A/N: Everybody knoooooows, a little place like Kokomooooooh, and if you wanna goooo to get away from it aaaaaaall... I'll drag you to Las Vegas.

SOUNDTRACK: "Kokomo" by The Beach boys.

And so, time passed, and it was eventually Wednesday afternoon, and Vert was planning to head back to the Pairadice Sk8 Park where he and Mikki met a strange man the previous fateful Sunday. And to think, he almost hadn't brought his deck and gear with him. What a lucky break in such a crazy world, and honestly, what were the chances? Vert grabbed his helmet, already wearing his knee and elbow pads, leaving his room, and ran right into a broadly grinning Nolo.

"Oh my God, Blondie, Vegas has been kind to me!" he said, waving a fist full of hundred dollar bills. The leader of the Teku laughed, hugging him.

"Dude, get off," Vert said, laughing. "You smell like you've been drinking."

"Just a couple beers, and I stopped as soon as I started winning. I'll see ya later, Gringo. I got to put this somewhere safe."

"Whatever!" Vert called, stepping into the elevator. He was happy for Nolo, but where did that dude get off calling him a Gringo? Vert shook his head and hit the button for the lobby.

Mikki slid his black Mustang Shelby SS into a space in the lot at Pairadice Sk8 Park, his home away from the garage on Thursdays and weekends. After high school, Demitri and Anya had scrimped and saved to buy the run down old place from an elderly woman, and reopen it as Ostrog & Co. The newly renovated building served both as a base of operations for Lost And Found and as a commercial garage taking in cars and choppers from the general public. Somehow, they managed to turn a profit, and since Demitri and Anya went to high school with some of the biggest motor heads in town, finding loyal employees was easy. In fact, both Mikki and Angie had been working at Meltdown's since sophomore year, and it was still their main source of income. Mikki had rebuilt his first car from scraps and spare parts at Ostrog & Co., and named it Dosvidanya, the Russian word for Goodbye.

But still, after all of this, after all of the hours under hoods and behind stages, Mikki's first love was skateboarding. What Slither had offered them was a dream come true for him, one of many dreams thought unachievable by the young orphan. Mikki never thought he'd have a family, never thought he could make a living doing what he loved, and now…

A white Dodge Ram with an ocean-scape airbrushed on the sides in baby blue pulled up next to Dosvidanya as a stark contrast. They really weren't very much alike, Mikki thought as he watched Vert step out of the driver's side door.

The weirdest part was that they had chosen remarkably similar clothing. Both boys were wearing cargo shorts and wife beater tank tops, but not the same colors, of course; Vert was in olive drab and white, while Mikki was all in black.

"Freaky twin ESP" they both said at once, exchanging looks of bewilderment. Finally, the boys could keep straight faces no longer, and turned in the direction of the ramps and rails, snickering.

Vert and Mikki spent a good three hours just tooling around, perfecting moves they didn't even know they had. Perhaps they truly were meant to skate for the world. Vert could feel in his bones that they were both destined for greatness, and Mikki knew too. He just wasn't sure he could do it. He knew he could physically, but something held him back. The sweaty pair took a seat on the same bench across from the snack stand where they met Stan Slither.

"You okay, Mikki?"

"Hmm? Yeah, yeah, I'm fine."

Vert looked at him blankly, staring for several moments. He slurped his mango smoothie, narrowing his eyes. "You sure, man? You seem troubled."

"Well, like, what if Slither does pick us? I've been to Twisted Tour dates, Vert. They get way crazy. I don't know if I could handle it."

"You could so totally handle it!" Vert said. "You'll probably handle it better than I do, and I love that kind of attention! Mikki, what's going on?"

"It's not that I can't handle the attention or the crowd," Mikki said with a sigh. "I don't know if I can leave this town."

"Dude, it's Vegas," Vert snorted. "If you don't leave sooner or later it'll devour you. You told me yourself you hate this place with a passion."

"I don't have a lot of friends, Vert, and they're all here. And I can't just leave Angie just because you came along."

Vert snorted again. "What, are you guys gay or something?"

"Stop being an ass!!" Mikki screamed, slapping the back of Vert's head. Glowering, the Goth lit a cigarette, a habit his friends had encouraged him to shake. The smoke he blew from his nostrils smelled to Vert something spicy and sickly sweet, almost like burning cinnamon rolls. Mikki didn't smoke common tobacco cigarettes, but allspice and cloves. Vert coughed from the smoke nonetheless, and made a mental note to get his brother to quit; they had just met, and the last thing he needed was for Mikki to get cancer.

"Look, I know you two got really close in juvie, but—"

"Who said anything about juvie?" he said, blowing more smoke out through his nose.

"Angie did," Vert answered. "That night at the diner, he said you were roommates at Barstow Sands."

Mikki did a double-take, choking on the smoke, and he stared at Vert as if he had just said the dumbest thing in the history of mankind. After a moment, his coughing turned to hysterical laughter, and he shook his head, rubbing the tears from his eyes. Vert glared at him, for he didn't get the joke.

"What's so funny, Mik?"

Mikki finally calmed down, still shaking his head, and gave the identical blonde a sad smile. "Dude, Barstow Sands is a mental institution."

