"Don't know— Don't— Shoot!" Davy dropped the drumsticks, which clattered to the floor. Rubbing his face, he shook his head as the guitar and bass meandered to a halt. "I can't sing and play the drums at the same time."

"Micky can do it!" Mike snapped. Davy found himself shying back from the intensity of his gaze. Angry and frustrated, he hadn't let up on Peter and Davy all day, even for a moment, and it was starting to take its toll.

"Yeah, well, Micky's good at it," Davy returned.

"Guys, we were doing so well," Peter said quietly. "We made it through the whole first verse."

Mike set his guitar on its stand, and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Davy immediately felt remorse for giving up as he had, but the truth of the matter was that Micky knew how to play the drums and sing at the same time because he'd been doing it for years. It took practice and talent. The other guys might say Davy had natural rhythm, but to actually apply it and sing at the same time was impossible in the amount of time they had to perfect it.

To make matters worse, Micky was the glue that held the other three together. He was the keystone, the linchpin, the only one of them who could turn a tense situation into something amazing and memorable. Since the scathing review of the Monkees appeared in yesterday's newspaper, he barely spoke.

Sometimes, he was even just as angry as Michael.

After leaning over to pick up the drumsticks, Davy looked across the room and into the kitchen, where the curly-haired drummer sat, nursing a coke bottle, staring silently at nothing. It was hard to tell if he'd even been paying attention to the rehearsal.

"Can we take five?" Davy asked.

"Yeah. Yeah, that's all right," Mike muttered. "Make it ten. I gotta think through some stuff."

Setting the sticks on the snare, Davy pushed the stool back, eager to escape from the kit, even for a little while. He hurt so much from sitting there for the past couple hours that he had to wince through his first couple steps. Blimey, did his back ever hurt, and he wasn't even midway into his twenties yet! If this was what he had to look forward to as he got older, he hoped someone invented a way to keep him young. Young and beautiful.

He pulled out the chair across from Micky, and sat.

"Hey, Davy," Micky mumbled, without looking up.

Surprised, Davy asked, "How'd you know it was me?"

Micky sighed. "The way you pull out the chair. The sound you make when you sit down. The sound of your shoes on the floor…" He trailed off and took a long pull from the bottle. Setting the Coke down again, he turned his head just a fraction to one side, an almost frustrated smile briefly appearing on his face. "…And that'd be Peter."

Davy looked up at the approaching blond and shrugged. Micky apparently felt the need to clarify, though, and said, "Much softer footsteps. Longer gait. Also, it couldn't possibly be Mike, because— "

He was suddenly cut off by the sound of a guitar string snapping, followed by a heavily-accented string of curses. Smirking, Micky gestured toward the bandstand.

"Yeah, well," Davy said. "I don't have any sort of prize for you, except a 'good job.' I thought you were past all this moping."

Micky grunted in some odd mockery of a laugh.

"Come off it now, Micky. This is ridiculous."

"Shut up, Davy."

Surprised by the venom behind the voice, Davy completely lost any ability to form words. For a moment, Micky even bared his teeth, fingers tightening around the glass bottle. Peter quickly sat down between them, one arm around Micky's shoulders. Micky tried to shrug him away, but Peter wouldn't allow it, holding on until the struggling ceased, and Micky put his head down on the table.

"Look, Mick," Davy said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"I know," said Micky, voice muffled. "I'm sorry, too. Guys, I'm just angry. I want to play. I do. I feel okay, you know? But I can't. Not for the competition. Not when there's a prize involved."

It seemed silly to Davy that there were people out there that would support the Monkees simply because one of their members was blind. It seemed equally silly that people would accuse them of using their friend to win. They'd been a group for a few years now - all of them - so it wasn't as if they'd pulled Micky on board just to win the competition. "Maybe there aren't a lot of people who feel like that person in the paper felt," Davy suggested. "I mean, it's just one little letter to the editor."

"Davy's right," Peter agreed. "If you want to play, you should play."

Micky remained silent. From across the room, Mike said, "Go on, tell 'em about the phone call, Micky."

The drummer ran his fingers through his hair, closing his eyes. "You two were still asleep. Mike was talkin' to me about maybe playing anyway just to spite that anonymous writer. That's when the phone rang."

"It wasn't even five in the mornin' yet," Mike growled.

"It was KRIX, lookin' for my side of the story," Micky said. "But they weren't, really. They kept asking me questions that were a little … I dunno. Off. Then she goes, 'Mister Dolenz, if they're using you to win, you just tell us.' And I hung up. I didn't know what else to do."

