CHAPTER 36

"What do you mean, Michael?" Isabel blurted.

He swallowed and avoided her eyes. "I mean that the problem is mental," he told her roughly. "I'm cracking up, okay?"

Maria snorted. "You are not cracking up, Michael," she objected.

He looked at her. "Well, what would you call it?"

"I don't know. Lack of sleep? Some sort of alien post-traumatic stress syndrome?" she sighed, then turned to the others. "Okay, Michael thinks he's losing his admittedly screwy mind. I disagree. What do you think?"

Max looked at the tight-lipped alien who stood there so uneasily. "What's going on, Michael? We can't know if you don't tell us."

Maria silently sent a message. Just tell them, Michael. Let them ask, so I don't have to. As if he could actually hear her, his eyes met hers and his jaw clenched.

He slowly turned to Max, his voice cracking. "I'm hearing things, okay? I've got this voice stuck in my head. That's what's going on. I am totally fucked up. Happy now?" His burning eyes met those of his leader.

"A voice?" Isabel said intently. "Like the one we heard when we dreamwalked you?"

He shrugged, and Maria spoke up. "Yeah. The same voice."

"Whose voice?" Isabel questioned.

"I don't know, all right? I don't know anything any more," he barked. Reaching over, he grabbed his jacket from the counter.

"Michael!" cried Isabel.

"Just...gotta get some air," he managed, pushing past her to the door. His hand on the knob, he kept his back turned as he spoke to Max and Isabel. "Will one of you stay with Maria?"

"Sure, Michael," Max answered without hesitation.

Michael ducked his head in thanks. He paused, teeth gritted, and then turned to Maria, muttering, "You can go ahead and tell them. I don't care. I just...I gotta go." Raising miserable eyes to hers for one fleeting moment, he bolted out the door.

Maria frowned. He very obviously did care. A hell of a lot. He seemed to want them to know, but at the same time he couldn't bear to face them knowing. And whatever he felt, as usual he couldn't bring himself to find the words. "Okay," she said to the door where he had disappeared. She could at least save him from the struggle to tell the others.

"You may as well sit back down," she told the two aliens.

"But Michael..." Isabel whispered.

Maria's voice was confident. "He'll be back. He just needs a little time. And we were kind of closing in on him, so his instinct was to run. But he'll be back."

Realization dawned in Isabel's eyes, and she spoke softly. "You knew he felt like that. That's why you were trying to get us to stop talking about it." It wasn't a question, but Maria nodded. "I'm sorry, Maria. I should have known better, but I--"

"You were just worried about him," Maria finished for her. "We all are."

"So what about this voice?" asked Alex, getting to the point.

"He doesn't know who or what it is," Maria explained. "But it's in his head all the time. Sometimes he can drown it out, and other times...I think that's what happens when he zones out. The voice overpowers him, and he can't handle it." She bit her lip. "On top of all that, he hasn't really been able to deal with killing Agent Pierce, you know? Well, the voice...it calls him a killer."

There was silence from the other four, then "Oh god," whispered Isabel.

Max shut his eyes. Why did this have to happen? Wasn't it enough for Michael to have to deal with his entrapment in his own mind, and the danger Maria was in, not to mention all the problems with Pierce and the FBI last spring? His friend didn't deserve any of that, and now this voice...Max felt a sudden need to destroy something. Anything. Just blast it out of oblivion. Instead he took a deep breath and opened his eyes. They had to do something. Figure this out, and fix it. If Michael would let them.

Hands in his jacket pockets, Michael wandered aimlessly down the chilly streets of Roswell. He felt able to breathe again, after the claustrophobia that had swarmed over him in his apartment. He kicked himself mentally for once again having run out on them. It seemed that, no matter what his intentions, he couldn't help but flee whenever things got too hard or too difficult. And he couldn't bear to stand there and see pity in their eyes. So he ran, like the coward he was.

Trudging along, he allowed his thoughts to drift to Maria. She was the one who'd gotten him to open up as much as he had, so he could say it was all her fault he'd had to leave. His lip curled up in a sneer. Yeah, all her fault and not his own. Sure. God, he couldn't even face himself with the blame. He was weak enough to try and lay it on her. But that was just an excuse. He knew better.

It was his own fault, his own weakness. He'd hidden it from all of them for so long that it had almost become part of who he was. He'd bluffed and blustered through his whole life, hiding his self-doubt under a thick layer of rash action and unconcern. Not even Max and Isabel, who'd known him longer than anyone, had really seen him. And now, with so much out in the open, how could he face them? Who would he be?

A car horn in the distance brought his head up, and he finally noticed his surroundings. He had passed the Crashdown, now closed down for the night, retracing the steps he'd taken earlier that evening. Somehow, without intending to, he'd brought himself back to the park.

Five people sat in an uncomfortable silence in Michael's small apartment, searching for answers. "What do we do, Max?" Isabel asked her bother in a shaky voice.

"I don't know," he answered regretfully. "I'm scared to push him any more, Izzy. I don't know how much more he can take."

"But we have to do something. We can't just let him..." Her voice trailed off, scared to finish the thought.

"We need to find out more about what's going on," he said, "Before we can help him. But I don't know how much more he's going to be able to tell us. If he's even willing to in the first place."

Liz tried to take what little information they had and pull it together into a logical explanation. She didn't get far. "As usual, we don't know enough to get any answers. All we have are bits and pieces that don't make sense," she complained.

"Welcome to Czechoslovakia," Maria put in dryly. "You're the experts here," she said, turning to the two aliens. "Or at least the closest thing we have. So what do you really think?"

Max's forehead wrinkled as he attempted to sort out his thoughts. "I don't know what to think," he admitted. "We've never faced anything like this before."

Alex spoke up thoughtfully. "Well, either Michael's hallucinating, in which case maybe he is cracking up, or else the voice is real. In which case, who is it and where did it come from?"

"I don't think it's a hallucination, Alex," Maria said firmly. "I mean, he didn't tell me about it--Michael just doesn't tell you things, you know?--I heard it myself. In the dreamwalk, and then...well, it was in one of the flashes I got when he connected to me the other night. It felt...let's just say it felt very, very real."

Michael lowered himself into the same swing that Maria sat in earlier that evening, waiting for him. Sometime during then and now, the bulb in the closest street lamp had burned out, leaving the swings sitting in darkness. He didn't mind; the night almost seemed to welcome him.

He wasn't ready to go back and face them all, though he knew he would have to eventually. But for now, he wanted to just sit and be. Not to worry about Maria, or Max and Isabel and his destiny to help them fight for their planet, or his crazy brain that was persisting in dredging up every last bit of guilt and horror and shame over what he was and what he had become. Not to have to think about anything. He just wanted to sit and let the night enfold him in a dark cloak, hiding him from everything and everyone.

He was only partially successful, though. His contrary mind refused to oblige him; it kept winging its way back to the note that Maria had received. To whoever had sent it. Gazing into the darkness, he wrestled with it, trying to define its purpose.

Something about it was bothering him. Contrary to Maria's worries, it had to be targeting her, and not the three aliens. After all, if it were some sort of an alien enemy plot, why would they have bothered to send any sort of a warning? Why not just sneak into town and take the three of them out? Letting your targets know you're there didn't seem like sound military strategy to him. Not that he would know.

So it just seemed to make sense that whoever sent the notes was after Maria, and not Max, Isabel and him.

But if the notes were really directed towards Maria, why? Who could dislike her that much? She couldn't possibly have done anything to hurt someone so badly that they would come after her in this way. As best as he could tell, she was a good, though quirky, person. Not that he was equipped to judge. He frowned. Anyway, there was no reason for her to be a target.

And who would write her a note and sign it 'M'? He didn't buy into the idea that she was intended to think the note was from him. No one except an over-hopeful Maria could possibly take that as his style. So that left everyone else with names beginning with M as suspects, which didn't narrow down the pool all that much. Face it, M was a pretty damn common initial.

He began to run through a list in his head, discarding the obvious rejects. Max wouldn't take a risk with her safety any more than Michael would. And Maria certainly hadn't left it for herself. M could stand for Mom, except that Mrs. DeLuca could have talked to her daughter at home any time; no need to meet in the park of all places. Who else? Michael's jaw clenched as a name popped into his head. A name he had been trying to avoid.

Mark. Mark Blumenthal, the guy in Maria's play. The guy who'd sought her out at lunch, not just today, but the day that his emotionless half had fought with Maria in the middle of the quad. Michael had been across the courtyard, sitting leaning against a tree, keeping away from the whole bunch of them, and she'd crossed over to get him, to talk about making another dreamwalk attempt. He'd been very aware that Mark had stopped her on the way. He remembered it very well--how conscious he'd been of where she was, the emotion that he hadn't wanted to feel breaking through from his other self when she headed towards him...only to be stopped. By Mark.

