Author's Note: Okay, now that I'm finally a few chapters ahead in The Perspective, I have room to let this piece out. This is set in the same timeline as that story, and does actually contain a few spoilers regarding the sequel, but this particular scene didn't fit anywhere in the sequel's outline so I decided to post it as a one-shot.

I sighed. "I don't want to do this," I admitted, feeling so much shame that I could even say those words out loud. I could never have confessed that to anyone but Marco.

He nodded, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "I know, Jake. But you'll feel better once we get it over with."

I snickered, shaking my head. "It's illegal now, y'know," I mentioned, holding up the Escafil device. "Congress was very specific about this sort of thing. What did they call it again?"

"The Morph-Capable Registration Act of 2002," Marco responded blandly. "Section three, paragraph one, subsection two. 'As of January 1, 2002, no sentient being residing within the United States will be given access to Andalite morphing technology without the express permission of the Director of the Department of Homeland Security or the President of the United States.' You could have just asked him, y'know. Somehow I don't see them denying the Savior of the Human Race a favor."

I was about to reply with the limousine we were riding in stopped. "We're here," Marco noted.

I sighed, taking a deep breath before getting out of the car. "I couldn't have asked," I replied to Marco. "They /might/ have said no, and then where would we be?"

Marco shrugged. "The Andalites said no at first, too, Big Jake, but that's still a morphing cube in your hand."

We walked up to the hospital reception area and, after getting the appropriate room number (and more than a little flak about the pigeon Marco was carrying), started heading for the elevator.

I shook my head as the elevator doors closed, finally finding a voice for my real fears. "A year, Marco. Almost a year and we haven't said a /word/ to the world about James. Or his people. How do I explain that to him?"

Marco shrugged. "The truth works."

I grunted. "The truth /doesn't/ work, cause it seems pretty lame, even to me. Five survivors wanted to keep the media away from them and retire quietly so we covered up the deaths of thirteen disabled kids who deserve medals and ticker tape parades and little statues right next to hers?"

"Doesn't seem so lame to me," Marco replied. "Don't tell me /you/ don't sometimes wish you could have just been written out of the war's epitaph and enjoyed a quiet civilian's life."

God, do I ever. "Not the point, Marco. We didn't have to cover it up to accomplish that. We could have just said that all eighteen died. They could have gotten the respect they deserved." The elevator stopped, but I didn't get out. Instead I turned to him. "Do you want to know the truth? Why I agreed so quickly? Shame. After everything that happened, I was too much of a coward to get on a pundit in front of the world and tell them we'd actually used eighteen cripples as tools against the Yeerks."

Marco rolled his eyes. "Bullshit, Jake. This is ME, remember? You didn't do it for yourself. You did it for Cassie, and don't try to tell me different."

I closed my eyes and bit my lip, letting the silence drag between us. There was no denying it, really. Cassie had been so proud of them. And I was proud of them. But they were dead and we weren't and I was just too scared that the world wouldn't understand, because I didn't think she could take it.

Sometimes I think that's why we didn't work out.

The elevator doors started to close, snapping me out of my head. I stuck my hand out to hold them open. "Come on, let's just do this."

We walked into the room, and there he was, a fifteen year old boy who couldn't move a single inch.

"Hi, Pedro. I'm Jake. Do you remember me?"

The boy blinked his eyes in the affirmative. Yes, he remembered.

I held up the morphing cube. "I'm here because I made a promise to James…"