Everyone was silent. Mike approached a moment later, sitting at the table in the last empty chair. "They all want a story. Some sort of thing to make it scandalous. Don't matter if it's not. They got their claws hooked into the entire idea of the thing, and they ain't lettin' go."

"I shoulda told 'em that it wasn't like that at all," Micky said. "I could have said something. Anything."

"They put you on the spot," Peter said, patting Micky's shoulder. "That wasn't very fair."

"Yeah, but if… If that's what they think, wouldn't it be better for all of us if you played anyway?" Davy asked. "Show 'em that you're not just there to help us win? It's 'cuz you want to be there?"

Micky didn't answer.

After a few minutes, Mike cleared his throat. "Look, guys. I don't mean to change the subject, but it's time we organized a setlist. We got a little under a week to prepare, and without our drummer, we got some work cut out for us."

"Down to work, then," Davy said, glumly, looking at the table. He sneaked a glance over at Micky, who at least seemed eager to help.

"So," Mike began. "Since we're not— "

He was interrupted by a knock at the door.

The four boys looked at each other as the rapping came again, louder this time. Doing a quick calculation in his head, Davy realized that it was precisely halfway through the month, which meant they had a payment they should have been making. The others seemed to realize this, too.

"Babbitt," Peter said. "I thought you said you wrote him about the rent, Mike!"

"I did, I did!"

"Well, we can't just sit here. The lights are on. He'll know we're home," Davy muttered, slogging to his feet and trudging toward the door. He felt roughly like a man on death row must feel, taking his final walk to the hangman's noose. They had no money to give - not even a little as a promise that they'd pay the rest. They were putting as much toward Micky's hospital bill as they could, and even that wasn't much. With all their concentration on the competition, the Monkees hadn't been taking any other gigs lately.

Their entire hope rested on winning that competition. For just a moment, Davy thought that it didn't matter if Micky's blindness won them the top prize. They so desperately needed it that they should take any avenue offered to them.

Integrity, though.

Sighing, he opened the tiny portal a third of the way down the front door. He couldn't see anything through it, except the top of someone's head… And it wasn't who they thought it would be.

"Not Babbitt," Davy whispered, relieved, before pulling open the door.

The man standing there didn't even give Davy the chance to say 'hello' before he started talking. "Phil Revis - Los Angeles Times. Following up on that Letter to the Editor in yesterday's paper. When did you lads come up with the genius idea to put a disabled fellow in your band?"

Davy, at a loss for words, just stood there, staring. From behind him, in a shout that could likely be heard down the whole block, Micky yelled, "TAKE YOUR STINKIN' PAWS OFF ME, YOU DAMN, DIRTY APE!"

Barking out a laugh, Davy quickly slammed the door in the reporter's face, turned, and slid down the door to the floor. "Well," he said. "At least you've still got the comedic timing of a god."

"If nothing else," Micky said, smiling to himself.

—-

They stood backstage at the Flanahan Auditorium. It was dark, although Mike's eyes adjusted long ago to the bustling of the other groups around them. Everyone was excited. The air was electrified!

And then, there were the Monkees, who stood off by themselves, waiting.

"Not… Not the most conventional of choices…" Peter groaned, worried. "I mean, we only use that song for warmups, just so I can get my background vocals in line. I'm not… Well, I wouldn't exactly call me 'lead singer material.'"

"It'll be fine, Pete," Mike drawled. At that moment, he had his intense gaze leveled at the other bands. Twenty of them all together, half of which would end up cut from the lineup entirely in just a few short hours. They had to make it through, for their sake as much as Micky's. How, though, he'd asked himself days prior. How would they make it through when there were other groups here who had all their members with them, ready to play, ready to win?

He made a calculated risk then. Despite Peter's ability to pick up and play any instrument known to man (And probably some not known to man), he wasn't their strongest singer. He knew it. The others knew it. His background vocals were often spot-on, though, and offered the perfect blend of bass to Micky's tenor. To that end, Mike wrote a single song for Peter to sing during warm-ups.

"Auntie Grizelda" was a fun song. It was full of silliness and contained a complete vacuum of anything remotely serious. It was one of those numbers that a person could shout at the top of their lungs without carrying a tune at all, and it would still sound perfectly reasonable. Good, even. Because of its style, because of the lyrics and music behind them, because the song was written specifically for Peter to sing, he nailed it almost every time he performed it. Of course, this would be his first solo in front of an audience, let alone an audience of thousands.

"Sorry, Peter," Davy said. He smiled, putting a hand on the blond's shoulder. "Unfortunately, I can't figure out how to sing and play the drums at the same time."

