CHAPTER 40
Michael leapt to his feet and stood without moving, the sound of that voice ringing in his ears. He looked at the empty desert in front of him, but he didn't really see it. He was too busy grappling with what he'd just heard. Or, rather, who. He knew it couldn't be real, that his mind had created it as a part of his dream, but still...
The voice came again, louder this time, repeating its insidious message in a sickeningly sweet tone. Killer. Killer.
It figured. He'd finally made the decision to stop obsessing about Pierce's death, to shove it and its implications aside and get something accomplished, and he couldn't do it. The voice wouldn't let him. It was reminding him with every syllable of what he'd done. How he'd reached a hand out and seconds later the agent was dead.
Michael shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. No. This time, he wouldn't let the voice get in his way. This time, he would do what needed to be done, regardless of what else was happening. He wouldn't run from it, but he wouldn't listen to it either. Not now. He wouldn't let it affect him so it might as well stop.
And he told it so. Looking defiantly into the sky, he commanded it to shut up. To leave him alone. This time he didn't get caught up in it; he fought it. "Shut up!" he said more loudly, then raised his voice even further. "Shut up, damn you! Shut up!"
But the voice refused to listen, repeating its incessant, hateful message. It grew louder and louder, pounding in his head, making his ears ring, unrelenting.
A sharp pain pierced through Michael's skull, dropping him to his knees in the sand.
He would not give in. He would not give in.
His hands flew up to cover his ears in a futile attempt to block out the sound. To no avail.
He wouldn't give in. Please let him not give in.
Two small hands closed over his, and he looked up, only half seeing the stupid silver antennae in her blond hair and her worried green eyes as she stood in front of him. She seemed to be saying something, but he couldn't hear over the roar of the voice. As if she understood his confusion, she repeated her message, carefully shaping each word. His eyes fastened on her lips as he struggled to understand.
With a sudden feeling of triumph, he recognized one of the words she was repeating. His name. No one said his name like she did. He'd heard it in a hundred different tones, a thousand different moods, but her lips always moved the exact same way, shaping the word with exquisite care as if it were of vital importance.
And once he made out one word, the others became clear as well. It was only two more words, after all. Two lone syllables. Six letters, no more. His mind spun, dancing the words around, unable to take in their meaning. Pulling his hands roughly from his ears, Maria stretched herself up as far as she could go. Taking a deep breath, she tried to remember everything she'd ever learned from singing about projection and diaphragmatic breathing; then she shouted as loudly as she could, directly into his ear.
"Michael! Wake up!"
Letting fly with a string of curses, Michael bolted upright in the middle of his apartment. He was breathing hard, from shock and effort rather than from physical exertion. Looking wildly around the dark room, he tried to absorb the implications of what had just happened. If it had happened, and it wasn't just some dream-created hallucination of his scattered brain.
But it had seemed very real. At least, the voice had. He knew the whole thing with Pierce becoming an incandescent figure of light wasn't real. But the voice--it didn't seem any different from all the other times he'd heard it.
Except this time he'd fought it.
He would have lost, if Maria hadn't screamed at him to wake up.
Maria.
His head swiveled immediately over towards the couch, looking for her. In the darkness of the room, he couldn't make out her small figure. He swallowed as a hundred panicky thoughts filled his head.
What if she was still stuck in his dream? What if he'd woken up but she hadn't? What if she had disappeared, like she had before? He shot to his feet, the rose-covered afghan pooling on the floor, and raced to the door. He flicked the switch up and blinked in the sudden lamplight.
All his energy drained away as relief swept in. She was there, on the couch, propped up on an elbow and looking at him.
"Michael?" she whispered. "Was it real? Was I really back in your dream?"
"Yeah. You were," he managed.
"And we found Pierce's body, and it turned into...into light?"
"Yeah."
She hesitated, and then said carefully, "What happened to you, Michael? You were...you were really starting to scare me."
He looked at her, a scowl on his face. "Didn't you hear it?"
"Hear what?"
