Chapter Two: Abandon All Hope

Through me you go to the grief-wracked city;
Through me you go to everlasting pain;
Through me you pass among lost souls.
Justice inspired my exalted Creator:
I am a creature of the Holiest Power, of Wisdom in the Highest and of Primal Love.
Nothing till I was made was made, only eternal beings. And I endure eternally.
Abandon all hope, Ye Who Enter Here

- Dante's Inferno (inscription on the Gates of Hell)


They had brought here her, to this place. To this room of white and clinical precision and horrifying science. She knew it had been years, maybe longer than that. Time bled together, no distinction between each second, each minute. And at some point, she had lost touch with reality, and the lines that separated past, present, and future had all disappeared. She did not know the date or the time.

She knew almost nothing.

Her name. She clung to that through the endless hours, clung to it with a fury and determination that she never knew she had. They could take everything else from her, but they would not take that.

Still, she had not heard it spoken in – how much time had passed? Years, decades, centuries? – a very long time. In the beginning, they had called her by name. But when she wouldn't tell them what they wanted to know, even that had changed. She was no longer an adversary worthy of a name, or of their fear. She was only something to be studied.

Until he came.

The darkness of the room could not hide the shocked look on his features as he met her gaze. She reached out one hand, tentative at first. Was he real? Or was this all a hallucination? A dream of some sort.

A nightmare?

She had no idea.

He looked different. Older. Tired. His clothes were covered with blood and the lines in his face had deepened and stretched out, making him appear almost elderly. But there was a hardness to him, rough edges and sharp angles, that spoke of unbearable agony. Physical, yes, but emotional, too.

She whispered his name.

"Michael?"

"Tess?"

She nodded. Her hand touched his shoulder. It was solid, and it felt real. He felt real.

He flinched and drew back. "What are you…?" And then he stopped. His eyes narrowed at her and she couldn't read his expression. What did he see when he looked at her? She didn't know, didn't want to know. She had not looked at her own reflection in nearly as long as they had not spoken her name. She did not want to see what this place had done to her.

He crawled to his hands and knees, eyes still fixed on her. She stared back and lowered her arm, letting it fall to the floor. She had recognized the men who had brought him here, just as she recognized the haunted look in his eyes and the way he hunched over now, curling in on himself. He had been to the white room, too.

She did not expect the bitter satisfaction that she felt at that realization. But it was there, strong and sure and filled with venom. Let him feel this pain for once. Let him understand what he had done to her, what they had all done to her, all those years ago. Let him rot in this place, let him curse his own existence.

"You should have killed me," she whispered, her voice flat. "It would have been kinder."

"Where am I?" he said to himself, his voice quiet, ignoring her comment, ignoring her. He did not look at her, and she thought perhaps he wouldn't. He seemed to want to forget her presence entirely, as if that was possible. As if they were not both prisoners in this place, prisoners of this same fate.

"Abandon all hope," she said, her voice as quiet at his. But he had been filled with curiosity and faith, as though there was an escape, any escape, and she was empty. Completely empty, because not even death could set them free from this place.

There was no possibility for death. They wanted their subjects alive.


Michael did not speak. Tess didn't seem to mind, and she moved away from him, disappearing into the shadows of the room. He propped himself up as best he could, then gathered all of his strength and stumbled his feet. Dizziness washed over him and the room began to spin and before he could stop himself he had fallen back to the floor. His body crashed onto the cold ground with a heavy thud and he hissed as pain rushed through his side.

Tess watched him impassively.

You should have killed me, she had said. A shiver ran down his spine even as he forced himself back to his hands and knees and crawled towards the door. Would he give up, too? Would this place break him?

He reached out and touched the door. A sudden jolt of electricity burnt his finger tips and he inhaled sharply, only just managing to keep the cry of shock and pain from escaping his lips. He rocked backwards, nearly falling over, and raised his fingers to his mouth, blowing on them. As though that would somehow stop the pain.

He wasn't sure what time it was. Night or day? How long had he been here? He had no powers, not with the chemical flowing through his veins. But even if he had had them, would he have been able to do anything? His body hurt from the electrical shot, from the cuts over his torso, from the bruises that mottled his skin. He was tired and hungry and confused and…

And alone.

He looked at Tess. In the darkness, all he could see was the outline of her curls and the distinct blue of her eyes. But he had seen her when they were close enough that she had reached out to touch him, and he remembered. He remembered the paleness of her skin and the shadows under her eyes and the way her hair had grown out, so long that it reached almost to her waist, a mess of unruly curls that would never be tamed. She was thin, skin stretched over bones, body gaunt, ribs visible through the thin fabric of her shirt…

Nothing like he remembered from before.