"And we have to have two different people on leads. One per song," Mike muttered. "Don't know why they have to throw these arbitrary rules at us, but if we want to win…" He swore again; a moment later, he felt Davy's hand on his shoulder, too. "It's okay, Tiny. You know me. I'm just…"

"Angry."

"Yeah."

"I can do it, Mike. I can," Peter muttered. His voice sounded a little more hopeful. "But I'm nervous. A little stage fright is good, though. That's what Micky told me. Wish he was here."

"Me, too, Peter," Mike said.

The competition was being run like last time, with the stage partitioned into three sections. With a few more groups on one night this time - twenty, instead of fifteen - the show would run a little longer. The audience, though, had the option of booing a group offstage if they performed poorly for their first song. It was pre-judging, and also had the potential to cut the time considerably. All in all, this one night with twenty groups would take no longer than each of the previous three nights in the first elimination round. Theoretically.

"The Jolly Greens got booed offstage," Davy said grimly, looking to the others.

"I know," Mike said.

"We're next," Peter added.

"I know that, too," Mike replied.

He watched as the previous group quickly pulled their gear offstage in a well-rehearsed, orderly parade, one element after another. Without waiting for the stagehand to give them the go-ahead, Mike picked up his amp and shouldered past their guitarist, who snapped a "Hey!" in protest. Despite their surprise, Davy and Peter quickly followed. With only three of them, they needed to squeeze every last second out of setup that they could, and that meant jumping the gun a little.

"Let's do this, guys," Mike said.

He moved in the dark like he owned it, like he could manipulate its very being. Maybe this was how Micky felt, moving without being able to see where he went. In the next partition, a group called the B Shortcuts played some sort of powerful metal piece; it was hard to hear exactly what they were singing, but that may have been because Mike had so engrossed himself in setup that nothing else really mattered. He moved by feeling, trying to see things how his drummer would see them - with touch, rather than his eyes. It was strange and frightening and liberating, all at the same time, to not rely on something so primal and basic.

The B Shortcuts finished. The crowd cheered. They launched into their next song.

Mike took Peter by the shoulder, and the blond looked up, jaw set, and nodded.

Davy ran through their setup, checking all the connections. Checked to make sure each piece of the drum set was in working order and ready to play. He carefully pressed the pedals on the bass drum and hi-hat to ensure they were functioning, then sat down just as the music ended, and the crowd erupted into another cheer.

A voice came over the PA system: "The B Shortcuts, everyone!" Another cheer. The lights went down, and the detached voice blared, "And now, the Monkees!"

Suddenly bathed in spotlights, Mike squinted for a moment. In that tiny span of no more than a few seconds, someone in the crowd booed.

More voices joined the first.

Rather than wait for the dissent to reach a fever pitch, Mike quickly counted them in— "One, two, three four!"

And Peter, steadfast soul that he was, managed to perform "Auntie Grizelda" better than he ever had. Just a few words into the first verse, the audience seemed to take notice. Some of them would have heard the Monkees play before, but none of them ever heard Peter sing, so this was all new and very interesting. By the end of the first verse, Mike saw their smiles. Their cheers. And he hated them all for it.

And he hated them for making him hate.

They had to keep it together, though, as Grizelda ended and the audience cheered them on - not just sporadically, but powerfully, and Peter had the biggest grin on his face that Michael had ever seen. He looked back at Davy, who also wore a huge smile.

They had their chance, and Michael meant to take it.

It was a song he never meant to play, actually. Something he intended to keep tucked away, only to hum to himself when he needed to. In short, it was never for the Monkees. Never really for himself, or Davy, or Peter. He felt the sting of tears in his eyes as he leaned close to the mic and said, "This is for Micky."

And he sang a piece called "Keep On."

Ironically, it had no drums - it was comprised of he and Peter playing an electric and an acoustic guitar, while Davy took up a gentle bass underneath the harmony. It wasn't the way the song was meant to be played, but Michael had a message, and he meant to get it out there.

The lyrics, carefully written over a period of many months, urged their subject to keep living, no matter what anyone said or did to hurt them. That the rest of the world didn't matter, so long as you didn't let them undo your grand plan. It was a piece all about being yourself, despite what others told you you could or couldn't be. As the week wore on, and Mike played it over and over again in rehearsals, he saw Micky looking at them, smiling, shaking his head in that dismissively shy way. Mike hoped that it would eventually lead to Micky jumping back up on the stage, but the will had gone.

The song ended, and the crowd cheered. They had the audacity to get to their feet, raising their hands above their head to applaud the song that they caused. Incensed, and finally at his limit, Michael tore the microphone of its stand, which went clattering to the floor and fell off the stage.

