"What's the buzz?" Peters asked, trying to sound jive-hip and missing by a
hair.

A driver turned to face him.  "Man, there's some bird tossing C-notes on the
strip.  Me'n Jobo were just discussin' blowing this stand and goin' to check
it out."

"Well, one of you is in luck.  I want to go to that very place."

"The streets are packed, man, I can't get you too close."

"That's OK.  Just get me as close as you can, and the sooner the better."
Peters pulled a $100 bill from his wallet.


21.  Radisson Hotel, Somerset, New Jersey, August 11, 4:33 AM EDT

Following her revelation of the coming general outbreak of Homo Sapiens
Coelensis, their discussions had gown increasing acerbic.  Adam had
apparently been counting heavily on a relatively exclusive claim to his
radically increased abilities.

His mind scrambled for scheme after scheme to preserve what he saw as the
status quo. They would go to Washington and warn the authorities of the
imminent appearance of altered tobacco.  They would urge the burning of the
mutated crops, all the while keeping their enhancements secret.  In the
current anti-smoking climate, it would be an easy sell.  It could still be
done in time.

"And I suppose no one will ask how we came by this extraordinary
information?" she had said.  "No one will wonder why we're blowing the
whistle?  No one will ask what we have to gain?  And no one will remember
that I am a wanted fugitive?"

Adam was not to be deterred by mere logic. He became increasingly angry and
disappointed, the blame flowing in one direction only.

She didn't want to believe that this was what he had be aiming for all along,
but soon she could no longer deny the obvious.  This, and only this, was the
reason Adam had put himself alone in her hands. To gain her trust, and access
to what he thought was absolute power.  All the rest, ALL of it, had simply
been means to this end.  She didn't matter to him in the least.  She had been
fooled, been played for a patsy...again.

When he finally called her a "bitch" in anger, she said, "I'm leaving.  You
have no call to speak to me this way, and I certainly have no desire to be
party to any of your foolish schemes."  She rose from the bed and began to
collect her things.

Although she really hadn't expected him to accept her departure so easily,
the blow took her by surprise.  His rock-hard fist connected with her chin,
drawing blood and nearly dislocating her jaw.  She tumbled to the floor.

"Cunt!  If you won't help me willingly, I'll do my job and take you in!  Then
we'll see what can be arranged with the information you've so generously
provided!"

"Fuck you," she managed weakly, rising to her elbows just in time to receive
his kick to her ribs.  At least two of them snapped and she went down again.
She felt his hands under her armpits, lifting her to her feet.  Now she knew
what sort of training lent him his natural-seeming grace.  Just the sort of
training you'd expect an FBI agent to have.

Though both enhanced, his advantages in strength and training had been
preserved.  Shelly's only hope now was in her greater experience with the
changes that came from smoking RCJ.  She started speeding up her reactions,
one step at a time, as he raised her to her feet.  It was difficult without a
watch to provide biofeedback, but she managed.  Adam seemed to be moving more
and more slowly as she rose, until at her apex he hovered on stillness.  Her
nerves sang with the strain of acceleration, her vision doubled.  She could
not keep this up. Hateful as it was, she had to act now, for Jimmy's sake if
not her own.

Her forearm sweep seemed to come at the speed of light.  She saw Adam's
expression gradually change from contempt to shock as she connected solidly
with the side of his head.  As he reeled backward with blood erupting from a
torn scalp, she released the unbearable pressure of speed and slowed down.

Horrified as she was at the injury she'd caused, she saw it would not be
enough.  He stopped his reel halfway across the room, still conscious, his
blind rage now replaced with respect and calculation.  Meanwhile, her every
breath (coming more frequently now) was an agony as she felt the splintered
ends of her ribs digging into a lung.  She would soon be drowning in her own
blood.

He came at her again and she relaxed, knowing the collision was unavoidable.
He hit her full-on, driving her to the floor, his hands locking around her
throat.