The guy who'd kissed her. Who she'd kissed back. Even though it was just part of the play. The guy who seemed a little too friendly for Michael's taste.

The guy Michael didn't trust.

Abandoning his speculation, Michael clenched his fists. He needed to get back to the apartment, and see what he could pick up from the note. To see if his suspicions were correct. He had to try the vision thing, even if it meant facing them all first.

He ran a hand across his face, trying to wipe away his reluctance to go back. Taking a deep breath, he braced himself and then got up off of the swing determinedly. He had only taken a few steps when a movement across the park stopped him in his tracks. Someone else was in the park.

Slinking back into the pool of darkness surrounding the swings, Michael peered through the night at the tall figure that moved slowly across the grass. He let out a breath as the figure moved close enough into the light of a street lamp to be distinguished.

It was Mark. And he wasn't alone.

CHAPTER 37

A little while later, Alex was sitting on the floor, leaning against the faded couch and rattling off possible--though not very plausible--explanations for Michael's mysterious voice. "Maybe someone else is putting the voice inside his head. Like a ventriloquist with a hate for bad haircuts," he said, trying to break the somber mood. "Or maybe Michael's possessed. Enough bizarre things have happened around you guys that I'm almost willing to give in and accept the whole demonic possession thing. Or hey! How about a ghost? Maybe he's haunted."

Isabel didn't lose her grave expression. She shivered, thinking of what her almost-brother was going through. "Haunted? You mean...by Pierce?" Remembering the look on Michael's face when he had realized Pierce was dead, she pressed her lips together tightly. A furrow appeared on her brow.

"Well, I don't mean by the Ghost of Christmas Past," Alex told her in a last attempt to cut the tension. Becoming more serious, he continued, "You know, I'm a lot more willing to believe it's some sort of FBI trick. I mean, if they could plant that camera in his apartment, they could certainly rig up a miniaturized receiver and speaker there as well."

"I thought Nasedo was keeping a tight rein on the Special Unit," Liz pointed out. "Isn't he, Max?"

"I think so. Although he hasn't been in contact since he left," said Max. "So we can't be sure."

"No overt signs of an FBI presence, though, right?" asked Alex.

"No. Everything's been quiet on that front," Max assured him.

"The FBI doesn't make sense anyway, Alex," said Maria. "I mean, he hears the voice all the time. Everywhere. What do you think he's doing, carrying the FBI equipment around with him?"

"Well, not knowingly," Alex admitted, unwilling to give up on this explanation just yet.

"You think he just accidentally carries it around in his pocket without knowing it's there?" asked Isabel in an irritated tone. "Come on, Alex. He'd find it if it were there. Even Michael puts on clean clothes occasionally."

"Besides, nobody else can hear it," Maria objected, dismissing the idea.

Alex suggested, "Maybe it's in a frequency that we can't hear, but Michael can."

"What, you mean like a dog whistle?" Maria said in disbelief.

"Yeah, something like that. Too high or too low to be heard by the human ear."

"Oh, that's going to go over great," she sputtered. "I can't wait to see Michael's reaction when you start blowing dog whistles at him."

"Well, I didn't actually mean--"

"And besides," she continued, "if it were that, Max and Isabel should be able to hear it too, shouldn't they?"

The tension was beginning to wear at Isabel. "I did hear it," she reminded Maria, "but only in the dreamwalk. Never in real life." She rose abruptly and crossed to the kitchenette, feeling a sudden urge for activity. "This is all giving me a headache," she complained.

"I thought you didn't get sick," said Alex in surprise.

"We don't," she informed him. "Not the way you mean." Swinging open the refrigerator door, she wrinkled her nose in distaste. "God, hasn't Michael ever heard of baking soda?" She began to reach for a paper towel, but changed her mind with a shudder. "Forget it. He can clean his own refrigerator," she muttered, and began to rearrange the few possessions in Michael's cupboards.

Maria watched her stalk around the small kitchen, straightening things that weren't really all that out of place. It still amazed her that Isabel would turn to domestic tasks to help herself deal with stress. But there she was, lining up a half-empty cereal box so that it was perfectly even with the edge of a shelf. Not exactly what you'd expect from the high school social snob that Maria had thought Isabel to be just a year and a half ago, much less from someone from outer space.

Watching Isabel, her mind wandered back to a different alien. She hoped that Michael wasn't feeling so trapped, that getting out had helped him to clear his head a little. And that he wasn't standing in the middle of a street somewhere, stuck in another trance. She frowned. He was being tormented by this voice, thinking he was going crazy, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She didn't know how.

Her lack of knowledge was nothing new, though. She hadn't known what to do when he'd gotten so sick the year before, either, and he'd almost died from that. It had taken all five of them, plus River Dog, to get him back then. She gave herself a mental shake. He'd come out of that just fine. He would come out of this okay, too.

Muttering something under her breath, Isabel tightened the cap on a bottle of Tabasco. Maria watched her thoughtfully. Isabel, despite her current proclaimed headache, was never ill, and Max's few health problems had been either the result of that car accident or--Maria swallowed nervously--torture at Pierce's hands. They were both extraordinarily healthy. If this was due to their alien constitutions, then why was Michael so susceptible to things going wrong? Well sure, not normal human things, like colds or the flu, but bizarre stuff. Stuff that could only have to do with his Czechoslovakian status, like his self-immersion in webbing as he lay dying, and this voice only he could hear. And of course there was the whole Jeckyll & Hyde thing that he'd just come out of.

She sucked in a deep breath of air, and really thought about what had happened to him only five or six weeks earlier. She'd never taken the time to question just why his mind had split in two--she'd been too busy trying to get him back to worry about the reasons for it. Was it a species-wide problem, or peculiar to one stubborn, poorly groomed individual?

"Max? Isabel?" she asked. "What if all this stuff that's happening to Michael is a Czechoslovakian phenomenon? We don't know why it happens. What if it happens to you, too?"

The siblings looked at each other for a moment, "We've talked about that," said Max. "And we'll deal with it if it does."

"It might not happen, anyway. We don't know much about our prior existence, remember?" Isabel responded. "We don't have any idea how much variety there is within our kind. And then to change alien traits even further by mixing them with human DNA...who knows what kind of wild results you'd end up with?"

Alex frowned. "But I thought you were engineered. Designed to be germ-resistant and all that."

"We were," said Isabel with a shrug.

Something was nagging at Maria. The talk of being engineered sparked a memory for her. She knew something, but she didn't know what she knew. It was something Michael had said...She could almost hear his tone of voice, if not the words themselves. Something about...being broken?

Her eyes widened. "Do you remember the argument you and Michael had at my house, Max?" she said intently. "He said something about being flawed, remember? That he was born broken, or something like that." She looked at him, worry in her eyes. "What if he's right, that something went wrong when he was created? Maybe that's why he's had problems that the two of you don't."

Max leaned his chin on his hand as he considered. Finally he spoke. "Maybe. We don't know enough to tell. But I hope not, for his sake."

Isabel clenched her fingers tightly together. "Maybe he was supposed to be different from us. Maybe it's for a reason. Max, what if he was wrong?"

Liz, who had been quietly observing their discussion, chuckled suddenly. At Max's questioning look, she explained, "I know--this isn't funny at all. But I was just thinking that...I never thought I'd say it, but I was thinking how much I wished Nasedo was here."

Isabel paused in straightening Michael's scanty collection of silverware and raised one eyebrow. "I thought you didn't like him."

"I don't. He seems very...alien to me, in a way the three of you never have. He scares me, actually. But he may know more than he's told you. He might be able to help us figure out how to help Michael."

"I'm not sure Michael would let him help," Max said frankly.

"Why not?"

"Because Michael doesn't trust him."

Isabel rolled her eyes. "Michael has a hard time trusting anybody. He always has."

"But once the shock of getting the whole message from our mother began to wear off, he started questioning everything. You saw him, Isabel. His paranoia hit redline."

"What?" cried Maria in outrage. "You mean I spent the whole summer moping about him, breaking my heart that he left me to follow his so-called destiny, and the whole time he didn't even believe it?" Her voice rose to a shriek. "He was avoiding me for nothing?"

"It wasn't nothing," Isabel said fiercely. "He really wanted to believe that he had a destiny, you know. Not to be with me, but to have a purpose. A reason for existing. He could have just happily accepted it." Her voice softened. "But he didn't. He made the choice not to believe, Maria. He chose against destiny."