Vert's eyebrows knitted together in confusion and Mikki ground out his cigarette on the arm of the bench before flicking it away.

"But he said you were in protective custody. I thought you were in trouble."

"We were," he said sadly, "but not in the way you think. Vert, I—"

Mikki's eyes softened, and he looked away. It still hurt so much…

"I tried to kill myself when I was thirteen," he admitted breathlessly. "I slashed both of my wrists wide open and almost bled out. When I was finally well enough to travel, they had me transferred to Barstow Sands Youth Psychiatric Health Center."

Vert's eyes were as wide as saucers, the boy himself unable to comprehend what he was hearing. All of those years apart, and they almost hadn't found each other for what one had gone through…he couldn't imagine the pain, or what was going through Mikki's mind, and didn't want to. Vert was scared because the two of them were so different, and he couldn't look his brother in the eye. This was terribly ironic because Mikki was having the same problem.

"It was a long time ago," he tried to assure Vert, but he almost didn't believe it himself when he said "I'm better now."

Vert spoke just to keep from having to think about what his brother had just told him. "Was Angie there for…for the same reason?"

"Angie? Oh, hell no!" he answered more cheerfully, and Vert was glad for the less morbid tone of voice, though he was unprepared for what he heard next. "No, Angie was a happy child. He just liked to set fires, that's all."

"…Set fires?"

"Yeah, he burned down a bunch of abandoned buildings," Mikki said nonchalantly, as if he were talking about an innocent childhood prank. "I mean, no one got hurt, and it wasn't even really his fault."

"He torched a bunch of houses!" Vert said incredulously. "How is that not his fault?!"

Mikki glared at him, the usual cold steel of his gaze returning. "He hears voices, Vert," he said through grinding teeth. "After they caught Angie, he was diagnosed with Advanced Delusional Schizophrenia. He can't help what he does. That's why he needs me."

Mikki sighed, and Vert put a hand on his shoulder; this guy had told him so many awful things in a few short minutes that it had to have been some sort of record. And, still, he could not get over the strange feeling of seeing someone so much like him and so very different.

"I can't just abandon him, Vert," he said. "I know what it feels like to be left behind. I just couldn't do that to him."

"Well, I don't know what to tell you, Mikki, because it's not like," Vert said, stopping in the middle of his sentence. The spike-haired blonde stared at his double and a smile erupted on his face. "Like the Twisted Tour is looking for any new bands! Genius! Pure Genius!"

"Duh!" Mikki said, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "Why didn't I think of that? Of course! Stan said up-and-coming extreme athletes and rock musicians!!"

Vert nodded frantically, the crazy grin lighting his eyes and giving them the effect of an ocean in flames. Mikki's hardened steel gaze sparkled, dancing along with his. "We can go on tour—"

"And I won't have to abandon Angie—"

"And I can still date Nona!"

Mikki closed his mouth and eyed Vert skeptically, leaning back to assess the boy. Finally, he shook his head, tucking his hair behind his ear, and chuckled. "Whatever, bro. So here's the plan…"

Off the Florida keys
There's a place called Kokomo
That's where you wanna go to get away from it all

Jack turned up the volume and grabbed a beer from the fridge; he really needed a vacation.

Bodies in the sand
Tropical drink melting in your hand
Well be falling in love
To the rhythm of a steel drum band
Down in Kokomo

Major Jack Wheeler was happy to finally return to his suburban home on the fringes of Orange County. What a crazy month he had been through! Between Vert discovering the truth about what he really did for the government, being held hostage, and the lengthy interrogations about what he went through, Jack was bushed. Really, he was just glad to be back at his own house, lying on his own couch, with his perfectly healed, good as new shoulder, enjoying a nice Labatt Blue and some Beach Boys on the stereo. He loosened his tie, pulling it off over his head and tossing it to a chair.

Aruba, Jamaica, ooo I wanna take ya
Bermuda, Bahama, come on, pretty mama
Key Largo, Montego, baby, why don't we go
Down to Kokomo
We'll get there fast and then well take it slow
That's where we wanna go
Way down to Kokomo

Jack crooned softly along with The Beach Boys, stretching out on the sofa and giving a contented sigh. "Home" he murmured with a smile. He gazed slowly around the room, taking it all in, and realized the red light on his answering machine was blinking. Jack raised an eyebrow and put down his beer.

BEEEEEEEP "Hey, asshole, thanks for telling me I was adopted! You'd really think that kind of thing would come up, ya know?! Don't bother trying to call me. I'm using a payphone."

Jack stared at his answering machine, terribly confused, and was eventually able to gather his thoughts enough to utter a single word:

"Crap."

He sat there a few minutes, just contemplating the message. He sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and picked up the phone.

"Jeff? Yeah, it's Jack," he said. "I need you to trace a call to my house line. Saturday August eleventh at oh-three hundred hours."

The Major took a sip of his beer, but almost immediately spat it back out from shock.

"Whadda ya MEAN he'sin Vegas?!?" he shouted into the phone and slammed it down on the coffee table.

Well…he had wanted to take a vacation…