Strangling a Homo Sapiens Coelensis is not a smart tactic, since their
dependence on oxygen is greatly reduced.  She knew, though, if he succeeded
in crushing her windpipe, she would die before she could heal the injury.
There was also the problem of his feet which kicked at her legs.  She felt
her left tibia go in a compound fracture, dazing her with a new agony.

Adam was still not quite moving at his maximum speed, so she tried again to
speed her reactions.  James had warned her that to push this process too far
could result in death, or worse, mindlessness.  She had no choice.  She
pushed it as far as she could.  Jimmy had to live, at least.

Her vision narrowed to a blurred tunnel, her ears rang, and actual tears
started from her eyes.  Somewhere, far away, she could hear footsteps in the
hall outside the room.  It seemed to take an eternity between each footfall.
She would be dead long before any help arrived.

At the brink of unconsciousness, she finally achieved her edge.  She bent her
good right leg under Adam's body and kicked outward with all the strength she
had left.

Adam lost his grip as he was propelled into the air and across the room.  His
back slammed into the porta-crib, smashing its side.  She vaguely heard Jimmy
wail in response as she gratefully gasped a breath through her bleeding
throat.  She tried to rise, but could not.  Through tear-shrouded eyes she
saw Adam climb painfully to his feet, clutching the side of the crib for
support.  He would be back in a moment.  She was finished.

As Adam gained his feet his head snapped toward the crib he was clinging to.
"No!" he shouted at Jimmy, though the child hadn't moved.  Shelly saw his
knuckles grow white where he grasped the broken slats.  "No!  Stop!"  His
hands relinquished their grip and flashed like snakes toward the baby, as if
to throttle it where it lay unmoving.  Despite her pain and weakness, Shelly
began to drag her broken body across the floor, to protect her child.

Adam's hands never reached the infant.  They froze halfway to their goal.
"NO!  NO!"  he was screaming now, straining to get at his
tiny...tormentor?...his body jerking uncontrollably.  He fell to the floor,
his leg pistoning, his upper body wracked with spasms.  Shelly, almost there
now, saw his eyes roll up white.

Slowly, his tremors quieted.  His body fell into limp stillness.  When Shelly
reached him, she knew he was dead.  His body bore no wound besides the minor
ones she had not inflicted.  Had Jimmy...how?

Painfully, she reached up to the side of the crib and hauled herself high
enough to see her baby, who lay quietly on the mattress, his wide blue eyes
turned toward hers.

"Bad man," he said.  "He's gone now."

She regarded her son with a gaze that spoke equally of awe, love, and
horror.


22.  Las Vegas, Nevada, August 11, 1:59 AM PDT

Mary Lou's attempt to share the wealth with her "fans" was not working out as
she anticipated. The mad scramble for the tossed bills was producing fist
fights and people were being stepped on and kicked.  Sirens screamed nearby,
and the fringes of the vast crowd frayed as helmeted police waded in with
swinging nightsticks, trying to get through to the source of the trouble.

When she stopped the dispensation bodies pressed close to hers, hands
grabbing for her backpack, the very font of manna.  She was in little danger
herself despite the crushing pressure, but she needed to get away before
someone really got hurt.

She spun like a dancer but at tornadic velocity, elbows held close to her
body.  Like magic, a small space cleared around her as the nearest people
were thrown back, mostly by wind pressure.  Seizing the moment, Mary Lou bent
her knees and jumped.

At the top of her leap she found a thick cable, supporting a traffic light
suspended over the street.  The light shone a meaningless red.  She grabbed
the cable with one hand and hung there, 35 feet above the crowd which gazed
up at her, applauding, whistling, cheering, and calling for a new infusion of
cash.

If any doubt had lingered about who was at the center of the disturbance, it
was now gone.  Mary Lou was truly hung out to dry, in plain sight of all.
She wondered if this maneuver had been such a good idea.

