Chapter Ten: And the Ground Caved In

There was nothing in sight, but memories left abandoned
There was nowhere to hide, the ashes fell like snow
And the ground caved in between where we were standing
And your voice was all I heard
That I get what I deserve

- Linkin Park, New Divide

The sky was a dismal gray. Storm clouds drifted on a cool breeze, threatening rain. Everything was somber.

It was as though the world had known what was going to happen.

The attack came without warning. Michael had his arm draped lazily over Maria's shoulder, and the two of them were watching in amused silence as Kyle and Liz squabbled over something. Max stood at Liz's side, his arms crossed over his chest, his lips curled into a smirk as he listened to his wife bicker.

Only Isabel stood apart from the others, glancing around with a puzzled expression on her face.

Life had brought them here. They'd diverged after graduation, each going their own way, but the skins and the FBI were still a threat, and they'd come together again to continue the never-ending plotting against their enemies. They'd left people behind along the way – Jim Valenti and Jesse Ramirez, primarily, but even the Evans and Parkers and Amy DeLuca had heard little from them.

They were fighting a war, but there weren't all-out battles. There was just the occasional enemy following them, the quiet suspicions they had about people who passed fleetingly through their lives.

And in a single second, everything changed.

"Michael, look out!"

Something hit him, hard. He stumbled forward and the sidewalk rushed up to meet him, slamming into his chest and taking his breath away. He twisted, looked up to see Max standing above him for just a single split-second, and then the world exploded into a cacophony of sound and color.

The building behind them exploded outwards. A flash of white light illuminated the shards of brick and stone that tore free from the building's walls as it crumbled. The air was hot, and crackled with electricity and energy.

There was a burst of yellow and orange, and the sudden reverberation of noise and power, and then Max was falling… "No!"

He didn't have to see Max to know what had happened. Isabel's anguished cry was answer enough, but he turned to look at Max anyway. Turned to see his friend – his brother – lying on the pavement, his body broken and bloody.

Lifeless.

The irony of it all hit him without mercy – the healer was the first to die.

Someone grabbed him, pulled him to his feet. He twisted sharply and saw Kyle's face near his own. There was blood on his forehead and cheek, and his eyes were clouded with pain.

"Get up," Kyle hissed. "Get up, get up…"

Maria was already puling Liz away. Liz was doing nothing, just staring at Max with a look of utter confusion on her features. She extended one hand towards him, then cried out in an almost hysterical voice, "We can't leave him!"

People were staring at them, at the ruins of the building and Max lying on the sidewalk and the smoke that curled into the air, but Michael wasn't paying attention to any of that. He was looking at Liz, watching as Maria whispered something to her, watching as Liz's entire face just crumpled.

"No!" Liz screamed. "No, he's not dead, he's not gone, he's not…"

The sharp crack of gunfire filled the air.

"Maria!" Michael screamed. She turned, but too late, and his cry of warning, of protest against the inevitable, did not stop the bullets. Neither did his sudden movement towards him, his attempt to unleash his powers in time. White-hot energy exploded from his outstretched hand but the red still spread across her chest, across her clothing. Her eyes met his, a painful smile fixed to her features even as tears drenched her cheeks.

She fell first to her knees, and then to her back.

"No… no… no, please… no," Michael whispered. His words – a prayer or a plea – did nothing, though. By the time he reached her body and dropped to his knees at her side, it was too late. Nothing could be done.

She was gone.

"Maria…"

He was dimly aware of people screaming. Innocent bystanders, humans who had no idea what was happening, or why, were running in terror from the scene. But the men dressed all in black were not running away. They were moving forward, their faces filled with grim determination, their guns held out in front of them.

Michael felt numb. The grief hadn't hit him yet. But Maria's eyes stared unseeingly at the cloudy sky, and the first emotion that made its way through his frozen heart was anger.

Pure, unadulterated fury.

It coursed through him, making his blood boil in his veins. He had no tears to cry – not yet, anyway, but they would come later. He felt hollow, empty… except for the anger. He surged to his feet, turning as he did so to face the men who had murdered – murdered – Maria, and extended both hands. He felt the power rush from his palms and watched as several of the men flew backwards.

The blaring of car alarms mixed with screams in the air, and then the rapid fire of gunshots. Michael swung his arm in front of him, trying to push the bullets away, but he didn't have Max's powers. He couldn't conjure a shield or a force-field, couldn't block out the impending doom.

"Michael! Liz! Move! Run!"