"I couldn't tell if it was in the dream or in my head again. But if you didn't hear it, that question's answered."
"What? You heard the voice? What?"
"Yeah."
Her eyes narrowed. "Michael. I know you. There's something you're not telling me."
Michael looked up at the ceiling. "And how would that be different from usual?" he said, trying to deflect her questions.
It didn't work. She gave a little shrug. "It's not. But tell me anyway."
He ran a hand through his hair, acquiescing. "This time, when I heard it, I recognized it. You were right when you said it was familiar." His voice was hollow.
"Who?" she gulped out.
His eyes met hers. He spoke one word. "Topolsky."
Maria stared in shock at the tall alien in front of her. "T..Topolsky?" she stuttered in disbelief. "As in Agent Topolsky, fake guidance counselor and crazy dead person?"
"Yeah."
Maria sat up on the couch. "Okay, that's just wrong. The woman is dead, Michael."
"I know."
"So what are you thinking, that her ghost is haunting you or something? Come on, Michael. And why would Topolsky be calling you a killer, anyway? You didn't have anything to do with her death."
He looked away. "I didn't meet her to get the orb, and she disappeared. And then she was dead."
Maria's voice rose indignantly. "That is not your fault!"
"I'm not saying it is, okay?" he burst out. "It's just...It happened, that's all. Pierce...had her killed."
Maria shook her head. "This is just too bizarre, Michael. I mean, I don't even believe in ghosts." Her lips curved into an amused smile. "Of course, up until last year I never really believed in aliens either."
"Yeah, well, I guess we proved you wrong," Michael said dryly.
"You sure did. I mean, it's hard to argue with living, breathing proof, especially when it's a lot taller than you and can blow things up with its mind." She grinned as he acknowledged her point with a wry nod. Playing with the edge of the blanket, she continued, slowly, "There's another explanation for the voice, though, Michael."
He raised an expectant eyebrow. "Shoot."
"Don't freak out over this, okay?" He folded his arms and looked at her sternly. "You could be making the voice up in your own head, Michael. You know, convincing yourself that you heard Topolsky instead of someone or something else." His lips pressed together stubbornly. "I don't mean that you're crazy, or that you didn't hear it, but you've already shown that you have a talent for coping with things in...well, unusual ways."
"A talent for--what's that supposed to mean, exactly?" he bit out.
"I don't know, just that...well, you split yourself in two and locked half of you inside your own head. That's not usual, Michael. At least not for the human part of you. I don't know about the other part--"
"And this is supposed to convince me I'm not crazy? Just how does that work, Maria?"
"I don't know! I'm just...I guess I'm just trying to see the big picture. You know, think logically," she explained, then mused, "Hmmm. Logical thought. Maybe I've been hanging around Liz too much."
Did she imagine it, or did his lips quirk upwards in a sudden brief smirk?
"You know," Michael commented, "I'm not so sure that you of all people are an appropriate judge of my sanity."
Maria's eyes narrowed, and she blurted, "And just what do you mean by that?" before she caught the slightest twitch of a lip in his otherwise impassive face. She rose regally from the couch and stalked over to him, placing one deliberate finger squarely in the center of his chest. "Look here, pally, you may as well stop messing with me, 'cause there's no way you're gonna win." Ha! Let him react to that challenge.
Instead, he totally disarmed her by saying soberly, "You know what? You're probably right."
Maria's jaw dropped. What the heck did he mean by that? "What the heck do you mean by that?" she demanded.
Shuttered brown eyes looked into green ones. "Why don't you go back to sleep?" he suggested, ignoring her question.
"But--"
"It's the middle of the night. You might as well get some rest. I'll wake you up in time for work," he promised.
"All right," she said slowly. "Are you--"
He shook his head. "No, I'm gonna stay up. Maybe work on the sketch. I've...I've got a lot to think about, anyway."
"Okay." She swallowed, then headed back over to the couch. Sitting, she grabbed the faded blanket and began to pull it upwards, then looked over at him as he headed towards the light switch. "Michael?"
