The boy is screaming again.  
	Paul sits next to me, eating his sandwich.  His wife knows he hates pumpernickle bread and she packs it for him every day.  He bitches about it everyday too.  I tell him that at least he doesn't have to pack his own food, because God knows that he can't cook to save his life and happily bite into my own girlfriend-packed sandwich wonder.  I chomp noisly at him just to piss him off.  He mutters something under his breath like he always does and calls me whipped.  I grin at him and he grins back.  Same old same old.
	But the boy is still screaming.

***

	Micheal Zimmerson, Mike to his friends, was 34 years old, had been married once and divorced a year later, and was currently black haired, starting to go bald, and just setting out on the dating crew again.  He was a body guard for one of the lead scientists at Techpro Inc, one of a group of thirty men that comprised a small private army, ruled entirely by one Peter Schultz, and his companion, a mysterious old man who looked like he had been born ninty years before the flood and smelled like that had been the last time he had bathed.  
	Strange man.  Both of them.  But the money was good, better than good, really, so long as no questions were asked.  It was a don't ask, don't tell enviroment.  Energy experiments, a study of the mind.  Mike had worked for Techpro for two years before being recruited by Schultz and joining the Rasputins, as their group was called.  He didn't know too many people in the group other than Paul, who had become a friend and companion over the past few months.  Mike was the newest, and thus the least trusted.  He didn't know the details of the Yoroi project, save that he was to protect Schultz at all costs and to ignore whatever happened in the screening room.  
	Easy enough, that last part.  He had never been in there, never known any of those people.  He was still on the outside, still an outcast.  But he did his job, mainly involving sitting around talking to Paul while the others ran about doing whatever it was that the higher ups did.  
	Paul didn't know what the Yoroi project was about either.  He had been chosen, he once told Micheal, because he knew Japanese.  Paul was 32, dark haired, son of a Japanese immigrent.  He spoke it flawlessly.  Micheal didn't know a word.  It was alright though, because the language hadn't been needed as of yet.  The only evidence that it would be used at all was in the fucked up costumes that were their uniforms.
	Micheal stretched out his legs, mask currently removed.  He hated that thing.  Paul was leaning back, watching a female scientist wander into the room, clutching at her papers.  Paul leered at her and she cast him a vain, ice cold glance before turning her gaze back to