"THAT SONG WASN'T FOR YOU!" he shouted, and as the sound system experienced rather loud feedback, which echoed from the walls despite their cloth covering, several members of the audience withdrew, covering their ears. "It weren't for you. You all killed a man's career."

Silence fell on the auditorium. No one cheered or spoke or booed or anything.

"It was for him. I dunno which one of you out there sent in that letter, but I'm sure you're sittin' out there right now. Well. You're a coward! All o' y'all are cowards! Booin' us jes' as soon as we get up on stage — what's wrong with you? You know you hurt someone so bad, you took the joy right outta music for 'im? And it was all 'e had, you bastards!"

He heard Peter gasp, and spared a look for the blond, before pressing on. "Here's the truth, honest. Without Micky, we're nothin'. And it ain't because he's blind, or because he can sing better than any of us put together. It's 'cuz when we formed this group years ago, he was part of it. And without him, we ain't the Monkees.

"So you oughtta be ashamed of yourselves, every one of you that meant to boo us offstage. We never used him. You did. You used him to fuel your hate and … and your… I don't even know what you call it. There's always gotta be somethin', though, doesn't there? Somethin' to make a mess of things, while you hide behind your virtue and innocence. Well, he's sittin' at home, crushed, and here we are, without someone who means a good deal more to us than you all do. So go on, feel good about yourselves. Revel in your… your misplaced social justice. You sure saved him, you did. 'Cept that the only thing you did is— "

Davy pulled the microphone out of his hand, and Peter curled his arm around Mike's, tugging him back toward the stage door. But Mike's anger hadn't abated just yet. He screamed, loud enough to be heard, "YOU FAILED HIM! YOU FAILED HIM."

"Mike! They're gonna disqualify us!" Davy hissed. As they managed to pull Michael through the door and off the stage, they heard - very sparse at first, but picking up in intensity - applause, which were soon echoing through the whole theater.

"Our equipment," Peter muttered. "We have to— "

Davy looked back to the stagehands, many of which were staring dumbly at the Monkees while Peter continued to hold onto Mike, preventing him from running back onto the stage. "You! Break down our setup. Go!"

"You'll be disqualified," One of them said.

Mike finally righted himself, although Peter still held onto one of his sleeves. Looking back, still seeing red, he stared at the young man in the grey uniform. "Son, if they don't disqualify us for that, I'm sure they won't disqualify us for you pullin' down our equipment. Now git."

"I'll help," Davy said. He and a couple of the grey-suited stagehands ran back onto the stage.

After a short time, Peter said, "That's been building for a while."

Mike nodded.

"Mike?"

"Yeah, Peter?" He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He may have just cost them everything…

"Even if… Even if they disqualify us, I'm glad you said what you did. I think people should ought to know when they've hurt someone."

Michael slumped, leaning against Peter's shoulder. "That's not like you, buddy."

"I know. I know it's not, but I really think it had to be said. And I think a lot of the audience thought it had to be said, too."

Davy peeked his head out from the stage door, his eyes wide. "Mike? Peter? You guys gotta come up here for a second."

Despite himself, Mike was curious. Narrowing his eyes and looking at Peter, he bit his lip and headed back for the door. As he neared it, he couldn't believe his ears. Quickening his pace, he skipped up the steps and onto the now-darkened stage, where he could just make out the outlines of the stagehands against the dimmed house lights. Over and over, in perfect rhythm, the crowd was chanting, "Monkees! Monkees! Monkees!"

One of the men in grey leaned over and said, his tone one of amusement, "I think you guys just bought yourself a ticket to the next round."

Over the PA, an incredulous voice said, "Ladies and gentlemen, the Monkees!"

"I don't get it," Mike muttered, as the crowd went absolutely wild.

—-

They drove home in silence, with a green, laminated pass in their hand. Despite everything, they'd made it through to round three.

As they pulled onto Beechwood Drive, Mike asked, "Do you think that guy Micky was talkin' to at the diner wrote that letter?"

"What guy?" Davy asked.

"Oh, he was sittin' at the table for awhile, chattin' with Micky while I was sleeping. Some guy named Felix."

"Oh. Sorry, mate. I wasn't payin' much attention."

Mike grunted. He had his theories. Well, it didn't matter now, in any case, since they had another chance. Unfortunately, they were now among the best of the best, which meant they were going to have to find a way to get all four of them back on stage. "We can't win without Micky," he lamented as he pulled into their driveway.

Immediately, Peter hopped out of the car and started off down the street.

Davy opened the door and started after him, only to stop when Peter waved a hand at him, without even looking over his shoulder.

"Let 'im go," Mike said softly. After another moment of deliberation, Davy sighed, and headed back up to the house.