This had been unlike any of his other VR transmissions. Elegant. Succinct. Well classified. Streamlined as well, for such a variety of graphical faces could take up a lot of space on a hard drive.

     As well as in my head.

     He moaned as he leaned back into the uncomfortable seat and with his right thumb and index finger, rubbed the bridge of his nose. Aspirin. Aspirin would be good.

     Cracking his eyes open just a bit, Mac retrieved the Treo from his jacket pocket and shut down the Rote. If he didn't, he could pass out in this seat and no one would notice him.

     "You okay hon?"

     He looked at Winnie, whose expression reflected genuine concern. He managed a smile through the murky cacophony in his head. "I-I'm fine. Just a headache."

     "Headache? Well here," she turned then, and bent forward with a grunt, intent on retrieving her carpet bag from the seat before her. After several noises, she pulled it up into her lap. "I've got any kind of medication you could ask for."

     Mac slid the OakleyVRs back into his jacket pocket. "No, please. I'll be fine. I just need to sleep."

     "Nonsense." Winnie rummaged inside the vast bag and pulled out several bottles of Motrin, Aleeve, Excedrin... every national brand on the market. "Here, pick one."

     He scanned their contents, though the pain behind his eyes made concentrating difficult. Picking the Motrin for him when he hesitated, Winnie opened the bottle and set two pills on his seattray. "There. Take those. Wait...you don't have a drink. Where is your drink? Why didn't she get you something to drink?"

     Before he could stop her, the elderly yet vivacious woman flagged the Flight Attendant and demand he be brought a soda. He voiced a water instead. Once the water arrived, he downed the pills and leaned back again with a sigh and closed his eyes.

     "Who is that woman? She's lovely?"

     Mac opened his eyes to see his wife, Maouri, displayed on his ibook screen. It was a picture taken a few months before her death. They had both climbed The Stairway to Heaven - overcoming his fear of heights. Her black hair had been pulled away from her beautiful round face and her smile.

     She had smiled for him at that moment, when he snapped the shot.

     "She..." he swallowed. "She was my wife."

     "Oh..." Winnie's voice faltered. "Was?"

     "She died two years ago."

     "I'm sorry. She was lovely."

     He nodded and closed his eyes. Yes...she was.

     The Captain announced their descent into Las Vegas as the flight attendants strolled the isles and picked up the remaining trash. Mac took a deep breath and shut the laptop, closing the smiling face of his wife in darkness.

     He pulled his Raybands from his pocket and slide them on to cover the red, watery eyes.

     The headache had subsided by the time he found himself in the Airport terminal but it wasn't gone. Once he got his bag, his first order of business was to rent a car and find a hotel. He needed to phone Trent to let him know he'd arrived safely and ask the hair dresser to recommend a good hotel. Something a bit less...glitzy.

     He needed somewhere to sleep the headache away.

     Slot machines sat amid the ticket booths and chairs. Not something he often saw in an airport terminal on the East coast. He was able to see the spells surrounding their internal workings. Some were rigged with magic, others with machinery. He knew which ones would pay out which never would. It was a sad thing, to cheat those tourists newly arriving in Nevada and he wondered how many of those he saw sitting at the devices had already blown a good deal of their spending money - before getting into the casinos proper.

     A row of payphones rang as he passed by, each in turn ringing as his shoulder cast its shadow on it, the next giving the same pattern sound as the previous. Mac stopped at the row's end and looked over his shades at the last of the phones, the only one to continue the sound. An overwhelming desire to answer the call of the unkown rested upon his shoulders, and with a quick scan of the electronics with his cell, he reached out with his left hand and pulled the reciever from its cradle. He said nothing into the speaker, yet the voice in his ear needed no introduction. "Hello Mac, we've been expecting you."

     "I'm afraid you've got the wrong number. This is a payphone."

     "Kyle 'Mac' McGyver, formerly known as Alan Cooper, Virtual Adept, Cypherpunk; finder of lost data. Wife killed by Agents supposedly directed by father, one Professor Malcom R. Cooper, Progenitor..."

     Panic replaced curiosity. Mac shifted the ibook's case on his shoulder as he leaned into the phone booth and kept his voice at a whisper. "Who are you? How do you know that?"

     "Relax and do exactly what I tell you to do."

     In an instant, the rascious noise that had been the airport terminal was silenced. Quiet. The only thing he could hear was the voice on the phone. A voice that was neither male or female.