"But he talks about helping Max win your war..." Maria started.

"You know Michael. What he says and what he does and what he really thinks are not always the same thing. In fact, they're quite often radically different." Isabel smiled sympathetically. "I wouldn't worry so much about what he says. It's much more interesting why he says it."

"What do you mean?"

Isabel smiled widely at her. "Well, duh. Think about it for a minute. Why wouldn't he want to accept his destiny? What would he rather be doing?"

"You mean..." Maria's voice got stuck in her throat and she was unable to finish the hopeful question.

Nor was Isabel given the chance to answer it. All five of them jerked in surprise as the apartment door was flung back on its hinges. Before Maria had time to so much as blink, Michael rushed into the room.

"God, Michael," said Isabel, recovering first. "I know it's your apartment, but you don't need to--"

He interrupted her. "Let me see the note," he demanded, looking down at Maria.

"What? What for?" she asked.

"C'mon, the note. The one you got today. Just let me see it, all right?" he rushed on, his hand outstretched.

Pulling it out of her pocket, she placed it in his hand. His fingers trembled for a moment and he seemed almost to hesitate; then he closed them tightly around the paper, shutting his eyes in concentration. Maria, watching as his brow wrinkled and his jaw clenched, realized he must be trying to get a vision, to pick something up from the note. She put a gentle hand on his arm, silently giving him support. With a sudden jerk, Michael stumbled a bit, his equilibrium lost. He somehow managed to catch himself, and stood holding the note loosely. Letting out a deep breath, he shook his head as if to clear it and then looked down at Maria, his eyes full of confusion.

Alex coughed.

It was only then that Michael seemed to realize that there were four other people in the room. And they were watching him. Maybe judging him. And, thinking back to his earlier confession, probably feeling sorry for--His face closed off.

Thrusting the note back into Maria's hands, he took a step back and looked around at them, before heading back to the apartment door and rushing through it. The door slammed behind him.

"What was that all about?" asked Max.

"I don't know," said Maria. She stood for a moment, unsure, and then grabbed the faded blanket from its place on the back of the couch and headed for the door.

Michael didn't have to hear the step on the sidewalk to know that Maria was nearby. He could almost feel her following before she stepped out of the apartment building and looked around. Trying to find him, probably.

"You shouldn't be out here without Isabel or Max," he said gruffly. She started and turned towards where he was standing, leaning against the brick of the apartment building.

Her voice was calm. "I'm sure they're happy to have a break from the baby-sitting." Wrapping the blanket she held in her arms around her for the second time that evening, she joined him in leaning against the building. She tilted her head back against the chilly brick and looked up towards the stars.

Staring into the night, Michael frowned. "So did you come out here to pump me, or what?"

"Nope," she said, with a laugh in her voice. "Don't you think I know better than that by now? I just came to get some fresh air." She continued to gaze at the tiny specks in the night sky.

He turned his head to study her in the dimness. "You shouldn't be out here," he repeated stubbornly. "That fresh air you want? It's too cold."

It was too cold for her but not for him? He just wanted to be alone, that was all. Besides, she could hack it if he could. "I've got your blanket, Spaceboy. I'm fine." She gave a half smile at her inadvertent use of his usual word.

Fiddling with one of his silver rings, Michael turned it around and around on his finger, not wanting to ask what he knew he was about to ask. He told himself to just suck it up and ask. He might as well know the worst. When he spoke, his voice was husky. "So did you tell them?"

"Yeah." He nodded and stared down at his feet. She continued, "It's all right, Michael. It's good that they know. They don't feel any differently about you, though, you know. And neither do I, for that matter."

He continued to fiddle with his ring. After a moment, he said, half to himself, "Yeah, well, I'm not sure I do either."

Maria gave a tiny little Michael-style smirk into the darkness. That was just like him. "Of course not. That would be too simple, wouldn't it?" she teased. But she remembered what Isabel had said, that what Michael said and what he really thought weren't necessarily the same thing. "I'm going back in," she decided. "You coming?"

"Yeah. I guess." Silently he followed her back into the building and up the stairs. He seemed to brace himself for a moment before he stepped back into the apartment.

Once inside, he headed directly over to a plastic crate in the corner of the room and rifled through it, finally pulling out a small sketch pad and pencil. Ignoring the others, he sat down at the counter that doubled as a table and opened up the pad, flipping through it until he found a blank page. He closed his eyes for a minute, as if to try and recapture an image in his head, before beginning to make tentative lines on the paper in front of him.

Maria watched him with interest. "What are you drawing, Michael?"

Focused on the page in front of him, he answered absently, "Don't know."

She moved over to stand looking over his shoulder. There were a few curved lines and some shading marring the pristine whiteness of the paper, but she couldn't for the life of her make out what she was seeing. Was he into abstract art or something?

Hunching over the sketch pad, Michael looked up at her. "Do you mind?" he said in a rather rude tone.

"No, I don't mind," she answered blithely. "Not as long as you tell me what you're doing."

He gave a quick roll of his eyes at the ceiling, but gave in with ill-mannered grace. "I told you, I don't know what it is. I'm trying to figure out what I saw when I held the note, okay? I'll let you know when I know."

So he had seen something. Well, she could wait. She wasn't going anywhere.

"Okay," she said, reining in her curiosity. She glanced over to the others. None of them had done more than glance up quickly when she and Michael had returned, and now they still seemed rather intent on their conversation. Well, on Max and Liz's conversation, that is. Her eyebrows raised. If she didn't know better, she would almost think that the two were having an argument. Of course, being Max and Liz, it was conducted quite politely and at a reasonable volume.

Moving to Alex's side, she asked him what was going on. "They're...disagreeing about Tess," he told her.

She nodded her head wisely. "That again, huh?"

Alex shook his head. "Not in the way you think. Liz wants to bring her in on this, to see if Nasedo's been in contact. Max doesn't want her involved."

This was a surprise. "Liz wants to call in Tess?" she blurted in amazement.

"Yep," Alex said with a nod. Maria focused with interest on her best friend.

"It's a matter of priorities, Max," the brown-haired girl was saying. "All we do is complain about not having enough information. I for one think it's time to do something about that."

"You sound like Michael," said Max, frowning.

"I heard that," came a gravely voice from over by the kitchen counter.

Max ignored it. "I realize that we don't know enough. But it's not worth taking any chances. If we keep calm and be careful, no one will get hurt. We can't rush into anything."

"It's been months since we've heard anything at all from him!" protested Isabel. "We are not rushing. This is long overdue. And if he can help with Michael--"

"If who can help with what?" said Michael abruptly.

"Nasedo. Liz thinks maybe he can help us figure out why you're hearing the voice," Maria explained. "And she wants to talk to Tess to figure out the best way to contact him."

"No. No way," he said, his voice rising.

"But Michael," Liz said in a reasonable tone, "We need to talk to him. He might hold the key to what's been happening to you."

"He might, and he might not," he told her stiffly. "But we're not gonna ask him."

Isabel and Maria exchanged a pointed glance. "See?" said the taller girl. "We told you he didn't trust Nasedo."

"You told them..." Michael began, rising from his seat in exasperation. "Does the whole world have to know everything about me? What the hell are you going to do next--read them my diary?"

"You have a diary?" asked Alex, momentarily diverted.

"No, I do not have a diary," roared Michael. "That's not the point! The point is, since when does everyone have to know my business?"

"Since the day you became our friend," said Maria heatedly. "God alone knows why, but some of us are stupid enough to care about what happens to you!"

"We are obviously not going to come to an agreement about this tonight," Max cut in smoothly. "Why don't we all take some time to cool our heads? We can talk about it tomorrow."

Liz looked cautiously over at the spiky-haired alien. "Michael? It's your problem we're dealing with here. At least in part. What do you want us to do?"

His eyes met hers coldly. "Why don't you stop butting in and just go home? You heard our fearless leader--Max will decide what to do and tell us tomorrow," he said in a harsh voice. "It's late. You better all get home before your mommies and daddies start to worry about you."

He ignored the hurt look in her brown eyes--a look he was much more used to seeing in Maria's. "All right," Liz said evenly. "We'll talk about it tomorrow." She paused by the door. "Michael?"

"What?" he snapped.

"Get some rest, okay?" She turned to the others. "I'll wait for you outside."

Max crossed to his second-in-command. "That wasn't necessary," he said in a voice shaky with controlled anger. "She was just trying to help."

Michael refused to look at him.

