The days that followed were strange, especially considering that Micky never actually heard the guys rehearsing. They must have been, though, because when Micky asked Mike how things were coming together, Mike always replied that things were just fine, that there was nothing to be worried about. Additionally, every once in a while, Davy would ask for drum lessons for very specific songs, and Micky obliged out of a combination of boredom and self-indulgence. More and more, he realized just how much he missed playing, and relished those moments at the drum kit with his friend.

It wasn't long before the night of the big show arrived, though. Despite feeling uneasy about his bandmates' level of readiness, Micky made a promise to attend, and he didn't intend to break it. Sitting in the front row with Jody, he hunkered down in his chair, completely oblivious to the current theatrics on stage that had people in uproarious laughter. Cedric and the Rabid Rabbits certainly knew how to make people laugh, but their music left something to be desired. "They were off-key," Micky muttered, leaning over to whisper in Jody's ear as she giggled. "Off-key, and I'm pretty sure their bass player hasn't ever picked up a bass in his life."

"They're dressed as rabbits, though," Jody replied. The laughter crescendoed again, as a horribly flat sting from the guitar echoed through the auditorium.

"Is this a music competition or a comedy routine?" Micky asked, crossing his arms.

Jody finally stopped laughing, and Micky felt her shoulder bump against his. At least, he thought it was his sister, judging by the familiar scent of her perfume. Every once in a while, he experienced a weird disconnection, where the fact that he couldn't confirm his environment with his eyes would catch up with him. "You're one to talk," she said. "You make a joke out of everything."

"Yeah. Well."

"I know," Jody returned. She wrapped her arm around him for a moment, drawing him close for a quick hug, then she went back to chuckling.

Honestly, Micky wished he could see it all and laugh at it, too. But they weren't really cracking jokes, which meant he had nothing to which he could respond. Everything that made the audience laugh was entirely visual, and apparently, it was hilarious. At least the prior groups had more to offer when it came to their actual music. Micky found himself completely engrossed in the peppy rock and roll pieces played by Flower Child, and rather enjoyed the music by the Tuxedo Kitties, who were an all-girl group.

Perhaps because the Flanahan Auditorium and KRIX thought that the Monkees would withdraw from the competition, they ended up scheduled last, which could either work in their favor or kill any chance they had of winning. Micky spent the entire show worrying that half the audience would walk out before the Monkees even got a chance to play. Of course, if the audience felt at all morbidly curious, they might all just stay in their seats to see if the Monkees collapsed in on themselves like a dying star.

They wouldn't, of course. Micky had nothing but faith in his friends. Being here, in such close proximity to whoever wrote about them in the paper, though, made him uncomfortable. That anonymous letter-writer must be out there somewhere, perhaps close enough so that Micky would be able to touch him if he reached out an arm. What would have possessed that person to write such horrible things without knowing the whole story?

And after the competition concluded, would they write more?

Micky still couldn't believe that Felix wrote those letters. He couldn't wrap his mind around it, in fact, since the guy seemed so sincere and innocent the whole time they were talking. There were hundreds of other people who might have done it, besides - a thought which made Micky particularly uneasy. What did the Monkees do to deserve such ire?

It made him so upset that he leaned over and whispered to Jody, "Maybe I should be backstage with the guys."

The thought gave him a certain sense of excitement, despite his reluctance. He wanted so badly to play again, but he didn't want people laughing at him for the wrong reasons, or pitying him, or believing the absurd theory that Mike, Davy, and Peter were somehow using him for their own gain.

"I'll walk you back there," Jody said.

With the hopeful note in his sister's voice, Micky actually contemplated taking her up on the offer. At the same time, his brain kicked into overdrive, searching for a valid excuse, until he came up with, "Nah, I'm not dressed for it." Really, it wasn't the clothing that had him concerned. If not for Mike's rather strict 'dress code' rule, Micky could see himself climbing up on stage in his birthday suit, if he knew it would get a laugh. And not get him arrested.

"You sure? There's still time."

Again, Micky seriously considered it. He wanted to play so badly. In the end, though, all he could do was shake his head, as his ears picked up his sister's quiet sigh.

As Cedric and the Rabid Rabbits left the stage, the audience stood up to applaud their final performance. Despite their popularity, Micky found himself hoping that they wouldn't win, because he honestly felt that their music sounded sub-par. He wondered if he'd feel the same if he could see them, though. Were they really that creative? Was their stage presence really worth ten thousand dollars?

"What're you thinking?" Jody asked as she sat back down. "And, point of fact, a standing ovation means you're supposed to stand."

"I dun wanna," Micky griped, slipping further down in the chair. "C'mon, Jo-Jo. Musically, you know they weren't that good."

When she didn't say anything, Micky glanced in her direction. Eventually, he reached for her face, gently feeling her knitted eyebrows and scowl. His fingers lingered around her eyes, and he could even feel her roll them, at which point, he smiled sheepishly and pulled away. "It's hard for me to just have fun, you know," he said. "I can't help it."

Before Jody got the chance to respond, the Gargoyles were announced onto the stage. Of all the bands, they probably had the best chance of winning. Micky, at least, enjoyed their music, although sometimes he found himself knee-deep in jealousy when he thought about how many gigs they managed to nail down. Still, without anything else to do but sit there and listen, Micky tapped his foot to their pure rock sound, applauding between each song in their set. Unlike the previous elimination rounds, the bands weren't timed, which meant that several groups played one or two of their longer pieces. As the Gargoyles belted out a beautiful ballad, Micky did the math in his head, trying to remember how many sets he'd already heard.

The Monkees were next.