But he didn't want to think about before. It was too complicated, and filled with too many memories. Maria's voice still whispered in the silence of his mind, and he caught the scent of her perfume lingering in the air.

"Where are we? What is this place?" he demanded, his voice scratchy. His throat was raw from screaming, and each syllable he uttered only increased the ache. But he had to know.

Tess moved further back along the floor, away from him. "Hell," she said.

"Don't… just don't," Michael snarled at her. "I need answers, real answers. Tell me where I am!"

She must have closed her eyes, because the blue orbs were suddenly gone.

"Tess!" he spat, feeling enraged. "Tess! Answer me. Answer me."

"I don't… I don't know…" she whispered. Then her voice suddenly grew loud, echoing off the walls of the room. "Where they took me. Where they took me, that's where we are. What does it matter? What does it matter? There's no way out."

"When did they bring you here?" Michael asked, half-crawling, half-stumbling to her side. He grabbed her arms and dragged her upwards and towards him so that he could see her face. Her eyes snapped open, pupils dilating in fear and then contracting in rage.

She wrenched herself from his grip and kicked out with both feet, sending him sprawling to the ground. "You brought me here."

Michael blinked a few times, then swallowed uneasily. "No… no, we took you to Rogers Air Force Base. This isn't… this can't be the compound."

The compound had been shut down years ago. Jim Valenti had informed them of that, and there had been a question in his voice when he told them, just the tiniest bit of pleading. Michael had heard it and ignored it, but the others must have heard it, too, and they all knew what he wanted.

He wanted to know what had happened to Tess. When the compound closed… had she been there? Had she been moved elsewhere. Or had they moved her in the beginning, long before…

Or was this still the compound, and had it been shut down and converted into a secret military facility?

"You left me there, at the compound," Tess said, her voice brittle. "But I woke up here."

"Where? Where is this place?"

"White," Tess whispered. "White hell."

Michael reached out for her again, and she bared her teeth in a sudden, animalistic gesture. He drew back, surprised and a little afraid. She was glaring at him still, but there was something vindictive in her look as well.

He glanced down at his own burned fingertips. They still throbbed painfully.

"Did you know the door was electric?" he asked.

She said nothing.

"Did you know?" he said again, raising his voice in anger. He reached and grabbed her arms again, ignoring her bared teeth and narrowed gaze. She tensed in his grasp and then reached up and grabbed his wrists, her fingernails biting into his skin, clawing at him.

Her hair ended up in his face and he let go of one arm long enough to brush it aside. His fingers curled in her blonde tresses, yanking her head back from him.

"It's always electric," she whispered hoarsely. "It always has been."

He dropped her to the floor.

"We have to work together," Michael said. "There's no other way, we have to…" He trailed off in distaste, hating the idea of working with Tess again. She was the enemy, had been since she killed Alex and betrayed them all. But they were stuck here, together, and he could not rely on anyone from the outside helping him.

He backed away from Tess, far enough until he could once again see only her eyes.

"You voted yes," she said.

Michael tensed. "You killed Alex. You tried to turn us over to Kivar. You're a murderer, Tess! A killer, a traitor…" He stopped, breathless. "You crashed in Roswell, you brought the Air Force after us. It was the only way…" Again, he stopped. "I don't need to defend my actions to you."

In the end, it had been Maria, Michael, Isabel, and Liz who had voted against her, and even if Max, Jim, and Kyle had expressed their reluctance at the plan, they had gone along with it. Majority rules.

She had killed Alex. She had betrayed them all. She was the enemy.

But he had no other choice.

"We have to work together," Michael said again.

Tess came closer, crawling along the floor. She was close enough that he could feel her breath on his face, and then she reached up and touched his forehead. "You're bleeding."

He pushed her hand away. "I'm bleeding in a lot of places."

She leaned back, sitting on her heels. "Do you hear that?" she asked.

"Hear what?" Michael asked, eyes roaming the room quickly, searching out the source of the noise she apparently recognized.

"Footsteps," she murmured.

He paused, listening. Sure enough, he could hear the faint tread of feet on the hallway outside the room.

"What does that mean?" he asked.

She smiled, a cold, calculating smile that set him on edge. "It means," she hissed, "that they're coming for you." And without warning, she lunged forward and knocked him back, shoving him against the door. Electricity slammed into his back, taking his breath away and making him arch painfully, struggling to escape. Blood pounded in his ears and the world turned a hazy red all around him.

Then the door swung open and he fell onto his back. The bright light of the hallway blinded him, and arms reached down out of the void and grabbed him, pulling him roughly to his feet.

He blinked once and caught sight of Tess kneeling in the room. There were men facing her, too, dressed all in black and armed with tranquilizer guns that were trained on her, ready to knock her unconscious if need be. But she made no move, just stared at him, lips curved into a cruel smirk.