Allowing Alex to take her hand and pull her up from the couch, Isabel chimed in. "You've been hanging around us for eight years, Michael. You'd think that in that time even you would have picked up some rudimentary manners." She gave him a pointed look. "Major apologies are due here, brother. I suggest you start practicing."

"Not a good move, man," said Alex quietly enough so only Michael could hear. "A pissed off Isabel is not a fun Isabel." His voice got even quieter. "And you hurt Liz's feelings like that again and you're going to have me to deal with. Actually, that goes for any of my ladies. Got it?"

Michael didn't answer, but his eyes met Alex's for a brief moment. Evidently satisfied with what he saw there, Alex relaxed and turned to the small blonde still standing defiantly across the room. "Coming, Maria?"

"I don't think so," she answered slowly. "I already told Liz I was staying here tonight. Besides, I think Michael and I need to have a little talk." A pair of intense brown eyes shot over to meet hers.

"All right," answered Alex. "Your choice. But call us if you change your mind." With that, he followed the two aliens to the door, leaving Michael and Maria alone to stare at each other in silence.

CHAPTER 38

With a jerk, Michael turned away and stalked to the kitchen. Grabbing a bottle of Tabasco, he poured its contents liberally into a half-empty can of soda and unceremoniously chugged the whole thing, then stood, still turned away from her.

Maria raised an eyebrow. It was a good thing the Czechoslovakians stuck to soda. She'd hate to see what Michael would be like if he downed a beer that fast. Or, thinking of how romantic Max had become with one sip, maybe she wouldn't. She studied Michael's back. "Well," she said. "That was interesting."

"You should have gone with them."

"What? And miss the opportunity for more yelling?"

He turned back around and folded his arms across his chest. "So let's get it over with."

"Get what over with?" She raised artless eyes to his.

He glared at her. "You know very well what. You're going to ream me out."

"Why ever would you think that? What could you possibly have done to warrant that?" she burst out. "Oh, yeah, maybe it's that you totally went off on Liz for absolutely no reason. You think?"

He pressed his lips tightly together and didn't answer. Aha. Stoic Michael was back. She sighed. "Look, Spaceboy, I know you're under a lot of pressure right now. But that's not a reason to lash out at any of us. You have to think a little before you lose your temper. Don't take it out on us--save it for 'When Aliens Attack.'"

He waited, knowing she couldn't possibly be done yet.

"I mean, we are all trying to help you out here. Because we care about you. So why did you have to be so mean? What were you thinking?"

"Sorry," he muttered.

She opened her eyes wide and put a hand to her ear. "I beg your pardon? Did you say something?"

"I said I was sorry, all right?" he burst out. "What do I have to do, embroider it on a sampler for you?"

Her lips twitched as a very unlikely picture popped into her head. Michael, sitting in a rocking chair, taking delicate lavender stitches into a square of linen..."No, no," she managed, "The verbal apology is just fine."

"Got it."

"But you're going to have to make it to--"

He cut her off. "To Liz. I know."

She raised an eyebrow. "Well, well, well. Spaceboy's not so backward after all."

"I got it, okay?"

"Yeah. It's okay." Michael moved around the counter and sat down in front of his forgotten sketch pad. His shoulders slumped as he hunched over it.

"Michael?"

"What?"

"Just because you're my...friend...and I'm trying to be all supportive and stuff--it doesn't mean I'm not going to call you on it when you do stupid things, you know. But it doesn't mean I don't..." Her voice trailed off.

"So does that mean I get to call you on your stupid stuff?" he asked, not looking at her.

"You already do, pal," she pointed out. "Who was yelling at me just a few hours ago for going to the park?"

"Oh. Yeah." He sat for a few moments in silence, then picked up his pencil and added a few more strokes to the sketch pad in front of him. "We done here?"

"For now," she told him. He looked over at her suspiciously. "I make no promises about the future." Maria wandered idly over to the couch. Picking up the blanket from where she'd tossed it when she and Michael had come back in, she folded it neatly and draped it once more over the back of the couch.

"So," she said, looking around the small apartment.

"What now?"

She gestured towards the sketch pad. "You done with that thing yet?"

"No, I'm not done with it. I told you I'd tell you when I figured it out, didn't I?"

"Right." She sat for a moment, then rose and began to pace across the room.

"Look, I'm trying to work here," he said. "Can't you find something to do?"

"Like what?" she complained. "It's not like there's a whole lot to choose from."

"Never seemed to bother you before," he commented absently, adding another pencil stroke to the page.

Well, of course not. Most of her other visits--at least the ones before the summer--had involved them making out on the couch. She didn't need any other entertainment then. Now, however, was a different story. Although tonight he had kissed her...She shook her head. "You should get some magazines or books or something."

With a sigh, he got up and moved across the room, back to the crate where he'd found the sketch pad. He dug through it and then tossed a worn paperback to her.

"Oliver Twist?" she asked in surprise. "You have a copy of Oliver Twist?"

"It's from the library. So what?" He headed back to his sketch.

"You're reading Oliver Twist?"

His tone was defensive. "I'm working my way through Dickens. What about it?"

"Well, nothing. I knew you could read. I mean, you told me about Ulysses and all. I just didn't know you...read."

"Yeah, well, don't spread it around."

She fingered the book. "They made this into a musical, you know. It's one of my favorites." His only response was a noncommittal grunt. "I sang a song from it for my Little Shop audition." He placed the pencil carefully down on the counter and turned around, giving her an exasperated look. "What? Why are you stopping?"

"Because I can't concentrate with your mouth running on like that," he said bluntly.

"Well, why didn't you just tell me to shut up then?"

"What, and risk another lecture?" He raised one eyebrow. "If you're not going to read, go to sleep already. It's getting late."

She looked around the studio apartment, suddenly uncomfortable. She'd been there before, but never to spend the night. Where--?

He seemed to understand her unspoken question. "The couch. Take it or leave it," he said matter-of-factly.

She sat back down on the couch in question. It was not terribly comfortable. That hadn't bothered her in the past, when she was occupied with...other things, but to spend a whole night on it? And he slept there every night? It was a wonder he didn't have massive back problems. "Michael," she said firmly, "you really need to get a proper bed."

"Well, it's either that or buy groceries. I don't know about you, but I'd rather be able to eat," he returned shortly. "Besides, I don't sleep all that much anyway."

"I know," she said, prodding a lumpy cushion. "With this couch, who could blame you?"

"So pick up the phone and call Liz. Spend the night there if this isn't good enough for you, Princess."

"That's not what I mean. God, Michael, you don't have to make such a big hairy deal out of it."

"I don't have to..." he repeated dumbly. "Look, I'm not the one making a big deal out of it! You're the one who's complaining, okay? In fact, you're the one who invited yourself over here in the first place!"

"Okay, okay. Gotcha. The couch is fine," she said obediently.

Crossing to the closet, Michael pulled out a pillow and tossed it to her. "You can use the blanket from the couch," he told her.

"Okay. So, do you have something I can sleep in?"

He blinked and then seemed to pull his mind away from whatever mental picture it had just created. "No," he bit out. "Sleep in your clothes. Mine are off-limits." She noticed with amusement that he actually looked a little flustered.

"Can I at least take off my shoes?" she asked innocently.

"What? Oh, yeah, shoes. Shoes are good." He pulled himself together. "Look, just get some sleep, okay? You can run your mouth off in the morning."

Opening her mouth indignantly, she stopped before the words could pour out. There was a look in his eyes...He'd made that last comment on purpose. To bug her. Well, two could play at that game.

"Aren't you coming to bed?" she asked nonchalantly as she removed her shoes.

"What? No, I'm gonna try and get some more work done," he stammered.

She looked him over carefully. "It's all right, Spaceboy. I think we'll fit."

"What?" he repeated, his voice hoarse.

"On the couch. We'll both fit on the couch," she responded, holding back a giggle.

"I'll, uh...I'll crash on the floor. I do it at Max's all the time."

"Why? Don't you think we'll fit? Do you think I'm too fat or something?"

"What? No--I don't--" He stopped, finally picking up on the amusement in her eyes. He ran a hand through his hair. "It's hard enough walking through the usual conversational minefield with you humans without you throwing booby traps in just for the hell of it," he told her. His tone became more challenging. "No, I don't think you're fat. Why? Do you think I'm blind?"

"Only sometimes," Maria admitted in a small voice.

He let out a breath of air and looked away. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. "Just go to sleep, okay?"

"Not until you do too."

In exasperation, he barked, "Maria--"

"I mean it, Michael. You don't have to worry about guard duty; I'm right here. So at least try to get some rest, okay?"