He heard Isabel's voice, and then felt Liz grab his arm and drag him away from Maria. They stumbled backwards, tripping over the rubble on the sidewalk and taking refuge behind a row of parked cars. There was an alley up ahead, and Liz was already looking at it with a calculating expression, clearly determined to figure out a way to get them there safely.

Behind the calculation, he saw the pain. The grief. The unbearable agony at what had just happened.

It hit him, then, taking his breath away and nearly forcing him back down to his knees.

Maria and Max were dead.

There was another burst of gunfire, and Michael looked over his shoulder in time to see Kyle fall to his hands and knees. The human boy landed on the cement sidewalk with a heavy thud, unable to stand up under the onslaught of the attack. Words bubbled in Michael's throat – a strong desire to call out, to demand that Kyle get up and keep fighting.

But what could be done?

Kyle's blood spread across the ground and his eyes glazed over as his arms gaze out beneath him. He fell, and Liz took a few short steps back towards him as though she could save him.

Too late.

Michael grabbed her arm to stop her. "We need…" he started and then the words choked off as his gaze landed first on Maria's lifeless form and then on Max's broken body. Then he looked back at Kyle and shook his head, unable to think of the right words, unable to form coherent sentences.

Isabel was at his side, and Liz suddenly said, "The alley," and jerked her head towards their only means of escape.

"Go," Michael said, "I'll hold them off."

Isabel turned a tear-stained face towards him. There were cracks in her normally calm façade, and he could see her mask was dangerous close to crumbling. But her jaw was set with determination as she said firmly, "I'm not leaving without you."

"None of us will leave at all if we don't go now!" Michael snarled. Hysteria was rising in his chest, threatening to escape. He couldn't lose control, not now. He was clinging to sanity by a thread, but he absolutely could not allow himself to let go.

Isabel opened her mouth to say something, and then froze. Her eyes widened with shock and Liz screamed, and Michael wasn't aware of what had happened until he felt Isabel's blood splatter against his face. Then he saw the bullet wound in her chest and realized then she had been shot in the back.

He looked past her at the man in black approaching them, and didn't hesitate to unleash all the energy and rage he could, and the man was knocked off his feet in a flash of brilliant white.

Isabel lay on the ground. Her shirt was stained with red and her eyes looked up at Michael and he wanted so desperately to say he was sorry. Her eyes never left his face, not even once, and she reached out her hand tentatively. He knelt down and took her hand in his, wrapping his fingers around hers, and held her gaze until she was gone.

It felt like forever, but he knew it was only a few seconds. She'd been shot in the chest, and those kinds of wounds killed quickly.

Liz was standing over him, aghast. He felt sick. A sweaty, hot nausea welled in his stomach and he fought back the urge to hurl.

Then he pulled himself to his feet. "Go," he said firmly, nodding towards the alley. "Go! I'm right behind you."

Liz nodded once, then turned and ran. Michael followed, turning twice to wave his hand and cause whatever he could to explode. There was little he could do to protect either of them against gunshots, but if he could confuse and disorganize their enemies long enough, he could get Liz to safety, and then…

And then what? What could he do? How could he fix this? How could he make it better?

Liz reached the alley and darted into the shadows. He was about to follow her when something hit him heavily in the back and he lurched forward, lost his balance, and crumpled to the ground. He saw Liz turn around, but she was already far ahead of him, practically out of sight of their attackers. She took a few steps back towards him, but he dragged himself to his hands and knees and screamed, "Go!"

She faltered, clearly torn, and he tried to get up, tried to show that he was following her, that he would be fine.

But he couldn't. Something hit him on the back of the head and stars burst in front of his eyes. He bit his tongue to keep from crying out in pain and tasted blood in his mouth. Something or someone kicked him in the side and he rolled over, curling into a fetal position. His brain wouldn't function properly, he couldn't think through the haze of pain and grief.

They had fought this battle for years, and they had survived it for so long that he'd actually allowed himself to believe that they could be safe. They could be happy.

They could win.

And then, in just a few minutes, his entire life had been destroyed.

A face appeared above him, and the last thing he saw before everything went black was a pair of green eyes staring down at him in triumph.

Michael started awake. His sheets were tangled around his body and drenched with sweat, his heart was racing rapidly, and his breath came in short gasps. He blinked, bleary-eyed and confused. For a single horrible moment, he thought he was back in the white room, but then his brain kicked in and he let out a breath of relief.

He was in his own bed, in the apartment he shared with Liz.

But Liz wasn't there. Normally, she was the one to wake him from any nightmare. Normally, when he found himself jolting from his dreams back into reality, her face was the first thing he would see and she leaned over him and assured him that he was safe.

She wasn't here this time.

