A/N: I know, I know I have other stories that I really need to work on. However I haven't been in a Harry Potter mood for a while, and this happened. So I'm going to stick with this for as long as my current obsession holds out, knowing I will at some point get back to my other fics. There is no question of whether they will be finished, just a question of when. Enjoy! Or don't, or whatever. Reviews are nice. Starts at the start of IAN4 and book 4 'The Message' of Animorphs.

Some dialogue taken from I Am Number Four and The Message.

John

It's been two days since we left Florida. I've forced Henri to pull over for the night, to get some sleep. He's hardly rested since we got in the truck and left our identities behind us again. Now I'm John, not Daniel. Smith, not Jones. But under it all, I'm still Four.

The Atlas in the front seat, one of the only constant things we keep with us through our journeys, has a new line in it, drawn from the Key Islands to the Californian coast. There are other lines, crisscrossing all around the states, marking the places we've been in the ten years we've been on Earth.

I am Number Four. An alien, part of the last few Loric refugees that managed to escape an invading Mogadorian force on Lorien. Only eighteen of us made it off the planet alive; nine Garde and nine Cépan. I'm a member of the Garde, and Henri is my Cépan, my keeper and guardian and teacher. We are in hiding, running from the Mogadorians that still seek us out, in order. When they find us, they will kill us. I know that because they've killed One and Two. And they killed Three, two days ago.

I am Number Four. I am next.

So Henri and I are on high alert. We were gone, packed up and leaving only hours after I got the scar that signalled Three's murder. We managed to pack most of our stuff, and so Henri has all of his software for creating our new documents. He's been doing that during our periodic breaks for food and fuel, but we don't normally stop for more than an hour.

Henri emerges from the reception office and gets back in the car, driving us the short distance to our assigned cabin. I close the atlas and return it to its place, glancing at my Cépan. He's exhausted, but I've seen him in worse states. Barely. I'm very glad he agreed to stop for the night.

"You alright, kiddo?" Henri asks through a stiffled yawn, stepping out of the truck. I follow his lead and get out too, throwing my backpack over a shoulder.

"Yeah. I would appreciate a good bit of exercise though," I reply as I stretch my legs out, blinking back a bit of drowsiness. Henri makes a noise in agreement as he unlocks the cabin. We throw our backpacks, which contain some food and clean clothes, on the beds. Henri disappears into the bathroom for a shower, and I sort through our packs for something suitable for dinner.

By the time Henri emerges, slightly cleaner, I've got sachet macaroni cheese on the stove. It's not that great compared to the homemade stuff, but it's still good enough for the road. It's one of the few things Henri will happily applaude Earth for, when taken in contrast to Lorien. It's been a lot harder for him, being here. I can't really remember Lorien, being only three when we left. Henri was almost forty.

"So what's in California?" I ask as I attack a stubborn lump in the sauce.

"I've heard the Cali girls are quite nice. The City of Angels. Some good beaches, a bit of desert. There's even rumours we might find the sun," Henri replies with a bit of cheek, ignoring the true meaning of my words.

"Funny. But we don't usually set off across the entire continent when we move. So what's with the change?" The lump has succumbed to my stirring. I give the macaroni a last few good stirs then turn the stove off.

"With you being next, I want to make sure that we've got the advantage at the moment. If they had any clues that we were in Florida, or of our previous locations, the Mogs would start by looking at the closer states because of our previous travel patterns. Also, it was the first real estate agency I found that still had a vacancy and would accept us on the short notice," he replies, humour gone. "How's that macaroni going then?"

I offer him a bowl and we sit on our beds as we eat. We're sitting in silence, too tired to make conversation, and when we're finished I wash up the dishes. By the time I'm done, Henri's asleep. I follow his example and fall asleep pretty quickly.