He capitulated in a clipped tone. "Fine. If it'll shut you up."

Heading back to the closet, Michael pulled a crocheted afghan from the shelf. Maria took one disbelieving look and burst into choked laughter. "What?" Michael snapped, self-consciously clutching the pink and white bundle.

"Nice afghan," chortled the girl. "Wow. With three-dimensional crocheted roses, no less. It's so very you, Michael."

His jaw clenched. "Yeah, well, Mrs. Evans gave it to me. Her mother made it. And Isabel refused to change it for me, okay?"

"Suuure, Spaceboy," Maria drawled. "Now all you need are a macramé wall hanging and a few doilies, and you'll be all set."

"Well, if someone hadn't invited herself over, I would be using my blanket instead, wouldn't I?" he said snidely.

"No, you'd be lurking in the shadows at the Crashdown," she reminded him. He opened his mouth to retort, obviously searching for a comeback, but finally gave up.

"Fine. I have a wussy afghan. Deal." On his way back past the door, he flicked off the light switch. Blinking in the sudden darkness, Maria listened to the sound of him kicking off his shoes and settling down on the floor.

"Michael?"

"What?" he answered sharply.

She hesitated for a moment, and then said quietly, "Good night."

The only response was a grudging, "Yeah."

"And...thanks."

His voice was cross. "What for?"

"For coming to get me at the park. For looking out for me. And for letting me stay tonight."

"Didn't have much choice there, did I?"

"Well, yes, you did. So thanks."

"No problem," he lied. "Just make sure your mother doesn't find out."

"Don't worry, she won't."

Michael let out a doubtful grunt. With a smile, Maria lay back on the couch and pulled the blanket up under her chin. She lay there for a few minutes, suddenly feeling very wide awake.

"Michael?" she said hesitantly.

"Go to sleep," he ordered.

Ha! Now he would know what it was like. "I can't."

"Well, that's just great, isn't it? What do you expect me to do about it?"

"Nothing. I just--"

"What?"

"Nothing. Good night."

Again, the response was a muttered, "Yeah."

She lay in the darkness, listening to him breathe. Well, even if she couldn't sleep, maybe he would be able to. And he could certainly use it. All she had to do was to be quiet. She grimaced into the dark. Not so easy as it sounded.

Her mind wandered to the next day. She had to work a double shift, but maybe the six of them could get together and talk afterwards. There was still a lot to discuss, and some fences to be mended. She shifted uncomfortably, thinking about Michael's reaction to the Nasedo idea. Maybe they were being a little harsh with him. After all, there they were, deciding things about his life and not even consulting him about it. No surprise that he'd blown up at them. At least he hadn't done it literally.

And come to think about it, in his situation she probably would've done the same thing. Frowning, she tried to decide where the line was drawn between caring about someone enough to make sure they did what was best for them and totally overrunning their life. No wonder Michael was having such a struggle. And then she'd had to go and lecture him about behaving better...She bit her lip. Maybe he wasn't the only one who needed to apologize.

"Michael?" she said for the third time. When he didn't answer, she propped herself up on one elbow and peered across the room, trying to make him out in the darkness. "Michael?" she repeated. The only sound was his deep, even breathing. A smile blossomed on her face. "Michael?" she said softly. "Are you asleep?" There was no answer.

With a grin, she snuggled deeper into the folds of the blanket, ignoring the lumpiness of the couch. Finally, he was getting some rest. So all she had to do was be quiet so she wouldn't wake him up...She could do that...Giving a contented little sigh, she allowed her suddenly sleepy eyes to close. With one last thought of Michael, she let herself drift off into sleep.

Pushing her hair back off her hot forehead, Maria headed back to the pass-through to pick up the next order of hamburgers. The Crashdown was packed, and she could barely keep up with the demand. Where was everyone else? No Liz, no Agnes...and she didn't even know who was working in the kitchen. She didn't have time to look--all she could do was take the orders and turn them in and pick up the next order and deliver it...and why was everyone ordering rare hamburgers anyway? Hadn't they ever heard of chicken? Or salads? The Crashdown was jam-packed full of heart attacks just waiting to happen.

She finally got a breather and headed into the storeroom for more ketchup. She'd just put out new bottles and worry about marrying the old ones together later. Stacking the bottles on a tray, she pushed the door open with her hip and went back into the main dining room.

The dining room that wasn't there.

What?

Instead of the familiar surroundings of the Crashdown, she was standing in another familiar place. A desert. Michael's dream desert.

Oh. Okay. So she was dreaming. At least the nightmare Crashdown shift wasn't real. But why would she be stuck dreaming about Michael's desert?

She turned around to find that the door she'd come through was no longer there, and realized that she wasn't holding the tray of ketchup bottles. They'd disappeared. But she was still wearing her Crashdown uniform, complete with silver antennae. That sucked. If she was going to dream, why couldn't she be wearing something fabulous?

Gazing around her, she smiled as she felt a familiar little tingle. Michael. She looked around in excitement. Dream Michael--now that had possibilities. Not that she didn't love the real one, but the dream one was more likely to show the softer side that Spaceboy rarely let anyone see. She began to head in the direction of the tingle. Hey, it was her dream--she might as well enjoy it.

Before long, she saw him, feet planted firmly in the sand as he stood with his back turned, looking into the distance. "Hey, Spaceboy," she called as she neared him. He turned around with a startled jerk, his face clouding over when he saw her.

"Great," he muttered.

"Nice greeting, Quasimodo," she commented. He raised an eyebrow and turned away, focusing once again on something in the distance.

Great was right. What happened to her Dream Michael? You know, this sucked too. "Okay, I am officially requesting a different Michael. You know, less grouchy. Maybe even with a smile. But something exciting, anyway. How about Tattoo Michael? Or Ski Instructor Michael? Or Pirate Michael, you know, with an eye patch and a parrot?"

He turned back to her. "What the hell are you talking about?"

She shook her head. "No, see, this isn't what I want. Not Grumpy Difficult Michael. I mean, it's fine for everyday, but for now I want something different, okay?"

Michael rolled his eyes. "You are warped, you know that? Figures you'd drive me crazy here, too." He turned away. "The real you wanted me to get some rest. So why don't you stop bugging me and let me do just that?"

With an indignant gasp, Maria burst out, "Listen, pally, get this straight. My dream, my rules, got it?"

"Fine," he responded. "When it's your dream, you decide. But since it's mine, would you just leave me alone already?"

"It is not. It's mine. I can't help it if I'm warped enough to be dreaming about your stupid desert," she said crossly.

He stiffened, then faced her and looked at her very closely. Putting out a hand, he gently touched her cheek, then took her by the chin and stared down into her eyes. She held her breath. A furrow appeared on his brow and he dropped his hand, turning and beginning to look wildly across the desert floor.

"What on earth are you looking for?"

He ignored her, instead raising his voice and shouting across the expanse of sand. "Isabel!" he roared.

Maria looked at him in exasperation. "What are you doing? And why am I dreaming you're doing it?"

"I'm not a figment of your imagination. I'm dreaming and you're in my dream. So if you're dreaming, too, the only way you could've gotten in here is for Isabel to be playing her little dreamwalking tricks."

"That's crazy."

He shrugged. "Then it shouldn't be so unexpected, coming from me."

"Michael!" she chided. "So how do I know you're dreaming this too, and I'm not just dreaming that you've said all this? Prove it."

"How the hell am I supposed to do that?"

"I don't know," she responded. Her eyes narrowed. "Yes, I do. Tell me something that you know and I don't know, but that I know you know."

"What?" he bit out, trying to follow her convoluted instructions. He shook his head. "Fine. Like what?"

She pounced on an idea. "Like what you saw in your vision."

He ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know, all right? It happens really fast and all I get are impressions. It takes a while to figure out what I actually see."

"Oh," she said in disappointment.

He looked at her for a minute, then said reluctantly, "But I can tell you what I thought I'd see."

"Well, duh. Obviously a clue to who wrote the note."

"No, I mean specifically."

"What, then?"

"Your buddy Mark."

"What? Mark? Why would Mark leave me the note?"

"Well, duh," he mimicked. "To get you to the park."

"But why would Mark be sending me those threats? That doesn't make sense."

"Maybe not. But if you don't think it was Mark, why would you dream that I'd think it was Mark?" She considered this. "Besides," he continued, "how often in a dream do you actually realize you're dreaming?"

"You have a point."

"Yep."

She grabbed his arm. "Oh my god, Michael! How did we get in the same dream?"

"Isabel."