"It's my turn to vote for or against you," she said, "and I vote yes."


He awoke in the room of white again. His clothes were gone, replaced with a hospital gown that did little to keep the cold from working its way into his skin. He was strapped to a chair, unable to move any part of his body.

"Good evening, Mr. Guerin," a voice said softly. "How are you finding your accommodations?"

He strained against the confines of the chair, struggling to lift his head and see the speaker. But the person stayed just beyond his line of vision, a phantom with a cold voice. A voice that Michael recognized, a voice that made him think of amusement and green eyes.

"What do you want from me?" Michael asked.

Something moved behind him, and he raised his eyes as far as they would go. Not far enough, though. All he saw was the emptiness of white.

"What do I want?" the voice said softly. "Ah… such a good question. But perhaps you can tell me."

"Why are you doing this to me?"

"It was a pity that your friends had to die," the voice continued. "I would have liked to have them here as well. Perhaps they would have been more cooperative. Perhaps they could have told me what I wanted to know." A hand came into view them, followed by an arm covered in a black sleeve. Cold fingers curled firmly around Michael's arm, pressing painfully into his skin. "But all I have is you."

"Go to hell," Michael spat.

"Hell," the voice answered, "in a singularly human idea. And not just human. Christian. There are, of course, many ideas of hell that predate our own. In fact, all cultures have some form of judgment after death, of a place where the evil go to suffer. For the wicked must be punished in the afterlife, or else why would any of us act good? Pagan beliefs… beliefs found in old Greek and Roman mythology, in the parables and traditions of the Germanic tribes… it's all there. But the modern image the word hell conjures – that of fire and brimstone – is uniquely Christian."

The hand released Michael's arm and drew away, disappearing once again. In it's place, it left a faint bruise. The sound of footsteps echoed in the room, and when the voice spoke again, it came from Michael's left.

"You are not human, Mr. Guerin. The ideas of hell are not yours."

"It's only human arrogance that believes they came up with everything," Michael snarled in response. "Or, rather, American arrogance. What makes you think the idea of hell is yours alone?"

"Ah… so you admit to being something other than human?"

"I admit to nothing. And you still have not told me why you want me here. What do you want from me?"

A hand reached out and slapped him across the face. The stinging blow struck him full in the face, the restrains refusing to allow him to move away, to turn his head to absorb some of the blow.

"Answers."

"I can't give you answers that I don't have," Michael argued.

"We shall see, Mr. Guerin. We shall see."


They shoved his head underwater. It was cold, so cold that his mind screamed out in agony and he shut his eyes tight against the icy liquid. But the cold was soon unimportant compared to the burning in his lungs. He struggled, pushing against the arms that held him down, that trapped him in this watery hell.

When he could bear it no longer, his body acted against his mind's command, his mouth opening of its own accord, his lungs desperately inhaling, searching for oxygen. What he got instead was more water, more liquid ice that choked him. He started thrashing wildly, his movements no longer contained to controlled efforts against his captors.

Now, all he had was simple, uncontrollable panic.

They pulled him from the water and he fell flat onto his back on the hard floor. The lights above burned his eyes and he struggled to lift one hand, to block his view and shade his eyes. But his arms would not obey his command, and instead lay limply on the ground. Water dripped from his hair into his eyes, and he could not see clearly.

The world was a blur.

Something was pressing on his chest, they were forcing water from his lungs, and then a voice whispered in his ear, "Do you think you can escape us so easily, Mr. Guerin? Even death will not take you from our clutches."


He wasn't sure which was worse: the feel of the fire burning his skin or the smell of charred flesh that filled the air, suffocating him. The heat should have been a relief after the freezing cold water, but it had soon become too much. The smoke stung his eyes and clogged his throat and the pain in his skin left him breathless and aching.

His pressed his hands flat against the white floor and tried to focus on a way to break free, to escape. He could not do it with his powers, and his own strength was fully sapped at this point. But there had to be something, some amount of wits and brains that could get him out of here.

But the fire…

It was everywhere.

Would they burn him alive?

The voice was no longer there to taunt him, to torment him. Instead, there was the crackle of flames and fire, the only noise to fill this empty space. And even that was muffled by the smoke and smog that absorbed all sound.

He was alone.

And in pain.


His body arched, struggling to pull itself free of the restraints that tied it so tightly to the table. The chains bit into his skin, drawing blood in places, but that was nothing compared to the agony of the electricity that coursed through him, burning his insides and searing his skin.

"Tell me," the voice said, coming from somewhere near his right ear and echoing in the white room, "about Max Evans."

