*Crud, crud, crud, crud, crud, crud!* Mozell looked once again at the clock, and continued the mental chant. *Crud, crud, crud...* She paused, half-dressed, a sock in one hand. "Wait a minute, I'm a grown woman, alone, in my own home." She took a breath, lifted her eyes to the ceiling, and... "Fuck!" *sigh* "Okay, I feel better now." She resumed trying to dress.

*And I thought that I'd have plenty of time. When the hell will I learn? I should have gone to bed before dawn's early light. I should at least have not drank that last coke before I went to bed--or made it a caffeine-free. Even though caffeine-free soda makes about as much sense as 3.2 beer.* She rooted frantically through a ripped open box, trying to find the mate to the sock she was holding. *Or opened all the boxes last night so I wouldn't have to hunt for towels, and soap, and shampoo, and why the hell didn't I roll the socks up in pairs when I packed? Screw it. Black and navy blue are close enough.*

Getting ready was taking a lot longer than she'd planned. Luckily, lunch was taken care of. She wasn't at all sure there would be easily accessable food places at the CSI headquarters, so knowing her own hatred of packing nutritious, healthy, diabetic approved lunches in advance, she'd stocked up on pre-packed lunches in the deli section at the local supermarket yesterday. All she had to do once she was dressed was grab a couple out of the refrigerator and shove them in a sack.

With another glance at the clock, where the hands were creeping inexhorably toward the magic nine o'clock, she rushed out to the car, reflecting that if someone broke in and robbed the place, she'd just tell the investigating officers, "Why, no. I left the place immaculate. They must have been packing up everything when something scared them off."

Then the car didn't want to start. She finally got it motivated by popping the hood, lifting the top off the air filter, and sticking a screwdriver (which she knew from experience to keep handy) in the shutter-thingy, holding it open. It started then, and kept going till she got everything put back as it should be and drove off. She wasn't even exactly sure what it was that doing that did for a car--it was just one of the little tricks she'd picked up as a matter of survival as a single woman. That and spraying WD-40 in the distributer cap when it was very, very damp, but she didn't figure she'd need that trick much since she'd moved to Vegas.

She only got lost once on her way to the office, and luckily that was only by a few blocks. But then she realized that she'd have to park down the block from the building, since she didn't have a parking permit, and she'd cruised the VISITORS section twice without any luck finding a spot. As she walked back, she roundly cursed people with large, expensive new cars who took up one-and-a-half spaces on the theory that they'd avoid getting scrapes and dings. *Don't they know that pisses people off so much that some of them will cheerfully take a set of keys to that nice, shiny, expensive paint job? Oh, I wish I still had my VW Bug. I could've just wiggled into one of those spaces, then left a note on their windshield saying 'bet you thought no one could fit in here'.*

She had approximately five minutes to find Gil Grissom's office when she made it into the building. The security guard at the front gave her directions--she would have preferred a map. As she scurried down the corridor, desperately trying to remember rights and lefts, she wondered why it was that all architects seemed to think that medical and police facilities should resemble rabbit warrens.

Mozell finally found what looked like the right section. At least several of the open doors seemed to lead into laboratories. She had spotted what looked like offices at the end of the hallway she was on when she realized that she had grease on her hands from her impromptue mechanics. *Oh, hell! Mismatching socks might escape notice, the frizzy hair can be excused, but looking like I've been working the pit at a race track couldn't. I need soap and water.* Her bladder chose that moment to speak to her, reminding her that she had remembered to take her fluid pill when she got up.

Naturally she couldn't remember passing anything that looked like a restroom. Luckily she had none of the male problem about asking directions. There was an open lab right beside her, and she stepped just through the door, scannin the room quickly. There was a man sitting in a chair with his back to her, slumped comfortably. "Excuse me?" No response. She took another step in. *God, I hate what I'm about to do--it sounds so stupid.* "Hello?" Still nothing. *Do they have deaf employees?* Then she noticed the headphones. They were those tiny type, and the band had been lost in the guy's tousled blond hair. A cord led down to a Walkman, and now she could faintly hear what had to be very loud music. *Ah. They have soon to be deaf employees.* She walked up behind him and touched his shoulder.

Greg had been lost in the music, plotting his next smooth move on Sara. He was beginning to get discouraged about that girl. She seemed impervious to his charm. Actually, Warwick had told him about that 'maybe we can make Greg disappear' remark she'd made when they were investigating that disappearance during the magician's act, and it had sort of stung. It was frustrating. He liked his co-workers, but none of them really related to him. He was getting kind of tired of being 'the oddball', but he wasn't about to start acting 'normal'. Life was just too short to be too serious.

The hand on his shoulder came as a shock. He jerked, snatching the earphones down, and hastily arranging a smile on his face as he turned to see who it was. He had several tests going, but none of them was anywhere near ready, and the CSI should know that, so that meant that either he was getting new material, or *Yeah, dream on, Sanders* one of them had stopped to shoot the breeze.

