In her office cubicle, Mozell finished her shift, uploading tons of programs, muttering to herself. "Like they couldn't have done some of this for me before I arrived. How hard is it to slap a disk in the drive, wait for it to boot up, and click the fucking mouse in the right places?" She remembered the one time her mother had tried to set up an email account, and had somehow managed to disable her CD ROM drive. Mozell still hadn't figured out how she'd done that. *Okay, maybe this isn't such a bad idea. At least I shouldn't have anything nasty popping out at me unexpectedly.*

She was waiting for the last few files to copy, and leaned back in her chair, hands folded on her tummy. She'd left the door open, because frankly the room reminded her of The Tank, a bare concrete bunker-type room in one of her psychological thrillers. She wasn't normally bothered by claustrophobia, but it WAS pretty cramped in here. *Yep, the posters are definitely going up. But I'll still probably leave the door open most of the time.* She leaned back and looked through the door and across the hall into the lab opposite. Greg was studying a printer readout, thoughtfully rubbing his blonde hair into even greater disarray. *After all, the view is so nice. I keep thinking I ought to recognize him from somewhere else, but I'm damned if I know when or where. I suppose it's too much to hope that he secretly moonlights as a porn star or stripper, and I can find out his secret and persuade him to keep me quiet through sex.* Greg glanced up, caught her eye, and smiled. *I wouldn't be that lucky. We seem to get along good, but anything that sweet has to be taken, and my Mama didn't raise me to be a home wrecker, damn it.*

Greg put aside the printout and came across the hall. "Just about got it?"

"Almost. This is the last batch, and it's only got about ten percent left to go. I'll be able to do basic stuff tomorrow, but if they want any heavy duty data recovery from damaged drives, I'll need the lab."

"I wish I knew more about computers, but I concentrated on the other sciences in school."

"Mm. I just barely dragged out low Bs in those. Quite frankly, Genetics kicked my butt. I made a D, and I think that's because the teacher noticed I was crying during the final."

"Somehow that doesn't sound like you."

"I was a lot younger then. It was my first go 'round in college. When I went back the second time about fifteen years later, I was a lot more prepared to deal with it."

"Wow. Fifteen... That's quite a gap."

"Yes, 'tis. I wouldn't have done it, except that my baby brother was taking computer sciences, and I started looking at his texts, and realized that I was understanding it. I decided that working with computers was a hell of a lot more attractive than working a cash register at a convenience store. It was getting robbed the third time that decided me."

"Three times? Why didn't you quit?"

"I'd developed this bad habit of eating regularly and paying bills. Anyway, the third one turned out to be a stupid fifteen year old using a toy gun. When I realized that, I sort of snapped. I beat him up with a broom."

"That doesn't sound so bad."

"Those big ol' industrial brooms are heavy. I still had a narrow squeak, since I didn't stop hitting him when he fell down, but they had it all on video, and he made the first move."

"Uh, yeah, courts can be kind of particular about what they view as excessive force."

She shrugged. "I told them..." Her eyes were suddenly wide and moist, and her voice faint and fragile, "I... I guess I panicked, officer. I was so scared! I've been robbed before, and... and..." She grinned. "Luckily there was no sound on the tape, so they couldn't hear what I was screaming at him. Damsels in distress usually don't use that kind of language."

"I noticed that your vocabulary is a bit salty."

She smiled smugly. "I do research. There's this lovely little site that tells you how to insult people in 108 different languages. It's a great stress reliever to be able to tell someone to eat shit without them understanding you."

"What if they do understand you?"

"Then life gets more interesting, but I haven't yet run into anyone who speaks Maori or Farsi." There was a snatch of music from the computer.

Greg lifted an eyebrow. "The Bunny Hop?"

"It finished loading. I'll have other files to play for events once I bring my stuff from home. For when downloading ends, I usually use the first few bars of 'Another One Bites the Dust'." She quickly shut down the computer. "And that's it for me for the night, I do believe."

"I finished my last test, too. So," he kept his voice casual. "What are you doing today?"

"Sleeping, hopefully in huge stretches. I've made the mistake of starting to live on a normal person's schedule the last few years, and I have to get back to vampire hours--night for day."

"Does your boyfriend work nights, too?" She stared at him. "I mean, I know that can be sort of a strain on a relationship, when you're on different schedules. The great thing about working in Vegas is there are always a lot of people around who will have the same time reference as you do, and... I'll shut up now."

"I moved here two days ago. I'd have to be a damn fast worker to have a boyfriend already."

"Oh." He paused. "Got any plans for breakfast?"

"Could you handle seeing me eat something like a chiliburger before seven in the morning?"

"Would it bother you if I had sushi?"

"Sushi, no. Sashimi, yes. Raw fish bothers me. I prefer it deep fried, with hushpuppies."