Maria shook her head. "I don't think so. I mean, the other times, we were together when she made the connection, and I saw a flash of white light before I got in. This time I was having a very normal wonky little dream about the Crashdown, and I went through the door, and here I was. It's not the same thing."

He shrugged.

"Don't you want to know?" she asked.

He didn't answer, instead plopping down on the sand and resting his elbows on his knees.

"What are you doing?"

"Waiting for you to stop blathering. Or for me to wake up. Whichever happens first," he answered dryly.

"Oh, that's just fantastic. Here we are with yet another bizarre Czechoslovakian...thing happening, and you don't even care?"

"It's just a dream, Maria. I'm asleep, you're asleep. At some point we'll wake up. No big deal," he said in a calm voice.

"No big deal? Tell that to the people who braved your dreams to rescue you from them! And gee whiz, Michael, who would that be? Me, that's who! So don't you dare tell me it's no big deal! Who knows what can happen in here?" Her voice rose to a shriek.

"Calm down," Michael ordered.

"And if I don't? What are you going to do about it?" she challenged back.

His voice rose. "Well, I'm not gonna kiss you this time, that's for sure!"

"What? Who said anything about kissing me?" She stood over him, her hands on her hips. "And what's wrong with kissing me, anyway? You didn't seem to object to it earlier!"

"Maybe I should have!"

Trembling, she spoke in a shaky voice. "You were the one who started it, Michael. You kissed me, not the other way around."

"Well, maybe I shouldn't have."

She blinked rapidly. "You're right. You shouldn't have." Turning on her heel, she strode resolutely away from him, leaving a stream of footprints behind her.

Michael groaned and flung himself back onto the sand. Shit. Staring into the empty sky, he cursed his big mouth, and his tiny pinheaded brain that let it say things without thinking first. There they were, having a perfectly normal--for them--spat, and he had to go and put his foot in it. And his boot. And hell, probably half the lumpy sofa she'd been complaining about.

He hadn't wanted to kiss her. Well, he had, but he knew he shouldn't. He was too screwed up for anything like that right now. But somehow his human, seventeen-year-old body had taken over and he'd kissed her. Hell, if the others hadn't come in, he'd probably still be kissing her. Or more. If she'd let him.

But of course he couldn't tell her that. The mood she was in, she might have slapped him, anyway. So as usual, he'd pushed her away, and hurt her, like an idiot. Were all seventeen-year-old guys this dumb, or was it just him? Picking up a handful of sand, he tossed it roughly away from him. A second handful was about to follow when he heard it.

A voice. But not the unknown voice that kept plaguing him.

This was Maria's voice.

And she was screaming his name.

CHAPTER 39

Without consciously commanding his body to move, Michael found himself on his feet and bolting at top speed across the sand. His thudding heart caught in his chest for a moment as he saw her in the distance, a tiny figure in a blue-green dress. His eye caught the light glinting off that stupid antennae headband she wore as his feet pounded across the desert floor. Try as he might, he couldn't find a voice to call to her. He just sent out a mental message in the hope that she would know he was coming. It seemed to take forever, but eventually he skidded to a stop behind her.

Her Michael-radar must have been working, because in a heartbeat she had turned and thrown herself into his arms. He held her for a moment, then took her face in his hands and urgently searched her eyes for some clue as to what was happening. Was she all right? "Are you okay? What happened?" he demanded.

Maria buried her face in his shoulder and tried to stop shaking. "It's just a dream. I know it's just a dream, but...oh, Michael."

"What happened?" he repeated, pressing her to answer. When she didn't speak, he tightened his arms around her, saying hoarsely, "It's okay. Everything's okay. Just tell me what happened."

After a moment, she remembered how angry she was with him and gingerly detached herself from his arms. When she spoke, her voice was a little less tremulous. "You have to promise me you're not going to freak."

He raised a sardonic eyebrow. "I think you have the market cornered on that right now."

"Promise me," she insisted.

"Okay, okay. I promise. Now what are you all upset ab--" His voice cut off as he followed her gaze to the sand a few feet away. She pointed.

"That," she said baldly.

There, lying half-covered with sand, was a navy blue trouser leg. And it wasn't empty. Michael swallowed. By his side, Maria began to babble. "I wasn't even looking where I was going, you know? I was too busy trying to decide where I could get a giant Acme anvil, and then, boom, I trip over...over that. I mean, I've never discovered a body before, and it kind of startled me, okay?" A frown appeared on her face. "And why is it that whenever I'm in one of your dreams, I run into things, or trip over them or something, anyway?" she asked angrily.

He looked down at the sand-covered form, willing his brain to work. Or his mouth, or something. Anything. What finally came out was not, upon consideration, the best thing he could have said. "Friend of yours?" She swatted him on the arm.

"That's not funny," she scolded.

"I know, I know," he told her. "So lay off the arm. It's just a dream, remember?"

"Yeah, I guess so," she said, regaining a little more composure.

"So there's not a real body lying there. It's just my subconscious trying to tell me something. No big deal." He listened to himself with skepticism. Was he trying to convince Maria or himself?

She gave him a disapproving look. "It may not be a big deal to you, Michael, but it sure scared the heck out of me. And me without my cedar oil."

He looked down at her and spoke in a firm tone. "There's nothing to be scared about. It's not real."

She nodded halfheartedly. "I know, I know. I mean, my brain knows that, okay? The rest of me just needs a little time to catch up." She glanced over at the still form on the sand. "So who do you think--Michael!" she yelped. "It's moving!"

Immediately on the defensive, he thrust her roughly behind him and turned to face it, his right hand out to ward it off. A moment later he relaxed. "It's not moving, Maria. It's just the sand blowing around." Sure enough, a slight breeze was picking up.

"Oh, that's reassuring," she complained. "The last time I was in one of your dreams, Isabel and I were almost killed by a giant rampaging sandstorm. I so don't need to hear that it's back."

Michael crouched down by the body and studied it closely. He could tell from the trousers that it was a man--or a very butch woman--but enough sand covered it to completely hide its features. Great. Trust his subconscious to make things difficult. Almost involuntarily, he reached out towards it.

"Michael! You're not actually going to touch it, are you?" Maria said, horrified.

"You're the one always bugging me, wanting to know what's going on in my head," he pointed out. "So here's your chance."

"I wanted a nice, straightforward conversation, that's all. Bodies--imaginary or not--were not involved."

He shrugged. Something within him wanted to--no, needed to find out what this meant. So he reached out and began to brush the sand from the still form.

"It's a good thing that you don't want to kiss me," Maria muttered behind him. "Because there's no way I would let you lay a hand on me after touching that."

He pointedly ignored her, working to clear the body of its grainy covering. If the feet were there, the arm must be...here. Michael uncovered a pale shirt sleeve and slowed his motions. He suddenly felt very uneasy about this whole thing. With a quick shake of his head to dismiss the feeling, he bent to his task once more. There was the shoulder. His hands found the top of the head and uncovered a shock of dark hair. Frowning, Michael slowly began to work on the face, a knot in his stomach. A moment later, he scrambled back with a curse. It wasn't just a body, it was a corpse.

Pierce's corpse. Its--no, his eyes stood open and stared blankly into the sky.

In an instant, Michael was caught up in a replay of that horrible moment when he'd...killed Pierce. Again he felt the hate, the rage at what the man had done to Max, the fear for himself and for the others, coming together in a burst of white-hot energy that shot forward and obliterated the agent as if he were no more than a bug, sending him flying backward into a display, to lie unmoving in a heap on the UFO Museum floor...Michael's mind grappled with the memory, playing it over and over for what seemed like forever...

...until the touch of a hand on his arm brought him to his senses. He turned burning eyes to see Maria kneeling beside him. He looked away, staring at the far-off horizon rather than at the corpse or the worried girl next to him. He swallowed and managed to find his voice. "Well," he muttered, "I guess this proves that subtlety is not my strong suit."

"Are you all right?" she asked. "For a moment there, I thought you'd zoned out on me again."

He shook his head. "Uh-uh. I...I almost wish I had. Believe me." His eyes shifted back to the still form and then away again.

Beside him, Maria spoke softly. "Come on, Michael. Let's get out of here."

His response was firm. "No."

"Micha--" she began.

"You go ahead. Wait for me back where we started. I'll be there in a little while."

"I don't think that's a very good idea."

He forced himself to look back down at Pierce. "Why? He's not real. Max and Isabel...they changed him. Afterwards. He doesn't exist any more. And even if he was real...he's dead. He can't hurt me." He seemed to be trying to convince himself.

"Maybe not. But...it can't be good for you to...I mean...please, Michael, just let him be."

