Greg was listening to his music again as he waited for results from a test to print out. He stood, watching the continuous sheet of paper slowly chug out of the printer, arms crossed, head nodding slightly to the beat as he sang along under his breath. For the second time that night a hand came down on his shoulder, and he jumped, whirling around.

It was the woman from earlier. She said something which Greg, not being up on lip reading, had no chance of understanding. He pulled the headphones off. "Pardon?"

"I said we've got to stop meeting like this. Hon, if you're going to wear those things, you shouldn't put your back to a door."

"I'm not really worried about anyone attacking me from behind, what with all the police officers we have around here."

"That isn't what I meant. You'd be able to see someone coming and stop singing before they could hear enough to comment on your technique."

"Oh. Um, off key?"

"No one I know sings well with both ears covered. Frankly, I don't know how the hell those recording artists do it, but they always show 'em cupping those big ol' earmuff-sized things and warbling like birds. Myself, the one time my mother walked in on me laying on my bed, singing along to Good-bye Yellow Brick Road with my eyes closed, her exact words were 'You're bellering like a wounded calf'." She cocked her head. "Hm. Toxic Virgin?"

Greg blinked. "Well, that's a bit of a non sequitur."

"The music. German band, right? Sinner?"

Greg brightened. "You know them?"

"Just recognized them, didn't I? I don't own any of the music, except a few *ahem* borrowed cuts on my hard drive." She quickly and pointedly darted a look over both shoulders and whispered in a Natasha Fatale voice, "You heard nothing, darlink."

Greg turned off the music. "Sorry I didn't notice you when you came in. I know I play it a little too loud."

She shrugged. "Some music has to be played loud. Hey," she spread a hand over her chest. "Stands before you a woman who used to slap on the headphones, plug in the Bat Out of Hell 8-track, and let All Rev'ed Up With No Place to Go blast her to sleep."

Greg brightened. "Where'd you find an 8-track player?"

She put one hand on her hip. "Doll, I bought it new, that's how. Granted, it was with my allowance money, but still..."

He blinked. "You can't be that old."

He blushed when she patted his cheek. "Blessed child. It wasn't exactly when dinosaurs walked the earth, you know."

"I didn't mean..."

"Unhook yourself. I'm proud of every year I've survived. Now, I was wondering if there was such a thing as a soda vending machine nearby."

"Sure. There are several vending machines in the break room."

"And that would be where?"

"They didn't tell you? I can understand forgetting to tell you where trivial things like first aid kits or fire alarms are, but not telling you where to find snacks--well, that's just criminal negligence."

"I like the way your mind works."

Greg found that he was grinning foolishly, thinking, *Well, you seem to be the first one around here that does.* "I can take my break now. Care for an escort?"

He was ready for her to blow him off (perhaps not too gently--she seemed to be a fairly direct sort of person). Instead she said, "Do I get a corsage?"

"I don't have any on hand right now, but I could order one. Do you prefer orchids, or camellias?"

"As if I'd be picky. I've never been given flowers unless I was flat on my back in a hospital, so I'd be thrilled by anything. But I need to get going." She held up a small plastic sack. "I have a time window I need to eat in, and I'm approaching the outer frame."

Greg ripped off the printout. "Just a second, while I write a note on this." He scrawled a brief explanation of what the report said, then slashed Sara's name at the top. Dropping it on the counter in a prominent place, he offered her his arm. "Shall we?"

She slipped her hand in the crook of his elbow. "I don't know you well enough to say with any certainty. That old saw about a woman knowing within thirty seconds whether or not she's going to sleep with a man is actually a myth." They'd been walking out of the room, and Greg stumbled in surprise. "Breathe, doll. I'm playing with you. I'm not a child molester. Dirty old broad, perhaps, but not a cradle robber."

As they walked, Greg said curiously, "How old do you think I am?"

She shrugged. "You're under thirty, therefore you're a baby." She noticed Greg studying her while trying not to seem to study her. "You're wondering how old I am, but you're not asking. You are not only intelligent, you are wise. That is perhaps the single most dangerous question you can ask a woman. Since they passed the concealed carry law in Texas, it ranks right up there with, 'Are you on the rag?'"