He frowned and glanced towards the door. He must not have been screaming. It was his cries that had always attracted her attention in the past, and he refused to believe that she would ignore them now, even if she was angry with him. But if he hadn't been screaming, then she would have no way of knowing what had haunted his sleep.

He pushed the sheets and blankets away from him, forcefully ripping the ones that were tangled tightly around his limbs. Then he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sank his head to his knees, trying his best to stop the nausea that was currently causing turmoil in his stomach.

It was the first time he'd relieved that particular nightmare all the way through. Since the white room, most of his dreams had focused on what had happened there, or on Tess, and they had only occasionally been interrupted by snippets of the attack.

But it wasn't any kind of relief or comfort that he didn't dream about the attack at night because it still haunted his memories during the day. He didn't need to be dreaming to remember in vivid detail just what it had felt like to have Isabel's warm blood spray onto his face.

He stumbled into the hallway and fumbled through the dark to the living room.

It had been two days since Liz had seen Tess at the Wal-Mart, and although Liz still hadn't told him any of what had transpired, Michael knew the conversation had upset her. He wanted to make it better, wanted to fix whatever was wrong, but he couldn't do anything to help if Liz wouldn't talk to him.

Of course, even if Liz did tell him what had happened, he doubted he'd be able to help. He couldn't fix his own problems, how could he expect to fix hers?

He glanced around the living room, then sighed and sank onto the sofa. He scratched at his eyebrow absently.

It was a miracle Liz had survived the attack at all. The others had fallen and Michael had ended up in the white room, but Liz had escaped, and he knew that her escape was the only thing that had saved him. If she had died, he would still be in the white room. And the man with the green eyes would have likely turned him into a monster by now.

Part of Michael knew – intellectually, at least – that they could not have seen what would happen. Even Liz with her premonitions hadn't been able to predict the attack. And when it had happened, it had come so quickly, and with such brutal force. And in broad daylight, on a crowded street…it was so unexpected.

He closed his eyes and let his head fall forward into his hands.

The other part of him couldn't let go of that sinking suspicion that they should have been able to save themselves. They had known that the FBI was after them, as were the skins, but the attacks had been so few and far between that they had somehow lulled themselves into thinking they were safe.

If they had been faster, smarter, stronger…

He had spent all his formative years with one foot out the metaphorical door. While Max and Isabel made lives for themselves in Roswell, he was always on guard, always ready to drop everything and run. How had he forgotten that? How had he let himself believe that he could be safe?

But he knew the answer to that. He'd known the answer to that since the day he'd stood in the Granolith chamber and told the other three hybrids that he wanted to stay behind, that he'd finally found his home and it was with Maria.

And now Maria was gone.

He glanced towards the hallway and sighed. Maria was gone, and Liz was here and…

And he was fairly certain he was in love with Liz.

But she wasn't talking to him, not really. And he was barely talking to her. Whatever tentative peace they might have found after the attack and his experiences in the white room was ruined by the sudden appearance of Tess.

He grimaced. When he thought about it that way, he found he fully understood Liz's desire to seek revenge against the hybrid Queen.

But he couldn't. Hating Tess was slowly destroying him. Trying to help her wasn't really making himself feel any better, but he had to do something. He had to find a way to end this, and soon.

He doubted he and Liz could take much more of it.

Michael had never asked about what had happened after the attack.

Liz was partially thankful for that, because she hadn't wanted to talk about it any more than he'd wanted to talk about his time in the white room. But they'd been attacked in broad daylight, and they'd used their abilities in front of witnesses, and there was no way to undo any of that.

She was lying in her bed, staring blankly upwards, watching the shadows make their way back and forth across the white-washed ceiling.

There had been that frantic and excruciatingly painful call to Jim Valenti to tell him that Kyle was dead and to ask for help saving Michael. There had been the phone call to Diane and Philip Evans as well, and the happiness in Diane's voice when she first answered the phone and heard that it was Liz had nearly driven the brunette into speechless agony.

Then there had been the phone call to Amy DeLuca…

She'd ruined all of their lives in just a matter of minutes.

Michael hadn't asked about that. He'd been caught up in his own nightmares, too troubled and too damaged by the events of the white room to ask her about those horrors. Once she had confirmed that she had already informed all the parents of what had happened…

Well, there hadn't been anything left to do at that point. There hadn't been anything they could do.

She hadn't spoken to either of the Evans parents since that one fateful phone call. She was technically their daughter-in-law (but did she get to hold onto that title now that Max was dead?) and had been a part of their family. Things had changed, though. In the chaos of the past weeks…

Well, she'd almost forgotten about them.

Almost.