"It's not like I don't see him all the time anyway." He took in her look of alarm. "No, I'm not seeing things now. I just have a very clear picture of it all in my head. It's nothing new."

She gazed at him, concern in her eyes. Her close scrutiny made him acutely uncomfortable. "Look, why don't you head back? I'll be there in a little while. I just wanna..." He focused on a few grains of sand on Pierce's sleeve and repeated, "I'll be there in a little while."

"I'm not leaving you." Her statement was matter-of-fact.

"Fine. Do what you want."

Forcing himself to see what was in front of him, Michael studied Pierce's face. He couldn't tell if the frozen expression held more shock or fear. This wasn't someone to be afraid of. He was just a man. A man who had killed and tortured, with no regard for what was right. Michael wondered if he'd ever felt remorse for his actions, if he'd been weighed down by the thoughts Michael had now. Somehow he doubted it. But it didn't make him feel any better. Whatever Pierce had done didn't negate his actions.

He slowly dropped his eyes to Pierce's chest. His brain hadn't conjured up a silver handprint, but the man's shirt was burnt away, as was--Michael felt sick--the flesh beneath it. His eyes flew back to the man's face, somehow expecting to see accusation in it. He didn't. It was still blank, lifeless.

Michael grimaced. His brain was obviously holding on to this image, the idea. But he wasn't sure that the obvious horrible message it sent was all there was to it. Somehow it seemed as if there must be more. What was he setting himself up to do? There must be something. Surely his brain couldn't be just using the image to punish him, to torture him. If so, it was going to have to get in line behind the voice that kept accusing him.

A sick feeling rose in his throat. The voice--could it be Pierce's? Was he so screwed up that he had to create a mental projection to blame himself, rather than facing up to the truth of what he'd done? He clenched his fists. Alien or not, he was just seventeen. He shouldn't have to deal with this. It wasn't fair.

He laughed bitterly. But then, what in his life had been particularly fair? Not much. His life sucked. That was just the way it was. So be it.

Once more studying the body before him, Michael tried to figure out how he should be feeling. It wasn't real, after all. Should he even care? Should he be sorry for what he'd done, apologize to it? It wouldn't do Pierce any good--and he wasn't so sure he did feel sorry about it. He wasn't sorry that Pierce was dead. After what he'd done to Max, Michael could almost bring himself to believe that. So maybe he was just sorry that he had been the one who'd ended Pierce's life, that fate or karma or bad luck had set him up to do this terrible thing.

But it could've been Max. Or Isabel. And that would have been worse. Max, the leader, the healer...or Isabel, proud and strong...Michael couldn't bear it if one of them had done it. If they had been lessened by such an action. If there was blood on their hands...

Reflexively, he scrubbed his palms against his jeans, trying to rid them of their aura of guilt. It had been his hands, not Max's or Isabel's. His guilt. He had to live with it, at least long enough to keep Maria safe and to help Max and Isabel find their rightful place. If any of the whole 'come back and save us all' message was true in the first place.

Enough of this. Sitting here wasn't going to help anything. He needed to be on his feet, moving ahead, taking action. No more of this pussyfooting around. The sooner they solved Maria's problem, the sooner they could concentrate on Max's. And once that was taken care of, assuming they survived, then he could move on to--well, he didn't know what. But it didn't matter. He just had to be doing something.

Taking one last glance at Pierce, Michael grew more determined. The man was dead and gone. He couldn't do anything about it now. There was no time for guilt or remorse or fear; he had things to do. The rest could wait until afterwards. Until then, he would shut the door on Pierce and whatever he stood for.

Michael reached out once more, as if to say goodbye. To the man, to his actions, to...he wasn't sure what. But he placed a hand over the raw flesh of Pierce's chest and shut his eyes. This was his dream; he could do anything. He reached out, picturing the burnt body whole, the shirt pressed and new. A tingle ran down his arm, pressing thousands of tiny pinpricks of sensation into each of his fingers...and then it was gone. He slowly opened his eyes and looked.

Pierce's body was whole once more.

Feeling a little incredulous that he'd actually done it, even if only in a dream, Michael stared down at the body before him. The slight breeze picked up once more, and he closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of it across his face. A hiss from behind him snapped his eyes back open. Maria. He'd actually forgotten she was there. How had she kept so quiet? This must be some sort of record for her.

But she was speaking now, saying his name in a tense voice. He looked over at her to find her eyes focused on Pierce, staring in shock. Turning, he saw that Pierce was...shimmering. The breeze shifted over the body, blowing away the grains of sand that still stuck to him, until he was perfectly clean. But it didn't stop there. As it continued to blow, the body seemed to turn to sand and began to blow away, little bits of Pierce spreading out over the horizon, being blown up and down.

And leaving in its place a glowing, humanoid figure, almost too bright to look at. It lay still and unmoving on its bed of sand, growing more and more brilliant and more and more blinding and more and more painful until Michael had to throw up his arms to shield his eyes from its intensity, sure that nothing would ever shake the afterimage from his brain.

And as it grew, eclipsing whatever light normally existed in this world, a soft whisper of a voice came from the desert around him. It was back, but he could hardly hear it, totally immersed in shielding himself from the glow in front of him. With one final burst of light, the figure was gone, leaving in its wake daylight that seemed black as pitch in comparison. And in the split second of the figure's passing, Michael could hear the voice, clearly this time.

It said, Killer.

And this time he recognized it.

CHAPTER 40

Michael leapt to his feet and stood without moving, the sound of that voice ringing in his ears. He looked at the empty desert in front of him, but he didn't really see it. He was too busy grappling with what he'd just heard. Or, rather, who. He knew it couldn't be real, that his mind had created it as a part of his dream, but still...

The voice came again, louder this time, repeating its insidious message in a sickeningly sweet tone. Killer. Killer.

It figured. He'd finally made the decision to stop obsessing about Pierce's death, to shove it and its implications aside and get something accomplished, and he couldn't do it. The voice wouldn't let him. It was reminding him with every syllable of what he'd done. How he'd reached a hand out and seconds later the agent was dead.

Michael shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. No. This time, he wouldn't let the voice get in his way. This time, he would do what needed to be done, regardless of what else was happening. He wouldn't run from it, but he wouldn't listen to it either. Not now. He wouldn't let it affect him so it might as well stop.

And he told it so. Looking defiantly into the sky, he commanded it to shut up. To leave him alone. This time he didn't get caught up in it; he fought it. "Shut up!" he said more loudly, then raised his voice even further. "Shut up, damn you! Shut up!"

But the voice refused to listen, repeating its incessant, hateful message. It grew louder and louder, pounding in his head, making his ears ring, unrelenting.

A sharp pain pierced through Michael's skull, dropping him to his knees in the sand.

He would not give in. He would not give in.

His hands flew up to cover his ears in a futile attempt to block out the sound. To no avail.

He wouldn't give in. Please let him not give in.

Two small hands closed over his, and he looked up, only half seeing the stupid silver antennae in her blond hair and her worried green eyes as she stood in front of him. She seemed to be saying something, but he couldn't hear over the roar of the voice. As if she understood his confusion, she repeated her message, carefully shaping each word. His eyes fastened on her lips as he struggled to understand.

With a sudden feeling of triumph, he recognized one of the words she was repeating. His name. No one said his name like she did. He'd heard it in a hundred different tones, a thousand different moods, but her lips always moved the exact same way, shaping the word with exquisite care as if it were of vital importance.

And once he made out one word, the others became clear as well. It was only two more words, after all. Two lone syllables. Six letters, no more. His mind spun, dancing the words around, unable to take in their meaning. Pulling his hands roughly from his ears, Maria stretched herself up as far as she could go. Taking a deep breath, she tried to remember everything she'd ever learned from singing about projection and diaphragmatic breathing; then she shouted as loudly as she could, directly into his ear.

"Michael! Wake up!"

Letting fly with a string of curses, Michael bolted upright in the middle of his apartment. He was breathing hard, from shock and effort rather than from physical exertion. Looking wildly around the dark room, he tried to absorb the implications of what had just happened. If it had happened, and it wasn't just some dream-created hallucination of his scattered brain.

But it had seemed very real. At least, the voice had. He knew the whole thing with Pierce becoming an incandescent figure of light wasn't real. But the voice--it didn't seem any different from all the other times he'd heard it.

Except this time he'd fought it.

He would have lost, if Maria hadn't screamed at him to wake up.

Maria.

His head swiveled immediately over towards the couch, looking for her. In the darkness of the room, he couldn't make out her small figure. He swallowed as a hundred panicky thoughts filled his head.