Well, nothing to do about it now.  With her free hand she retrieved a
cigarette and lit up.  The crowd applauded again as she showered them with
exhaled smoke.


23.  Las Vegas, Nevada, August 11, 2:02 AM PDT

Four blocks away, Bronsen Callaghan saw Mary Lou's vertical emergence from
the crowd.  "Bingo," he said.  From a paper sack he retrieved a device that
looked like a combination crossbow and high-powered rifle.  Such devices were
used routinely with good success for wild animal control in the park systems
of Kenya and India.  A few nearby civilians noticed the weapon and moved away
quickly.  No police were in the immediate vicinity.

"You're too far away," Agent Jackson said at his elbow.  "Max range is..."

"Shut up," said Callaghan, and fired.

Mary Lou's smoking demonstration was interrupted by a whooshing and whipping
five feet to her right.  She turned and saw the traffic light cable was now
tangled with a mass of shorter, weighted cables (two inch wire rope,
actually) that had not been there a second before.

"Whoa," she said, and began to swing her legs below the cable.  When she had
sufficient momentum she released her grip, sailed vertically across the
street, and landed atop a blazingly incandescent casino marquee.  The crowd
below shifted to follow her progress.

A bullhorn crackled from the street.  "You are under arrest.  Place your
hands behind your head...and climb down."  The speaker neglected to say how
she could do this in such an awkward posture.  "We don't want to hurt you,"
he added.

"Damn!" said Callaghan.  "Almost had her!"  He tried to line up another shot,
but the girl had too much cover on the marquee.  "Jackson, give me
your....Jackson?"

Callaghan turned, but Jackson was gone from his elbow.  Dieter was missing
also.  Instead he confronted a large, angry stranger.

"Jackson decided to take a nap.  Game over, asshole."

Callaghan reached for a more conventional sidearm, but was felled by a quick
left to the jaw before he had fairly started.  As Callaghan slumped, Peters
grabbed the Bolo gun from his limp hands.  He examined it closely.  "Clever,"
he said, and broke it over his knee.

The next problem, Peters thought, was the crowd and more importantly, the
police.  Cops now thronged beneath the marquee on which Mary Lou perched,
trying to talk her down.  They were also looking for a way to climb up,
without success.

In a short time Peters had come to admire Mary Lou's resourcefulness and
spunk.  He could learn something from that kid.  Wasn't she supposed to be
21?  She looked a lot younger.  No matter...if he didn't move quickly, he
would likely lose her, one way or another.  He began a sprint toward the
casino, preparing to jump.

Mary Lou saw none of this as she crouched behind banks of flashing bulbs.
These cops weren't going away, and she could see no useful place to jump.
She was out of ideas.  Eschaton Boulevard had reached a dead end.

Then, like magic, there was someone beside her.  A stranger, a hard-looking
man.  An MIB, no doubt, even though in a non-black disguise.  She crouched,
preparing to leap.

"Don't go, Mary Lou!  Dr. Ryan sent me!  Dr. Ryan!  He wants to help you!"

"Dr. Ryan?"  The name was familiar.  She had...liked that man.  "Does he have
needles?"  Her voice trembled with fear.

"No, no needles!"  Peters answered automatically, hoping this was not a
betrayal, fearing it was.  "He...shit!"

The bullet took him in the shoulder, shredding his jacket and undershirt but
raising only a small bruise on the skin beneath.  It seemed the introduction
of a high-jumping man had changed the equation for the cops below.  Damned
sexists.

Instinctively, Peters moved to shield Mary Lou, taking her in his arms.  He
had no weapon with him.  It was not his mission to shoot up Las Vegas.  If he
couldn't get out of this with his improved abilities, a gun would not help.

Two more shots thudded into his back, ruining his clothes but doing little
damage to him.  He needed a distraction, a big one, and now.

