This is my first fan fiction story that I've had the guts to post online. I've actually been semi-inspired from reading all of the other Monkees fics.

Please review!

Chapter 1

"Peter, c'mon let's go. We are going to be late." Mike called up the circular stairs. He glanced impatiently at his watch again as his blood started to boil. They were supposed to leave for the Fairfield Country Club more than 20 minutes ago for a long sought after gig. It was five in the afternoon, and with rush hour traffic, every minute count. It was now 5:20.

He looked over at Davy and Micky, who were both standing by the door. Davy had his arms crossed, tapping his foot in annoyance, while Micky hopped impatiently around him.

If they didn't leave soon, they would be seriously late, and maybe would even have to forfeit their pay. The thought of losing a good paying job sent Mike over. "Peter! If we lose this gig and money, man, I swear to god I will kill you!"

After a second, Peter appeared on the top landing, an odd serene smile on his face. Mike looked up at Peter's outfit and clenched his fists. "Peter! What the hell are you wearing? You know that we decided on the grey slacks and blue shirts!" Mike stretched out his hand, indicating the outfits of the three boys; tight grey pants with their signature eight-button shirts comfortably untucked. They had decided on blue, since the country club walls and floor were painted a reddish orange. Blue would stand out.

Now Peter stood there in slender black jeans, a fitted black sweatshirt, and simple black moccasin boots that hit his knee.

"What time is it Michael?" he asked simply, ignoring Mike rant.

"What time is it, what time is it?" Davy blurted out, "It's bloody time to go, it is."

"It's 5:30, Peter, and we need to leave now!."

Peter just nodded, that odd smile still fixed on his face. Instead of heading back into the bedroom to change his clothes, Peter slowly descended the steps,

"Try not to rush, Shotgun." Mike rolled his eyes, sarcasm dripping from his voice, "We might actually make it on time."

As Peter reached the bottom of steps, there was a loud knock on the door. "It's about time." Peter mumbled, as he passed Mike and headed for the kitchen.

"What did you say?" Mike angrily asked, even more annoyed that precious minutes would be wasted dealing with the person at the door.

Davy sighed then turned and opened the door. "'Ello, what can we do for you…He barely got the sentence out, when he was pushed backwards into the living room. Micky stopped bouncing immediately. Instead, he eyes were drawn to the pistol that was currently aimed in the middle of Davy's chest.

Two men pushed into the pad, both armed with guns. They both looked to be in their early 20's, faces still plump with youth. Both wore dark suits, matched with dark shirt and tie. Even their hair colour matched. Dark brown, severe crew cut.

The shorter one now pushed the barrel of his gun into Davy's chest, guiding him towards the couch. The taller one grabbed Mickys' arm and maneuvered him to follow. Mike voluntarily raised his hands up and backed himself towards the couch.

"It's about time." Peter called out. He was now leaning against the brick pillar next to the kitchen, arms folded, knee bent back, and foot resting on the wall. "You were supposed to be here 30 minutes ago."

"Sorry 'bout that, got hung up. Things didn't go as well as we planned."

"Did you at least get it?"

"Yeah, right where they said." The taller one now laughed. "Funny how a little arm twisting and breaking gets you the info you need." As he said this, he twisted Micky's arm sharply to illustrate, who proceeded to yelp in pain.

"Hey! What the hell is going on here, man? Peter, who are these people"? The anger in Mike's voice remained, but was now inflected with fear.

Peter peeled himself off the wall and cocked his head towards Mike. He still wore that strange expression that Mike couldn't quite read; it seemed cold, almost calculating, mixed with a smirk that belayed a hint of amusement. Mike had known Peter for many years and he had never, ever seen this look.

"All in good time, Michael. All in good time." Peter's voice was low, having dropped an octave from his usual moderate pitch. Peter grabbed Mike's shoulder tight, and with fingers digging hard, he manoeuvred Mike toward and into the couch, next to an already seated Davy and Micky.

Mike could only respond with a grimace and an "Ow".

Micky now rose from the couch. "Hey Pete, c'mon man, what's going on? What's the joke?" He walked over to Peter and lightly punched him in the shoulder, a jovial look on his face. He was hoping this was a prank set up by Peter. A not very funny or timely prank, but a prank nonetheless.

"You think this is a prank, do you Mick?" Peter said; voice still low and cold, eyes unmoving.

Micky felt a shiver from Peter's stare, then let out an uncomfortable laugh to try to ease the tension, "Yeah, Pete, it's a prank right? Sure it's a prank. Right?" He nodded his head hopefully, hopeful grin showing his teeth, curly mop flopping in the air.

In a flash, Peter's hand whipped out, grabbed Micky by his neck and slammed him against the brick pillar. Micky felt his head bounce off the stone, then realized he couldn't breathe. Peter was mere inches from Mickys' face, long fingers squeezing tightly around Mickys' slender neck.

"A prank, eh? Shall we laugh?" he said, in a low, menacing tone. Mickys' eyes were bugged out now, his face full of fear. Peter eased up a bit, then dropped his hand. "Go join your friends." He pointed back to the couch. Eyes still wide, Micky didn't question, instead quickly moving back to the couch, taking his seat between Mike and Davy.

Mike just stared at Peter, at the two other thugs, his mind rolling over. What the hell was going on? Who were these people? Why was Peter involved? Why was Peter acting this way?