What if she was still stuck in his dream? What if he'd woken up but she hadn't? What if she had disappeared, like she had before? He shot to his feet, the rose-covered afghan pooling on the floor, and raced to the door. He flicked the switch up and blinked in the sudden lamplight.

All his energy drained away as relief swept in. She was there, on the couch, propped up on an elbow and looking at him.

"Michael?" she whispered. "Was it real? Was I really back in your dream?"

"Yeah. You were," he managed.

"And we found Pierce's body, and it turned into...into light?"

"Yeah."

She hesitated, and then said carefully, "What happened to you, Michael? You were...you were really starting to scare me."

He looked at her, a scowl on his face. "Didn't you hear it?"

"Hear what?"

"I couldn't tell if it was in the dream or in my head again. But if you didn't hear it, that question's answered."

"What? You heard the voice? What?"

"Yeah."

Her eyes narrowed. "Michael. I know you. There's something you're not telling me."

Michael looked up at the ceiling. "And how would that be different from usual?" he said, trying to deflect her questions.

It didn't work. She gave a little shrug. "It's not. But tell me anyway."

He ran a hand through his hair, acquiescing. "This time, when I heard it, I recognized it. You were right when you said it was familiar." His voice was hollow.

"Who?" she gulped out.

His eyes met hers. He spoke one word. "Topolsky."

Maria stared in shock at the tall alien in front of her. "T..Topolsky?" she stuttered in disbelief. "As in Agent Topolsky, fake guidance counselor and crazy dead person?"

"Yeah."

Maria sat up on the couch. "Okay, that's just wrong. The woman is dead, Michael."

"I know."

"So what are you thinking, that her ghost is haunting you or something? Come on, Michael. And why would Topolsky be calling you a killer, anyway? You didn't have anything to do with her death."

He looked away. "I didn't meet her to get the orb, and she disappeared. And then she was dead."

Maria's voice rose indignantly. "That is not your fault!"

"I'm not saying it is, okay?" he burst out. "It's just...It happened, that's all. Pierce...had her killed."

Maria shook her head. "This is just too bizarre, Michael. I mean, I don't even believe in ghosts." Her lips curved into an amused smile. "Of course, up until last year I never really believed in aliens either."

"Yeah, well, I guess we proved you wrong," Michael said dryly.

"You sure did. I mean, it's hard to argue with living, breathing proof, especially when it's a lot taller than you and can blow things up with its mind." She grinned as he acknowledged her point with a wry nod. Playing with the edge of the blanket, she continued, slowly, "There's another explanation for the voice, though, Michael."

He raised an expectant eyebrow. "Shoot."

"Don't freak out over this, okay?" He folded his arms and looked at her sternly. "You could be making the voice up in your own head, Michael. You know, convincing yourself that you heard Topolsky instead of someone or something else." His lips pressed together stubbornly. "I don't mean that you're crazy, or that you didn't hear it, but you've already shown that you have a talent for coping with things in...well, unusual ways."

"A talent for--what's that supposed to mean, exactly?" he bit out.

"I don't know, just that...well, you split yourself in two and locked half of you inside your own head. That's not usual, Michael. At least not for the human part of you. I don't know about the other part--"

"And this is supposed to convince me I'm not crazy? Just how does that work, Maria?"

"I don't know! I'm just...I guess I'm just trying to see the big picture. You know, think logically," she explained, then mused, "Hmmm. Logical thought. Maybe I've been hanging around Liz too much."

Did she imagine it, or did his lips quirk upwards in a sudden brief smirk?

"You know," Michael commented, "I'm not so sure that you of all people are an appropriate judge of my sanity."

Maria's eyes narrowed, and she blurted, "And just what do you mean by that?" before she caught the slightest twitch of a lip in his otherwise impassive face. She rose regally from the couch and stalked over to him, placing one deliberate finger squarely in the center of his chest. "Look here, pally, you may as well stop messing with me, 'cause there's no way you're gonna win." Ha! Let him react to that challenge.

Instead, he totally disarmed her by saying soberly, "You know what? You're probably right."

Maria's jaw dropped. What the heck did he mean by that? "What the heck do you mean by that?" she demanded.

Shuttered brown eyes looked into green ones. "Why don't you go back to sleep?" he suggested, ignoring her question.

"But--"

"It's the middle of the night. You might as well get some rest. I'll wake you up in time for work," he promised.

"All right," she said slowly. "Are you--"

He shook his head. "No, I'm gonna stay up. Maybe work on the sketch. I've...I've got a lot to think about, anyway."

"Okay." She swallowed, then headed back over to the couch. Sitting, she grabbed the faded blanket and began to pull it upwards, then looked over at him as he headed towards the light switch. "Michael?"

"What do you want now, for me to tuck you in or something?" he asked sarcastically.

She pretended to consider his offer, then burst into laughter at the trapped look on his face. "No, no," she managed between chuckles. "I wouldn't want you to strain yourself, Spaceboy." She gave him a wide, perfectly open grin. "Good night."

He looked at her for a moment and then reached out to flick off the light. Settling back down under the blanket, she listened to the quiet sound of him padding back across the room. Another click and a dim light came on in the kitchen. Craning her neck, she watched as Michael sat at the counter, silhouetted against the kitchen light.

Resting his elbows on the counter, he leaned his head into his hands and sat, unmoving. Maria held her breath. In a moment, however, he straightened up and reached for the sketch pad and pencil in front of him. Maria smiled. He would be all right. She snuggled down under the blanket and closed her eyes. Maybe this time she would see one of her Dream Michaels...

Maria took a deep breath of cold air as she hastened down the sidewalk, a silent Michael by her side. He'd woken her, as he'd promised, pulling her out of one of the best sleeps she could remember having in a long, long while. He hadn't been very talkative, though--not like that was so unusual. He refused point blank to discuss the events of the previous night. Not talkative? Grumpy was more the word for it, actually. He'd nodded brusquely when she'd decided to head over to Liz's so she could clean up before the morning Crashdown shift started. At least there she'd be able to comb her tangled hair. Looking up at the alien beside her, she wasn't sure he even owned a comb. He'd just run his hands through his spiky hair, pulled on his boots and jacket, and indicated roughly that he was ready to leave.

"So," she said, to make conversation, "are you hanging around the Crashdown on guard duty today?"

"At least until Max or Isabel can get there," he responded in a gruff voice.

"Good. Then I can treat you to breakfast," she said happily. "What are you in the mood for? Eggs? Pancakes? What?"

"I don't want anything."

"Oh come on, Michael, you can't just sit there without ordering something. It'll blow your cover. I mean, it's a restaurant, not a park bench." His face tightened. Suddenly realizing, she stopped in her tracks. "What? You think this is some sort of charity or something?"

He didn't answer, continuing doggedly down the sidewalk.

Maria ran after him and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him to a stop. "Well, what on earth was last night then? Letting me stay with you, giving up your bed and your blanket--was that charity?"

He refused to look at her. "No, that was coercion."

She let out a screech of frustration. He was just--just infuriating! "Look," she said through her teeth, "if you won't let me buy you breakfast as a friend--which Liz and I do for Alex all the time, by the way--then consider it payment for your hospitality last night. Or for your guard duty. You won't owe me anything, okay? God, you are so prickly sometimes, Michael." Her voice grew very, very firm. And the slightest bit shrill. "I am buying you breakfast, so you'd better start deciding what you're in the mood for before I decide for you!"

Michael closed his eyes. It looked like the only way he was gonna get her off his case was to give in. Figured. "Okay, okay. Fine. Don't make such a big deal about it."

"What? You know, if you hadn't slept on the floor last night, I would swear you got up on the wrong side of the bed," she seethed, turning and stalking down the sidewalk, all the while muttering under her breath about badly groomed, pigheaded Czechoslovakians with no manners. Michael quickly caught up to her.

"Pancakes," he muttered.

"What?" she said, pulled out of her rant.

"Pancakes. With maple syrup and plenty of Tabasco."

She smiled at him, her black mood instantly dissipating. "There, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

He rolled his eyes as they turned the corner to the Crashdown's back alley. "You can wait in the back while I go up to Liz's room and get ready," she decided, pulling open the restaurant's back door. "It won't be long before we're officially open, anyw--" She stopped in her tracks. Michael, following on her heels, had to pull himself up short to keep from running into her. Looking over her head, he took in a distressed-looking Liz and a very serious Jeff Parker. What the--

"Maria Ursula DeLuca," said a cold voice. Michael blinked. Ursula? But in front of him, the girl stiffened, and he swung his eyes over to see--oh god. Her mother.