     "Continue to the baggage claim. Retrieve your single bag - the black one with the red tag. As you exit, someone will be there to meet you. He will be holding a sign. Go with him. No questions please. He will take you to a limo which will transport you to the Tropicana. You will have a reservation in room 201. It is now 3:30 - set your watch. The PowerPuff one your wife once wore. Be in the hotel bar at precisely 9:30 with your laptop. Do not be late."

     The phone line went dead as Mac opened his mouth to speak.

     The noises of the terminal returned and he nearly dropped the phone to cover his ears to protect them from the volume. He replaced the receiver and immediately pulled the Treo 300 from his pocket. He removed the card with the 'invisibility' Rote and replaced it with a card containing several smaller Rotes, including a 'detection' which would work directly with his Raybands. Mac wasn't gifted in Prime, so he depended on this small application to 'see' magic, though patterns presented themselves easy enough.

     He hit Trent's speed dial. In a rush he told his mentor as much as he could about the transmission, of which Trent had also received a copy, though his had not been as elaborate. He also told Trent about the phone conversation and directions.

     "I don't like this," Trent said.

     "Neither do I." Mac looked about at the milling people.

     "Did you get the sense of a Sphinx with the phone call?"

     "No," he licked his lips and rubbed his right temple. The pain behind his eyes still lingered like an errant ghost. "I'm not sure this is a missive. But I feel like I need to follow the instructions."

     Trent was slow in responding. "...be careful. We've got people nearby. We'll follow. Keep your Treo on."

     With a nod he knew his mentor couldn't see, Mac slid the phone into his jacket pocket and proceeded to the baggage claim, his right hand clasping the PowerPuff watch around his left wrist.

     Everything timed out as the voice had said it would, down to the man in the non-descript suit standing just outside the baggage claim. He held a neat, well executed sign. Where others were simply hand made scrawls of sharpe markers on cardboard, this sign looked as if it had been produced in a sign shop. His name, MAC, was in bold, well engraved letters upon an aluminum backing.

     The voice had requested no questions, and the man seemed to recognize Kyle as he approached. Yet, as the sign bearer turned, motioning for him to follow, the buttons on the sign holder's jacket looked like...

     ...Sphinx buttons?

     >INPUT THROUGH VISUAL ROTE. BRIEF DETECTION OF MAGICAL IMPETUS...

     Mac stopped and blinked, the dull throb behind his eyes intensifying as he looked again at the small sphinx buttons. Gold. Shiny. Solid.

     Sphinx. Lots of sphinxes...or is that sphinxie for plural? I'm tired, and that's not good. I'm getting punchy.

     When the man turned back to make sure Mac was following, the buttons were ordinary buttons. White. Non-descript. Plain.

     The Sphinx, all of them, were gone.

     The waiting black limo blended in among the other dozen or so limos with their drivers outside the airport terminal. The Nevada sun beat down and Mac was glad he still wore his shades. The man in the suit opened the left passenger door for him and nodded. The sign was gone, and Kyle had no idea where the man had put it.

     It was hot, but not the oppressive humid heat of Georgia. A dry breeze ruffled his unruly hair. He caught a glance of himself in the black window. His hair really was standing up at all points. His black suit jacket was wrinkled, and he could see the dark circles beneath his eyes weighing below the shades. That VR was a little too much. I can't believe how wiped I am. He checked his watch. It was nearing 4:00. He'd have time to sleep before the mystery meeting at 9:30.

     At any other time in his life, he might have enjoyed the sites of Las Vegas, even in the mid afternoon sun. But as he relaxed into the plush, black leather seats of the limo, his muscles releasing the tensions of the past twenty-four hours, Mac fought to keep his eyes open. Before long he was dozing slightly on the trip to the Tropicana.

     The driver awakened him by clearing his throat. Mac's eyes opened instantly. Have I slept the whole way? They were parked outside the hotel. Tourists and business people alike moved back and forth, the appearance of another limo nothing more outstanding in their daily routine.

     With a half smile to the sign bearer, now driver, Mac opened the door and turned to pull out his bag. As he did, the driver leaned over and handed him an envelope. He offered the man a twenty, but the driver gave a quick shake of his head and moved the limo away from the curb as Mac stepped back.