How the hell could Peter act this way?

If there was ever a true life example of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, right now, Peter was it.

The Peter that Mike knew and loved as his best friend was a peace-loving, optimistic, occasionally naïve, sweet, sensitive, well-intentioned Peter. He was always enthusiastic about the group, about his friends, about anything in life, actually. He never judged, he rarely complained, he took life as it was, with a beautiful smile and positive attitude. His loved being in the band; in fact, every band gig they had, Peter would be the one who excitedly loaded the car with their instruments, amps, and other band paraphernalia. He had done that today, not two hours ago. He was also the voice of innocence, of gentleness, his goodness, his ever-present dimple lighting up the room when he smiled. Sometimes he came off as a bit goofy, or clueless, but Mike knew that his Peter was just a good, well-meaning person.

The blond standing in the middle of the living room, the Mr. Hyde who had just almost choked Micky to death, this was not his Peter.

"So what's the plan?" Peter now addressed the two dark-suited men as he walked over to the kitchen stove. Opening the oven door, he stuck his hand in deep, and fiddling around for a few seconds, pulled out a gun. Like an expert, he popped open the cylinder, spun it around, looking at the loaded shells. Squinting one eye, he looked down the barrel towards the sight, ensuring it was straight and proper. Pushing the barrel back into place, he cocked and uncocked the hammer. It seemed that he was checking that it worked properly.

The only thing left was to pull the trigger.

Mike wondered how long the gun had been stashed in the oven. With the Monkees, money was sparse, so that meant food was sparse. Rent had to be covered first. They rarely had enough food to bother turning on the oven. The last time it was turned on, must have been a month ago.

Peter, now satisfied that the gun was sound, set the safety, then slid the gun into the waistband of his black jeans. He walked back to the living room and stood between the trio and the thugs.

"Oh, wait, I forgot my manners. I should introduce everyone." Peter smiled, a toothy grin with not a trace of dimple. "Michael, David, Micky, I want you to meet my partners in crime; Boggs and McManus." He stated, indicating the taller man first, then the shorter.

"Ah well, it's nice to meet you?" Davy said, his British accent failing to mask the sarcasm. "Now what the bloody hell is going on?"

No one bothered to answer an angry looking Davy.

"The boss says he'll be here in an hour. Then we'll go to the next phase." Boggs said, casually waving his gun towards the trio.

"Eh Thor, what you think we should do with these ones, once the boss shows up." McManus said out loud.

The trio looked around. Wait, didn't they just say their names were Boggs and McManus?

"Thor? Who's Thor?" Micky and Davy asked in unison, dumbly looking around.

Peter flicked his hand casually. "That would be me."

"Thor, where the hell did that come from? Is it like a nickname or something?" Micky couldn't help asking, momentarily ignoring the three guns that waved in their direction. Momentarily forgetting this wasn't his wonderful friend.

Peter tipped his head again towards the trio, almost considering before he answered. "Thor. Short for Thorkelson. With a Th. Old Norse. Roughly means Helmet or Cauldron of Thor. You know, the Viking God of Thunder and Lightning." Peter paused, "but I guess you would've known that before if you'd ever asked me about it."

"What do you mean by asked you about it, Peter?" Davy asked.

"I mean, if you ever asked me something. Asked something about myself. Tried to have an intelligent conversation with me. Instead of always assuming I'm the dummy. Even think that maybe I just think differently from you guys." Peter's mouth curled into an angry scowl. "Ever think about that?"

"But we've always asked you stuff….just last week…" Micky started.

"ENOUGH!" Peter shouted, his voice loud and angry. "These are lies!"

Micky nor Davy continued, instead just blinking dumbfounded.

Peter never, ever shouted.

Mike sat pondering this. Something was off. All three of them asked Peter lots of questions about his life before. About his life back in Connecticut, his family back home, his uncanny ability to learn each and every musical instrument so quickly, what brought him to Los Angeles. Hell, Mike remembered long conversations on the beach, or on the balcony, the four of them goofily philosophising on everything, however trivial or important.

Why was Peter pretending this never happened; that his friends had no interest in him at all?

Peter seemed to almost read Mike's mind, because he averted his eyes quickly and said, "Think about it."

"Yeah, you think differently, all right. You're working with these blokes." Davy spit out bitterly. "That's different, and stupid, innit?" he added for good measure.

Peter just eyed him carefully, but again didn't reply to Davy. Instead, he addressed the others. "We'll wait for the boss, and figure out what to do with this mishmash then."

All three of the Monkees now scowled at Peter.

There was a knock at the door again.

"What is it?" Boggs yelled out.

Before he even had a chance to head towards the door, it opened, revealing a slim, blondish haired woman behind it.

All eyes went to her. She was wearing a dark red, almost maroon A-line dress that reached to her knees, except the skirt was pleated. The collar of the dress was lined in black, and formed a delicate V-shape around her neck. Her stockings were also black, and melded in with her black patent mary-janes. She took a few steps into the pad, her eyes searching the room.

Her hair was unusually loose, parted in the middle, almost golden in colour, it fell to just the top of her shoulders. In fact, her hair was very similar to Peters; very straight, very luminescent, very golden. Only hers was parted in the middle, his to the side.

The Monkees watched intently as she scanned the room, then her gaze fell upon Peter's.

She smiled.

"I missed you, baby."