It was a total stranger. The woman was dressed in a long, full black skirt and a scoop neck T-shirt with a paisley print that would have been the height of fashion in about 1969. So would the hair-do. It was an untamed pouf of dark curls, dropping no lower than the base of her neck, but making up for length in volume. "Hate to bother you," she said, "but I need directions to the nearest restroom."

He smiled at her. "Sorry, but they don't have a public restroom in this section. You'll have to go back the front. It's just off the lobby, and..."

She was bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Sweetie, I don't have time for that sort of jog. Mother nature isn't just calling--she's shouting like a mad bitch. Isn't there something closer?"

Greg found himself grinning, and was truly sorry that he'd have to make this woman's day any worse than it obviously already was. "Well, yes, but it's for staff only."

"Oh, piddle!" She suddenly brought her knees together, hissing, "No! Not you. Look, kiddo..."

Greg was starting to comment on being called 'kiddo' when the woman stepped closer, digging in her shirtfront. Greg could feel his eyes widening. Was she going for a weapon, or was he about to get flashed? *Either way, I could become a staff legend. I just hope it's for the second reason.* Then the woman had hooked a finger in a cord around her neck, and pulled something up from under her shirt. She leaned down toward Greg, holding a staff ID card under his nose. Greg noticed that it did, indeed, look official, but didn't gather any other information. He was too busy looking past the card. He could see right down the woman's shirt, and there were a couple of very nice looking tits swelling over the top of a plain vanilla Sears brand sort of bra.

"... am staff--see?"

Greg blinked, realizeing that his current fascination might just get him slapped upside the head. Luckily she was still too distracted by her own need to have noticed. "Geez, sorry." He stood up. "C'mon, it's kind of hard to find." In the hall, he pointed back up the corridor. "See that little hallway off to the left, there?"

"I scoped that on the way in. I didn't see anything."

"Ah, but you aren't aware of the eccentricities of our structural design. The architect may have been slightly myopic, I think. There's a tiny little jog to the side, so you can't see clear to the end. Just go down far enough, and you'll find the facilities."

"You're a lifesaver." She started off toward the restrooms. "Remind me to have your baby some day."

Greg watched her almost trot back up the hall. He pursed his lips, then rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and muttered, "Please let her work on this floor." He started back into the lab, then looked up again, and added, "Oh, and no big, psychotic, jealous boyfriends, huh? I'm a lover, not a fighter."

A few minutes later, Mozell was feeling a lot calmer. She finished scrubbing the last of the grime off her hands, thankful that, since the CSI had to deal with all sorts of interesting substances, they favored strong soap in the dispensers. *I'm still gonna be late, but not by much. Thank heavens that lab guy listened to reason. I sure wouldn't have wanted to leave a puddle in the halls on my first day--impressive, but not in a good way.*

She started to reach for paper towels, then noticed that the wall mounted hand dryer had no push button. She experimentally held her hand under the nozzle. Sure enough, it buzzed to life, streaming warm, dry air over her damp hands. She grinned, wiggling her fingers, then ignored it as she snatched paper towels and finished drying her hands. She viewed such objects as toys rather than tools, prefering to stick to manual methods for somethings. She was also highly suspicious of automatic flush toilets. While she could see the hygenic logic behind such things (people still didn't always flush, even in public, and that could get nasty), they just made her uncomfortable. The first time she'd run into one, she'd been turning back to hit the non-existant lever when it had flushed on its own. Later she reflected that it was a damn good thing she'd already done her business. She might not have been quite so startled if she hadn't been in a movie restroom after just having viewed a particularly gruesome horror movie.

She tossed the crumpled ball of paper at the trash, murmuring, "Two points!" It bounced off the side. She sighed, snagged it off the floor, and stuffed it into the receptacle. "Slam dunk!" *Now, let's see... Grissom's office should be back the way I came.* She started off.

*Wish I had time to stop back in the lab talk to the guy who gave me directions. He's a little hottie, he is. Did he look familiar? I can't imagine from where, unless he's bagging groceries or delivering pizza, and since he's working in the lab, that's highly unlikely.*

She passed the lab on her way to the Grissom's office. Techie was involved in doing something arcane involving test tubes and a funny thing that looked like a cross between an eye-dropper and a syringe. *Oo, he's even cuter when he's being serious. Tingle, tingle. Hope I run into him in the break room sometime.* She hurried on, glancing at her watch and groaning. Moving up on five minutes late.