What would Max and Isabel say if they could see her now?

She sighed and rolled over onto her stomach. Tess' words kept reverberating around in her head. She wanted to deny them, wanted to scream to anyone who would listen that they weren't true. But there wasn't anyone to tell. There wasn't anyone to tell, because no one – not even Michael – knew what Tess had said to her.

She hadn't told him.

As though lying to him about it would help her lie to herself. But she was never good at that. It didn't matter how many secrets she kept from everyone else, didn't matter how many ways she could spin the truth so that it came out as something else, she had never been particularly good at lying to herself.

Not when it really mattered.

Not about something like this.

And so she couldn't pretend that Tess hadn't said those words. Couldn't pretend that the words hadn't cut her right through to the bone.

Couldn't pretend that there wasn't something truth in them.

Michael would never understand how much she needed him to hate Tess as much as she did. She knew it was wrong, knew it wasn't her. She was Liz, and she forgave people for their crimes – or, if forgiveness wasn't possible, than she at least stopped wanting to cause them unbearable pain.

She was supposed to be able to get over things. The FBI. The skins. Max's stupidity while searching for his son. Philip Evans' distrust and her own father's attempts to control her life.

But Alex…

Alex was different. She couldn't get over this. She'd never been able to get over it. That hatred of Tess had always been there, festering in the back of her mind. That rage and that hurt that lived inside of her… Whatever had happened to Tess after she returned to Earth didn't change anything. They couldn't just pretend that Alex was still alive, that she hadn't killed him then tried to sell out her own family to their enemies.

She felt bad for what had happened to Tess – to an extent. But not enough. Not enough to be able to forgive.

Not enough to let go of the anger that had kept her sane. Because hating Tess with every fiber of her being had been one of the few things that had kept Liz from falling over the edge and plummeting into an abyss from which she wouldn't be able to escape.

Max had thought she'd gone crazy with grief after Alex had died. He didn't understand that the hatred she felt – in the beginning for the unnamed enemy she was sure had murdered her friend, and then later for Tess once they had discovered the truth – was actually her way of avoiding the craziness. She might have been reckless more than once, and she might have lashed out, said things she didn't mean…

But she hadn't gone crazy.

And Michael wanted to take that all away.

She sat up finally and rubbed her eyes. Light was creeping in through the window. Dawn was breaking. Michael would be up soon for work, and if she wanted even a few seconds to be alone in the kitchen, away from the awkward silence that had fallen over the two of them, she needed to go now.

She slid out of bed and padded softly to her door. The light in the hallway was on, and she blinked in surprise. The door to Michael's bedroom was still firmly shut, but she saw Michael in the living room, lying on the sofa. He was asleep. His limbs were sprawled at odd angles and his hair was mused and ruffled.

He looked peaceful.

She stood there for a moment, staring at him, then let out a long, slow breath. He clearly must have awoken in the middle of the night and come out here, possibly escaping some nightmare, but she didn't remember hearing him. She hadn't woken up to his screams, hadn't rushed into his bedroom, hadn't shaken him forcefully from his dreams then sat by his side as he tried to regain his hold on reality.

Her stomach twisted with a painful mix of guilt and loss.

Did this mean he didn't need her anymore?

She tiptoed around him and into the small kitchen. Her hand brushed against the wall of the apartment and the world tilted on its axis as she was thrown headlong into a premonition that took her breath away. She stumbled, letting out an involuntary cry as a wave of overwhelming fear washed over her, and slammed her eyes shut tightly, as though the action would somehow block out the mental images.

She gasped, and sank to her knees.

A moment later, she felt a hand come to rest on her arm, and another on her opposite shoulder and then Michael's voice drifted to as if it was coming from far away.

"Liz? Liz? Parker, can you hear me?"

Liz forced her eyes open. Michael was crouched in front of her, close enough that she could feel his breath on her face, and his eyes were wide with worry. He was holding her, and she found herself thinking vaguely that it was an unexpected role-reversal.

Just moments ago, hadn't she been the one thinking about all the times she'd woken him from nightmares?

Only his nightmares were of the past, and hers were of the future.

She looked around the apartment as though needing to take in every familiar detail. She tried to ignore the part of her brain that said she was only doing this to avoid meeting Michael's gaze. His hand on her arm was already causing complicated emotions to coalesce in her stomach, and she had no idea what actually staring at him would do.

"You had a premonition," Michael said.

It wasn't a question, but Liz nodded anyway.

"What was it?" Michael pressed. "What did you see?"

"Men," she whispered. "Dressed in black, carrying guns on their belts. They were here… in our apartment."