"I can't believe you're marrying her, Maxwell. I can't believe she said yes. How did you trick Parker into thinking you'd make a suitable husband?"

"An old trick I learned from Superman. Works every time."

"Every time? Do you propose to women a lot?"

He remained stubbornly quiet, even as another burst of electricity made him want to scream. He would lose that particular battle soon enough, no doubt, but he would deny them the satisfaction of hearing his cries for as long as he could.

Besides, what could he tell them? Max was dead. If these men had not retrieved his body from the sight of the battle, it was not Michael's fault. There had been no one to stop them in the end. Not even the media had caught up with them in time, so who could witness the scavengers coming back for bodies after the kill?

They were dead. All dead.

Except…

"Tell me about Liz Parker-Evans."

"I'm holding into that dream, Michael. One day, Max and I will have a white picket fence and a dog. And you can mock me if you want, but I'm holding onto that dream."

"Whatever you say, Parker."

"Don't you and Maria have dreams?"

"Yes. We'd like to be alive at the end of this."

She was always supposed to be the rational one, and Maria was supposed to be the quirky friend who held onto absurd dreams even in the middle of a war. But somewhere along the way their lives had changed, and Liz continued to cling to her dreams long after she should have given them up.

And Maria had been the one to lose her dreams, to let the reality of this world and their enemies drain away any hope they had for a normal life.

Sometimes, he wished she really had left. When she had the chance for a music career, when she had the opportunity to get out of Roswell… It would have been so much better for her, to have a different kind of life, a better life. And he wouldn't have had to worry about her constantly, to struggle to keep her safe, and in the end…

He wouldn't have had to see her die.

A jolt of electricity bursting through his skin pulled him from his gloomy thoughts, and unprepared for it, he just barely managed to clamp his mouth shut in time, biting off the scream that was so close to escaping.

"Tell me," the voice hissed, "about Isabel Evans-Ramirez."

"I dreamt about Jesse last night. I keep thinking… hoping… that someday it will be safe again, and I can go back. I just… do you think he'll be waiting for me? He said he would, but its been years and…"

"He's in love with you, Izzy. He'll wait forever."

But forever wouldn't be long enough. Not now, not this time, not after…

Another surge of electricity. His body twisted and turned, pulling against the chains, straining desperately as he instinctively tried to escape. But even if he could break free of these chains, what then? How could he get out of this room, out of this place?

"The four of you," the voice continued. "Mr. Evans and Ms. Parker-Evans, Ms. Evans-Ramirez, and yourself. An interesting group, wouldn't you say? And the others? Kyle Valenti and Maria DeLuca…"

"Oh God… this cannot be happening."

"What's wrong, Valenti?"

"I just talked to my dad… He married Amy DeLuca. Do you know what this means? Do you?"

"That your dad is incredibly lucky to have found someone as wonderful and talented as my mother?"

"Not as lucky as your mother was to find my dad."

"Does this mean the two of you are siblings?"

"Oh, God… don't say that, Space Boy. Don't ever say that…"

Michael closed his eyes and tried desperately not to think about Maria. About how she had died.

More electricity.

And this time he screamed.


It had been weeks since Liz had seen Michael, and all she knew was that he was alive. She did not know where, though, and thought she had little chance of finding him. Not with the Special Unit still on her trail. And not with the memories of Max's dead body forever etched into her mind. But her alien powers let her know that he was somewhere, and she had to keep looking for him, even if there was no hope.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes.

The clock on the wall struck quarter past midnight, and she glanced at it quickly. She had spent all night staring at maps of the airing surrounding the attack sight and vainly hoping that she would have a premonition of Michael. But her powers of precognition gave her nothing.

And all she had were the memories of that day, of blood spreading out on the ground, of lifeless eyes staring up at her, of the smell of death lingering in the air.

Her cell phone chirped once, indicating a text message and pulling her from her thoughts. She slipped the phone open quickly, noting Jim Valenti's name on the caller I.D. He'd been considering possibilities, too, trying to help her find Michael. It had been desperation on her part, and a desire for revenge on his. They'd killed his only son, after all.

She swallowed uneasily and tried not to think about Kyle.

She opened the text message. There were only four words.

Eagle Rock Military Base.

Where they had taken Max, where Pierce had tortured him, experimented on him. But that made no sense. The attack had happened in Minnesota, on snow-covered ground, far away from the heat of the New Mexico desert. And if their years on the run had taught Liz nothing else, it had taught her that the government had plenty of secret holding facilities all over the country, and there would be no reason to send Michael that far away.

Unless for some reason they wanted him in New Mexico. But why?

Jim would not have sent that to her without reason. He must have believed that Michael was there, or at least that the abandoned military base would offer some clue as to his whereabouts.