The end.

<< rough draft >> Tom .. sitting in a circular room.
Off-center/off to the side.
Towards the roof, tilted down towards him was a screen for the overhead projector.
In a few moments the final portion of the session will commence and by experience he knows that with it the screen will come to life, flashing static images of things he is supposed to provide explanations for, after which his << rough draft >>.

They had been going at it for close to an hour now, and he can feel the first stirrings of fatigue course through him.  But he had been in this situation numerous times, he easily dismisses it and continues to concentrate on the task at hand.  As if managing to read his thoughts, the professor interjects << >>, his voice piping in through the sound system, assuring him that there are only a few items left to deal with, and after which << >>.

They've been through these sessions countless times, so much so that everything seems like second nature to him.  The hum of the overhead projector can now be heard, up above and slightly to the left.

The professor cleared his throat and spoke to the microphone, his voice grave and humorless, "Let's continue."

A picture of a dinosaur comes up.

"How do you recover dinosaur bones?" the voice, booming from speaker system, with its deep timbre and solemn disposition, sounds like it's coming from the heavens.

Tom goes into a long dissertation about providing ample coverage << >>, making sure no artifact was unintentionally missed, destroyed, misplaced, lost, or miscategorized during recovery, and so on.

Next up was a picture of a hoodloom charging at him with a club.

"How do you recover from a surprise frontal attack?"

He considers the situation for a moment, and then talks about rocking back onto the balls of his feet, to react as fast as possible and avoid the inevitable blow, or cushion it as best he can so that it's impact is minimized and steeling himself for the conflict ahead. He talks about then doing a quick side-step at the critical moment, then striking fast and hard as a counterattack, to take down his would-be attacker and resolve the situation with the least amount of injury, in the least amount of time.

A picture of a hard drive flashed on the screen.

"How to you recover lost data where all files have been erased, whose drive has been formatted, its contents been wiped clean, and the enclosure itself battered, damaged, and thrown into a trash heap?"

He goes on to describe the precepts of software forensics, about bringing in the drive to a "clean room"  where technicians move around in smocks and head <<thingys>>  and mask <<thingys>> and <<glove and dust has been removed >>.  Where they open up the case, move the physical disc itself to a new enclosure, install it into a workstation, run specialized software to "see" the deleted data, and move the recovered contents onto a secondary drive.

A picture of Elsie pops up on the screen: his favorite picture. It shows her in all her beauty, smiling straight at the photographer -- at him -- as if sharing a wonderous joke that only they are aware of << >>.

The memories of that night came flooding in no matter how hard he tried to suppress them. They had just finished dinner; an event that now seems like a world and a lifetime away after all that has happened between them.

Obviously projecting his emotions through everything in front of him, no longer fighting the pain and heartache of everything associated with << >> He can swear that her smile this time seemed much more sad compared to the hundreds of other times he remembers staring at this photograph.

A shiver envelops his entire body, conflicting sensations coursing up and down his spine, and he now found it a << battle >> just to keep his body from involuntarily shifting itself and turning away from the screen.  He found it hard to breathe now.  And yet though all this, his eyes remained fixated onto the screen, forcing himself to go thorugh the gamut of emotions the image brings with it. "It's the least I can do for her," he grimly thought to himself. "If nothing else, I can at least << face this and >>.

A soft, quiet voice filters down from the sound system, the echoes of Elsie filling the entire chamber.  A mumur of sadness hung in the air.

"How do you recover my love?"

The spell was broken. Tom slowly turns his head toward the glass panel of the control center above him. Elsie is in front of the microphone, with the professor is nowhere to be found.  She is staring quietly, longingly at him, tears flowing down her cheeks.

Tom involuntarily gasps out in surprise as he jumps off the chair.  Running blindly across the room, he crashes through the double doors, up the flight of stairs two, three steps at a time, straight down the hallway and through the door leading into the room that contained the single most important thing in his life.  The only thing that matters to him now.  She's off to one side of the room, facing the door.  Their eyes meet, and within that single infinite span of time, a tick off eternity, they both knew, they both understood.  And with an almost imperceptible nod on her part, he at once rushed towards her, and with their arms wide open, they ebraced as if having been saved from a precipice, << with that the most passionate kiss ever been exchanged >>.  After a few moments of quiet tears and muffled sobs, their eyes locked onto each other, and an journey spanning a lifetime of heartache and pain, joy and frustration, and, yes,... ultimateley, love, will be experienced by both of them.  Starting today.
 
 

The End (-1)

Tom ( to be continued )