The office she was looking for had the door standing open, and people spilling out, and she groaned mentally. *Meet the team time.* She plastered on a bright smile as she approached. The one at the back, a short young woman with long brunette hair spotted her, and frowned slightly, eyes flicking rapidly over Mozell's attire. *And you're thinking the exact same thing the cutie in the lab did, but I'm much less likely to forgive you.* "Here I am! Sorry I'm late, but the universe conspired against me." Everyone was turning to look at her, craning around each other to see. She halted near the back of the group, explaining, "Usually I can overcome that, but I try to limit the use of my supernatural powers."

She got blank looks, then everyone but the brunette and the older man behind the desk gave her small smiles. *Okay, I think I'm going to be able to stand it here. The boss is pretty much obligated to be sober about a late employee, but the majority of the group seems to actually have a sense of humor.*

Grissom said, "Can we help you, miss?"

"Actually, I'm here to help you. Aren't you expecting me? Please tell me I'm in the right building."

He blinked. "You're Moe McClain?"

Mozell winced. "Mo-zell." More blank looks. "Yes, I know--it's weird. It's French--like the wine. And yes, I know what my parents were thinking. They were thinking it would be nice to name me after my grandmother."

Warrick grunted in understanding. "Family names--gotta love 'em."

Grissom introduced the others to her. The dark man who'd sympathized on the name was Warrick Brown, The good looking one with short, dark hair was Nick Stokes, the (she had already decided) snippy brunette was Sara Sidle, and the woman with long, strawberry blonde hair was Catherine Willows. "Miss McClain, as I'm sure they told you, you'll be asked do work occasionally for other shifts--work that is not considered urgent enough to be sent out immediately. Other than that, these are the people you'll be working with most closely. Team, Miss McClain will be doing detailed electronic forensic work, but she will also relieve you of a lot of the usual data band and internet searches, thus freeing you to devote more time to the first hand investigation. That is, she will, as soon as she has her work environment and tools set up to her satisfaction. Miss McClain..."

"Please call me Mozell. Being called 'miss' sounds so Southern that I feel I ought to be chugging a mint julep."

"Of course. Miss Mozell..."

"I now feel like I have a magnolia blossom behind my ear."

*blink* "Mozell..." He hesitated. She smiled inquiringly. Nick and Catherine were fighting down smiles. "The department has provided you with a never been used computer."

"Joy! What kind, what RAM, what memory, what operating system, what peripherals, what moniter, what connection speed, what...?" She trailed off at his blank look. "You have no idea, do you?"

"I know you have a cable modem, and it's networked with other computers in the system. Oh, and you'll find the software for the operating systems and programs you need in your office."

She stared. "You mean it isn't set up for me?"

"Well, it's all out of the boxes and plugged in. You'll have to take it from there."

She sighed. "Depression. Well, I hope you folks won't need me up and running for at least another day or so." She paused. "I don't suppose that the lab is ready?"

Gil straightened an already neat pile of papers, not looking at her. "There seems to have been some delay in acquiring certain equipment. It shouldn't be long."

"It's behind that plastic sheeting I passed on the way in, isn't it? I managed to get moved on one week's notice, and my lab isn't ready."

The team was apparently enjoying watching Grissom deal with the woman's obvious disappointment and disapproval. Grissom shrugged. "Look on this as a settling in period."

"So basically what you're saying is that once I get my computer programmed, I'm at loose ends till someone brings we work?"

"I'm sure you'll have plenty to do."

"Uh-huh." She sounded unconvinced. *Oh, well. There's always the Internet. And being as I'm a computer geek, I'll be able to tell if they slipped in one of those spy programs to be sure I don't use my computer in an 'inappropriate' manner.*

"Well," said Grissom, "Everyone has work to do. I'll show you to your office." There were quick welcomes, then even quicker good-byes as the CSIs scattered to begin their work night.

Grissom led her back up the hall to a door set just opposite the lab she'd first gone to. "Here you are."

Mozell examined it. "Oo, fresh paint. I'm honored." She squinted. "Are those brand new numbers, too?"

"Yes. You see, this room wasn't numbered before."

"It wasn't? I thought that in office buildings like this only restrooms and storage or maintenance rooms weren't numbered." Grissom was unlocking the door, and now he opend it. She looked in. "Ah. I see."

"It's... cozy."

She gave him a sardonic look. "Well, at least now I have incentive to not gain any more weight--I won't be able to get in and out if I do." She shrugged. "Oh, well... A few posters, a hanging basket... It'll be homey. What's departmental policy on decorating?"

"It's allowed, within reason."

"I mean am I going to get in trouble if I put up a Chippendales Calendar?"

Gil opened his mouth. She was watching him with a direct, innocent gaze. "I'm... not sure. Is there... uh..."

"No actual nudity. All naughty bits decently covered, strategic towels and such."

He swallowed. "Use your own judgement. We'll let you know if there's a problem. I'll leave you to get started." He left quickly.

She shut the door, then collapsed into the chair and laughed till she had to lay her head on the desk, beside the keyboard. "Oh, this place is going to be too easy."