He grabbed Mary Lou's backpack, tearing it from her back.  It was still
comfortably stuffed with valuable paper.  Simultaneously he tore it open and
hurled it high over the lip of the marquee.

A blizzard of $100 bills descended over a two-block area.  Silence fell as
the crowd involuntarily stopped to take in the weird beauty of the scene.
Then the directionless stampede began.  Even the police were not immune to
this apotheosis of all that the city stood for.  Suddenly the Marquee and
those on it were old news.

"No!"  Mary Lou shouted.  "My cigarettes were in there!"

"I'll get you a carton at the airport," Peters said, patting her back.  "Two
cartons.  But first things first.  We have to get there."

Mary Lou trembled in his arms.  "You promise...no needles?"

"I promise," he said, and crouching down as far as possible while maintaining
his hold on Mary Lou he jumped, giving it all he had.

Not used to his new muscles, the results of his leap surprised him.  The
force generated by his legs was too much for the flimsy marquee, which
separated from the casino facing and rained masonry, glass, and steel on the
sidewalk below.  He had a confused impression of the few remaining,
duty-conscious police scattering below, and hoped none would be seriously
hurt.

At the height of their arc Peters and Mary Lou were more than 100 feet above
the street.  "In a single bound," Peters said inanely.  Now to land without
breaking his legs.

He needn't have worried.  Paratrooper training and his enhanced bone and
musculature let him hit the street almost in stride, well beyond the crowd
and traffic jam.  He ran, cradling Mary Lou like the child she really was,
rapidly accelerating to freeway speed.  There was no pursuit.  Peter was
exhilarated as never before in his life.

The airport was only six miles away.  The long Boulevard was about to come
full circle.


24.  Epilogue
       Central Park, New York, New York, December 14, 7:49 PM EST

13-year-old Dorothy Risling sat disconsolately beneath her usual tree and lit
a cigarette.  Drawing heavily on the B&H menthol 100, she was feeling
thoroughly sorry for herself.

She loosed a cloud into the thin breeze, delighting in the way the condensed
water vapor from her lungs magnified the exhale.  Smoke mixed with vapor for
three more breaths as she tried to string the process out as long as
possible.

Two of her best friends and club members had been busted in a single day,
which accounted for her lonely state.  What rotten luck!  Small chance their
parents would ever accept their smoking the way hers had.  Shit!  She took
another long puff, wishing for company that would not come this night.

She heard a female voice humming to herself beyond a line of concealing
bushes, and she could see what looked like a smoke cloud fountaining above
the greenery.  It did not sound like a kid's voice, but who knew?  Perhaps
her luck was about to improve.

She emptied her tar-filled lungs in an enveloping whoosh and crept to the
bushes.  The concealed clearing where she and her friends met to smoke every
night had served them well.  Even better, there were a number of "lookout"
places where one could spy on the more traveled paths and see who was using
the many benches.  Peering through parted branches, Dorothy spotted a young,
honey-haired woman sitting alone on a bench, spotlighted under a sodium vapor
lamp. The pretty woman was smoking like a girl after Dorothy's own heart,
obviously relishing her long, frosty exhales.

Too bad she was so old.  At least 21, probably more.  Dorothy was about to
retreat to her tree  when suddenly there was someone else framed in the
opening, between Dorothy and the smoking woman.

It was a romper-clad little boy, a toddler, with wide blue eyes.  Eyes deeper
than New York Harbor.  Eyes that seemed to hover on the verge of spinning.
He reached out a pudgy hand and touched her plump cheek.

"Mommy is a very great lady," he said.  "Remember her."

Dorothy sat down abruptly on her pert butt, cigarette falling forgotten.
Images flashed through her mind, impossible images.  Human forms leaping,
shifting, changing in a thousand ways.  A world forever transformed...by
smoking.

The boy was gone as suddenly as he had appeared.  The branches settled into
place, renewing her isolation.  But she knew.

The Millennium was coming.

The End

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