"I'll give you a couple of hints. I've seen every episode of the original Star Trek at first broadcast. I had a huge crush on the Burt Ward version of Robin long before Chris O'Donnell wiggled into the tights. I can remember when black and white television was the norm instead of being mostly relegated to security cameras. Speaking of which..." She pointed to the camera that was mounted above their heads at the crossway, gave it a wide-eyed look, and said in a goofy voice, "Eeeeh-yuh, what shall we do tonight, Brain?"

Greg caught the ball like a Super Bowl quarterback on a hot streak. "Why, what we do every night, Pinky." He leered at the lens. "Plan to take over the world!"

Mozell nodded. "Narf!"

A guard, watching a monitor deep in the bowels of the building, shook his head. *I could write a book, but I'd have to market it as fiction, because no one would believe it.*

Mozell looked around the break room with approval. "Mmm. Microwave, fridge, vending machines, a sofa... Not just the necessities, but frills."

"Yeah, well, when things get going around here, sometimes one of the CSIs will crash on the sofa while they're waiting on lab results. I'd advise looking at it before you sit down, though. There was a rather notorious instance when Nick slipped while investigating a mauling at an attack dog kennel and was so exhausted that he neglected to check the bottom of his shoes before he snoozed. Sara was the next one to occupy the sofa, and she wasn't best pleased."

"Somehow that fails to surprise me." She tried to feed a bill into the soda machine. It promptly spat it back out. "Poop." She tried again, and again it was ejected. "Poodle piss." Greg snickered. "Don't laugh at my pain, man. I need this caffiene."

"It's just your, uh, choice of invectives."

"Yeah, well, the standard four-letter ones get sort of boring after a while. Besides, I'm still scoping out the community standards around here. I have to learn the tight-ass factor before I can loosen up."

"This is you being restrained? Oh, I gotta see you when you're drunk."

"Cheeky monkey. It would be expensive. I have a high capacity for Mai Tais and Vodka Collins." She shook the limp bill. "AAARGH! This is perfectly good money! Uncle Sam would take it from me in a heartbeat."

"Allow me, m'lady."

She handed over the bill. "If you can get that to work, I'll forgive you for calling me a lady."

"Watch the technique." Greg held either end of the bill, stretched it taut against the corner of the machine, and sawed it back and forth. "It's the next best thing to ironing it. Voila." He fed the bill in. It was spat back out.

"My hero."

"Crap. Figures it wouldn't work the first time I had someone watching. Well, there's always the old-fashioned way." He reached into his pocket. "Four quarters for a dollar." He plugged two coins into the slot. "Whatcha want?"

"Diet anything but Dr. Pepper. Bleh." Greg punched the button, and a can clunked into the bin. Mozell picked it out. "Whu-oh. This is regular."

"Really? I thought for sure I hit diet. I'll take that one." He dropped in more coins and made a point of locating the Diet Coke button, then punched it. She took the can, then showed it to him. "I'll be damned--regular again. The vendor must've loaded it wrong."

Mozell sighed. "Crud. Are there any paper cups around? I guess I can drink water."

"Go ahead and have the soda," Greg urged. "It's not like you really need to be on a diet."

"Oh, yes I do." She set her purse and the sack down on a table.

"No, really. I know that size twos are all the rage these days, but personally I think that they look like someone should tie them down and forcefeed them."

"You've just singlehandedly redeemed most of the male species in my eyes. But I do need to diet." She pulled a pill bottle out of her purse and showed it to him. "Glucovange."

"Gluco... Ah, comes the dawn. Diabetes."

"Type II for about five years now, cuss it, and still pissed. I do allow myself treats, but a regular soda isn't on my short list. I have mints in my Lunchables, so I can't spare the sugar."

"Sorry."

"Why? Last I heard it wasn't communicable, so you didn't give it to me. I get sick occasionally of being grateful that it isn't any worse than it is, but I'm coming to terms."

Greg pointed at the machine. "They have some tea."

"Canned tea is an abomination before God." Greg blinked. "I'm Southern--I don't screw around about iced tea. Good try, but it's still sweetened, and it has lemon flavoring. Double bleh."

Catherine and Warwick came in. Catherine offered them a smile. "Somehow I knew you two would find each other."