     Well, he was here. So far, everything the mysterious voice had told him had come to be. Let's just see if I have a room, and hope it's paid for. He looked up at the tall building before him. I'm not sure I brought enough cash for this.

     Mac shuffled through the milling people in the enormous lobby. His head throbbed harder than before. He'd had headaches like these for nearly two years, but this one felt more intense. It feels like my brain is bleeding. He just knew if he didn't rest soon, the management would be calling the paramedics when he passed out. The sound of water moving swiftly over rocks and into a pool masked most of the conversations around him. His Mage senses detected the hotel security monitors and he was instantly aware of their positions and ranges about the lobby. After waiting a few minutes in line, a cherub faced red-head motioned him forward and greeted him with a smile.

     "Welcome to the Tropicana."

     Before he could give her his name, she handed him a card-key and a bag with the Tropicana Hotel logo on its side.

     His mind still muddled from fatigue and throbbing pain behind his eyes, Mac looked dumbfounded at the key and bag. The red-head touched his wrist. "Compliments of the management. Enjoy your stay, Mr. McGyver."

     Before he could protest her intrusion on his privacy, he noticed the small yellow flashing text at the lower right lenses of his Raybands.

     >AWAKENED. TRADITION: VIRTUAL ADEPT.

     Oh. Well, that explains things. He gave her a smile. She winked and moved to the next guest.

     He'd once again forgotten he had his cell on and the Rote running. I have got to get some sleep and get rid of this headache. I only hope I didn't do any permanent damage to my head by watching that message.

     He took the elevator in a daze. The weight of the computer bag over his right shoulder aggravated his neck muscles. He rubbed his eyes beneath his shades, happy he was alone inside the small box. Well, relatively speaking. He sensed the survelliance cameras here and there, watching him.

     The doors opened out into a blaringly loud print hallway. Yellow, green and purple threatened to overpower him as he checked which way to find his room. Turning right, he became aware of the smell of metal.

     A bitter taste in his mouth. Coppery. Blood.

     >Technocracy.

     With a quick look from his left to right, Mac straightened his back and read the information on his shades. No other data came forward. Obviously the Rote detected the taint of Technocracy, but not the location.

     Safety was not to be found here, and he wondered again if this was some elaborate hoax set up by his father.

     His room was three doors down from the elevator. He swept the card into the slot. The door clicked inward. His mind wasn't so tired he didn't realize he needed more precaution than just walking in. Mac set his bags down and rumaged into his jacket pocket. Retrieving his Treo and another smart card, he switched it out and activated a new Rote. At the first sign of trouble, all he would need to do is execute the program and he would be somewhere else. Back in Atlanta, at Trent's house.

     Where? Who knows? But with the smell of the Technocracy about - anywhere else would be better.

     As he stepped inside, the bitter, metal smell disappated. Another VA had been there recently, and apparently cleansed the entire room. It might have been the girl from downstairs. Mac didn't know. Nor did he care. He was just dead tired.

     Retrieving his bag and laptop, he locked the door, and set the bedside alarm to wake him at 7:30, in time to shower, change and be at the bar.

     Panic seized him. Oh great...which bar? He knew he'd seen several upon his entrance into the elaborate hotel. He'd also seen a couple of casinos. Where was he supposed to meet? Who could he call to find out? The red-head downstairs? Should he just run to each of them? No, that's stupid. Your mind's all mush. Think.

     He looked down on the bed beside him where the envelope the driver had given him lay. Pursing his lips, he took it in hand and tore it carefully open. On a simple, 4 by 6 card was typed the word, TROPICS LOUNGE.

     Ah. I go to the Tropics Lounge. I'm Alice in Wonderland. Have you seen the white rabbit?

     His phone rang, the sudden bell tone jarring him and he jumped.

     "Mac, are you there?"

     "Yeah," it was Trent. "I'm really tired though. I need to get some sleep."

     "We have your location. One of our people..."

     "I know. She's downstairs. Met her. I'm in my room. I have a meeting at..." a yawn stopped him, and he laid back on the bed, his head resting into the feather pillows. He removed his Raybands and rubbed his eyes. "Sorry, I have a meeting at 9:30, and I've got to get some sleep."

     "Mac...you don't sound so good. Have you taken something? Is the headache worse than before...Mac?"

     "G'night, Trent..."

     "Mac...?"

     Mac closed his eyes, the phone in his hand. Sleep came swiftly, with dreams of slot machines that took the souls of Sleepers...

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