"What do you want now, for me to tuck you in or something?" he asked sarcastically.
She pretended to consider his offer, then burst into laughter at the trapped look on his face. "No, no," she managed between chuckles. "I wouldn't want you to strain yourself, Spaceboy." She gave him a wide, perfectly open grin. "Good night."
He looked at her for a moment and then reached out to flick off the light. Settling back down under the blanket, she listened to the quiet sound of him padding back across the room. Another click and a dim light came on in the kitchen. Craning her neck, she watched as Michael sat at the counter, silhouetted against the kitchen light.
Resting his elbows on the counter, he leaned his head into his hands and sat, unmoving. Maria held her breath. In a moment, however, he straightened up and reached for the sketch pad and pencil in front of him. Maria smiled. He would be all right. She snuggled down under the blanket and closed her eyes. Maybe this time she would see one of her Dream Michaels...
Maria took a deep breath of cold air as she hastened down the sidewalk, a silent Michael by her side. He'd woken her, as he'd promised, pulling her out of one of the best sleeps she could remember having in a long, long while. He hadn't been very talkative, though--not like that was so unusual. He refused point blank to discuss the events of the previous night. Not talkative? Grumpy was more the word for it, actually. He'd nodded brusquely when she'd decided to head over to Liz's so she could clean up before the morning Crashdown shift started. At least there she'd be able to comb her tangled hair. Looking up at the alien beside her, she wasn't sure he even owned a comb. He'd just run his hands through his spiky hair, pulled on his boots and jacket, and indicated roughly that he was ready to leave.
"So," she said, to make conversation, "are you hanging around the Crashdown on guard duty today?"
"At least until Max or Isabel can get there," he responded in a gruff voice.
"Good. Then I can treat you to breakfast," she said happily. "What are you in the mood for? Eggs? Pancakes? What?"
"I don't want anything."
"Oh come on, Michael, you can't just sit there without ordering something. It'll blow your cover. I mean, it's a restaurant, not a park bench." His face tightened. Suddenly realizing, she stopped in her tracks. "What? You think this is some sort of charity or something?"
He didn't answer, continuing doggedly down the sidewalk.
Maria ran after him and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him to a stop. "Well, what on earth was last night then? Letting me stay with you, giving up your bed and your blanket--was that charity?"
He refused to look at her. "No, that was coercion."
She let out a screech of frustration. He was just--just infuriating! "Look," she said through her teeth, "if you won't let me buy you breakfast as a friend--which Liz and I do for Alex all the time, by the way--then consider it payment for your hospitality last night. Or for your guard duty. You won't owe me anything, okay? God, you are so prickly sometimes, Michael." Her voice grew very, very firm. And the slightest bit shrill. "I am buying you breakfast, so you'd better start deciding what you're in the mood for before I decide for you!"
Michael closed his eyes. It looked like the only way he was gonna get her off his case was to give in. Figured. "Okay, okay. Fine. Don't make such a big deal about it."
"What? You know, if you hadn't slept on the floor last night, I would swear you got up on the wrong side of the bed," she seethed, turning and stalking down the sidewalk, all the while muttering under her breath about badly groomed, pigheaded Czechoslovakians with no manners. Michael quickly caught up to her.
"Pancakes," he muttered.
"What?" she said, pulled out of her rant.
"Pancakes. With maple syrup and plenty of Tabasco."
She smiled at him, her black mood instantly dissipating. "There, that wasn't so hard, was it?"
He rolled his eyes as they turned the corner to the Crashdown's back alley. "You can wait in the back while I go up to Liz's room and get ready," she decided, pulling open the restaurant's back door. "It won't be long before we're officially open, anyw--" She stopped in her tracks. Michael, following on her heels, had to pull himself up short to keep from running into her. Looking over her head, he took in a distressed-looking Liz and a very serious Jeff Parker. What the--
"Maria Ursula DeLuca," said a cold voice. Michael blinked. Ursula? But in front of him, the girl stiffened, and he swung his eyes over to see--oh god. Her mother.
TBC...