Greg said, "Catherine, Warwick, this is... uh... um..."

"After all we've meant to each other, what's-your-name," Mozell chided.

Greg scratched his head ruefully. "Yeah. I've been blabbing a mile a minute, and we've never been introduced."

"Shocking, I know, but my grandmother will forgive us if you make an honest woman of me."

While he was trying to think of a response to that, Warwick said, "Allow me to introduce Greg Sanders, our favorite lab rat. Greg, this is Mozell McClain..."

"...the new computer geek." She offered a hand. "Hiya."

Greg shook, staring. "You're Moe McClain?"

"Mo-zell."

"You don't have an NRA bumper sticker, do you?"

"Nope. Mine says 'I Know Who Killed Laura Palmer'." She shrugged. "It's an old car."

"How do you feel about men who use hair gel?"

"I'm from the Land of the Last Big Hair, and one of my favorite television characters is Angel. Besides, if I run my hands through a guy's hair, and they stick, they can't get away."

Warwick was looking at Greg. "Greg, two Cokes? Do you really need that much sugar and caffiene? The last time you drank a Jolt you ended up doing that Risky Business imitation in the hall."

"Hey, I kept my pants on," Greg protested.

"Darn," muttered Mozell. She got startled looks from everyone. "What?"

Greg shook his head slightly. "We were trying for a Diet Coke, but the vendor mis-loaded the thing again."

"Oh, right," said Catherine. "Try the Sprite button."

Greg shrugged and did so. A Diet Coke popped out. Mozell snatched it. "And they did rejoice, and sing." She popped the tab and warbled, "Just for the taste of it--Diet Coke!" and took a deep swig. "You know, I've gotten used to it, and even like it now, but when they sang that, they lied. More like 'just for the massive endorsement fees'." She sat at the table. "Care to join me?" She pulled out two Lunchables. "I have ham, cheese, and crackers, which I will share willingly, but the Andes mints are mine."

"Thanks, but we're just here for coffee," said Warwick, pouring himself a cup.

"Speak for yourself." Catherine accepted a circular cracker. She munched it as Mozell shook a thick yellow caplet out into her palm and washed it down with a sip of soda. "Diabetic?"

"Yep. The Golden Triangle--that's where I'm from originally--has pretty much the highest known rate of diabetes in the world. Some think it's because the regional diet is so unhealthy. I tend to believe that those several dozen refineries and chemical plants might have something to do with it, too."

That reminded Catherine of a case where what had looked like an accidental death from low blood sugar had turned out to be a murder. The victim had been fed his medication on an empty stomach, then prevented from taking in any food to compensate. The sugar levels had dropped, and... She was discussing it with Warwick as they left the room, sipping their coffee.

Mozell, eating a slice of cheese, had wrinkled her nose, expression tight. Greg said sympathetically, "They shouldn't have talked about that in front of you. I know it must be upsetting to think about something like that."

"What? Oh, yes. The sheer evilness of some of mankind never ceases to disgust me. But that's not why I'm making the face. I just loath cheese unless it's melted over nachos, veggies, pasta, or pizza. Cold--I hate it."

"Then why are you eating it?"

She tapped the pill vial. "Because I need protien, and I won't get enough of it just from the lunchmeat. Why they can't make these boogers double meat I'll never know. It's unfair to the lactose intolerant"

"You mean you're...?"

"No, but it's a valid bitching point anyway. So, Greg, tell me about yourself. Hobbies, interests, religion, pets, kids, significant other?"

"Uh..."

"You don't need to answer the religion question. That would be prying on my part."

"Why did you mention kids before a significant other?"

"Because in this day and age one doesn't necessarily guarantee the other." She looked at her watch. "Whoops. Soul baring will have to wait for a later date. If I push it, I might be able to finish loading up the programs I'm going to need." She stood and threw her trash in the wastebasket. "Then if they still don't have my lab finished, I can spend time between any work they bring me playing Mah Jong Solitair. Thanks for the help with the machine, and you still owe me fifty cents." She swept out.

Greg felt a little shell-shocked, but pleasantly so. In his best weatherman voice he intoned. "Today for the first time in recorded history, a hurricane swept into Vegas all the way from the Gulf Coast. We're calling this one Mozell."