"No sashimi, then. I know a place where we can get your chiliburger and my sushi."

"You're going to be a good man to know." She stood up and grabbed her purse. As they started out, she said, "Now, if you can just direct me to a good karaoke bar..."

Greg watched in open admiration as Mozell shook ketchup onto her large, open-faced chiliburger. She noticed him watching, and explained, "My mother claims I was corrupted by the four years we lived in Denver when I was a child. She believes I was brainwashed into viewing ketchup as a burger condiment." Greg responded by taking the ketchup bottle when she was done and dabbing some on his California roll. "Are you doing that because you want to, or as a polite gesture to make me feel not so odd?"

"No, this is how I eat them. I never have anyone to eat sushi with, because no one wants to watch me desecrate it. I have to wait till the waiters leave the table, because they say stuff in Japanese that I'm sure is insulting."

"Can you recall what it sounds like?"

He thought. "Um... baka?"

"Only slightly insulting."

"There's also henjin and kisama."

"That's worse, but the second one is actually rather inventive."

"How about otoroko?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Kick his ass."

"Really?"

"Or at least throw the food at him and refuse to pay for it. Believe me, when they find out what sort of language he used, they'll kiss your butt to keep you from raising a stink."

"Are you going to tell me what it means?"

"I will if he does it again. Let me know and I'll kick his ass for you. I hate wait staff with attitude. I've slung hash myself, and there's no call for it unless the customer is abusive. Eating something they think is weird definitely doesn't qualify. It's as bad as a 'chef' having a hissy when I want a steak well done instead of rare--and I mean well done. What I like qualifies as burnt for most people." She chuckled. "Fond memories of the time some cook at a jumped up cafe returned the steak that I had sent back because it was too rare, with the observation that it was cooked 'properly', and I should educate my palate." She cut a forkful of burger and munched happily. "I made the six o'clock news."

Greg paused in mid-munch. "You have a... um..."

"No, no record. I took the cleaver away from him, and the management offered me free meals for a year if I wouldn't lay a civil suit on them. I took cash instead."

"You sound like you've led an interesting life."

"I'm just hitting the highlights, darlin'. Believe me, they're spaced between massive bouts of mediocrity--just like most of the world." Greg broke open his fortune cookie and extracted the strip of paper, dropping the cookie on a saucer. "Wait a minute--you're not eating that? Hand it over." He pushed the saucer toward her. "It's sort of like eating sweetened, stiffened cardboard when they're stale, but that one snapped like it was nice and fresh. What's it say?"

Greg shoved the paper into his pocket. "Generic pseudo-philosophical crap."

"Yeah, they won't say anything really interesting, because everyone's afraid they might get sued. 'Well, officer, I wasn't going to kill him, but the fortune cookie said that I was being betrayed by one close to me, so...' Greg, you can sum up the main reason why corporate America won't do something, and why they will do something, each with a three word phrase. One, 'It would cost'. And two, 'Someone might sue'."

"Cynical much?"

"Wait till you grow up. Actually, I'm surprised anyone can work in any line of law enforcement and not end up a cynic. You see the absolute crap of the human race."

"Yeah, but sometimes you can do something to help flush it."

"There is that. You're a very special person, Greg. There aren't many people who could use toilet metaphors over breakfast without at least losing their appetite." She lifted her glass of iced tea. "I salute you."

She wouldn't let him pay for breakfast. "Not a good way to start a friendship--mooching a meal."

"It wouldn't be..."

"I know that. Just notice that I didn't offer to pay for yours. When I get a little more settled, maybe we can trade off." She bought a fortune cookie at the check out. "One just isn't enough. One cookie--who ever heard of one cookie? I haven't done one cookie since I was old enough to know that I had two hands." She cracked it open, pulled out the fortune, and ate the cookie while she read it. "Hm. 'Today is an important day to make good first impressions.' Isn't that always the way? A day late, and a dollar short. What was yours?"

"I forgot."

"Short term memory loss at your age? Invest in some... what is that crap? Ginko cordoba, or something. Well, I've had fun. Gotta go hit the mattress, and it would probably be a good idea to unpack more than one set of sheets."

"Maybe some more socks, too. I'm sure you can find that other black one, unless the dryer ate it, like mine always does."

"Ah, you noticed that, did you? Perceptive. Well, forgive me for being seventies, but have a nice day, G.S. See you tonight." She got in her car, shut her skirt in the door, swore lustily in several languages as she released it, waved, then drove off.

Greg watched her car disappear around the corner, then pulled a tiny strip of paper out of his pocket and read it. "You will meet someone very interesting. You got that right." He flipped the paper over and scanned the back. *If it's gonna be that accurate, maybe I ought to play the lottery numbers.*