He sat up in his chair, eyes searching, even though he couldn't see a thing. Perhaps it was all just part of the moment. Instinct. Nervousness. Also with a bit of guilt thrown in on the side, because he should have been backstage with them, but he couldn't make himself do it.

The audience went wild after the Gargoyles played their final piece. At that moment, Micky strained his ears against the applause, trying to make out the sounds of the Monkees setting up on the stage. With enough concentration, he could almost discern…

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his, which definitely didn't feel like Jody's. This one was rougher. Larger. The touch seemed almost familiar.

"Mick, it's Davy."

"Davy?"

"Yeah. You hear how the Gargoyles played?"

Micky nodded.

"Good. If we want to beat them, we're gonna have to pull out all the stops, mate. We need you on the drums."

Micky felt both horrified and excited by the prospect at the same time. He couldn't say no, but one worry still remained. "I didn't rehearse."

"Star Collector. Clarksville. You Just May Be the One. I'm a Believer. You can handle those, right?"

With a certain amount of pride in Davy's sneakiness, Micky realized that the four songs Davy just named were the exact four they'd been practicing throughout the week. In short, Davy had him rehearsing quite a bit, without Micky even realizing it.

"Sometimes, I think you're a genius."

Davy chuckled. "Well? How 'bout it, then?"

He felt Davy take his other hand, and, reluctantly, Micky allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. As the crowd continued to applaud the Gargoyles, Davy gently guided him toward the stage. At one point, he felt someone one to his left - perhaps a stage hand or a security guard? Davy muttered a quick 'excuse me' to the man, before helping Micky up a series of steps. "Watch this partition," Davy said. "Just step around… There you go. Over here, then…"

Immediately, he felt the heat of the lights, and realized that the audience could now see him; in that exact moment, the applause ceased, after which Davy carefully guided Micky around their gear and to the drum kit. Carefully, the drummer sat, reached for his mic, and pulled it closer.

No one in the audience made a sound. Micky felt the drumsticks pressed into his hand, and wondered what the hell he thought he was doing.

Davy asked, "You ready, Micky?"

"As I'll ever be."

Why was the audience so quiet?

He couldn't honestly believe he agreed to this. Had he agreed? The last thing Micky remembered, he was contemplating Davy's genius, just before he found himself being led up onto the stage. No agreement occurred!

Even having no time left to run, Micky still felt a disconcerting urge to abandon the stage. He couldn't make himself do it, though, and realized that his desire to stay put and give live performance a try again wasn't just about an obligation to his friends. Sure, that was part of it - he definitely owed the other guys so much more than he could ever give them. Really, though, it was the strong instinct to make this all work, to prove he could actually play in front of an audience, that made him stay. Even then, his nerves seemed to be chewing away at his sanity, and he barely registered Mike's voice counting them in to "Star Collector."

From the beginning, Micky's drumming failed him. It was a complicated part for starters, and, with it being one of their newer songs, Micky preferred to have visual contact with the drums in order to play it. As he realized that he couldn't adequately sense the set-up, he continued to maim the song until he heard the bass drop out, quickly followed by the guitar.

He expected the audience to boo them off the stage, but they were silent, except for a quiet cough or sniffle here and there. Micky ducked his head, closing his eyes, as his own mind waged a war against itself inside his head. He could leave the stage and allow the others to take over and finish the set if he really wanted to, which would be the easy solution to this whole mess. Or, he could do what was expected of him - his job - and set things up so he could play.

"I just need a minute," he said into the mic, as he reached for the individual pieces of the kit. He pulled a couple closer, and pushed a couple away. The arrangement was unfamiliar, but he could make it work. "I've been playing since I was little," he explained, as his fingers worked over the circumference of the snare drum. He made a mental note of where it was, and where the best place to strike it would be, before moving on to the cymbals. "Then I got beaned over the head with a baseball, and I had to learn how to play all over again." He pulled the crash cymbal closer, then worked his fingertips around the edge of it. This done, he started over from the beginning, feeling each piece in turn, to ensure the entire kit was set up in exactly the way he wanted it. His mind formed a mental picture of the entire thing, so clear that he could almost see it without the use of his eyes.

It was all so clear.

From the drum kit, he began to sense a better image of the whole theater, from where his bandmates were standing, to the location of the audience before them. He allowed his senses to open up, realizing that the crowd really wasn't silent at all. Every little tiny noise echoed around them, painting the exact structure of the theater in beautiful auditory detail. Perfect? No. But at least Micky no longer felt alone in the dark.

And that's when he realized that he'd been denying himself all of this for no reason. Smiling, he laughed, tapping one of the sticks on the edge of the floor tom.

"You wanna count us in, Mick?" Mike asked. His voice seemed so positive. So upbeat and hopeful. Uncharacteristic, but Micky liked it. He liked being back on the drums. And really, who gave a damn what some anonymous mook in the newspaper thought?

"I don't think we've been announced yet," Micky said. He waited a moment, then…

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Monkees."

No one booed or jeered. Instead, the audience applauded quite loudly and politely. As the sound started to fade, Micky counted them in to "Star Collector," finding himself right at home as Davy sang.

It sounded amazing. They were all on their game, and Micky was right where he was supposed to be. So eager was he to play "Last Train to Clarksville," that he nearly forgot to give the audience time to appreciate what they just heard. By now, though, his friends were very used to his spontaneity, so they were ready when he was.

Everything about their set felt right. He and Davy were both exactly where they needed to be, which allowed Michael and Peter to play with much less worry. It also meant that both of their lead singers could participate - with Davy out from behind the drums, he only had to concentrate on the tambourine, the maracas, and, of course, his golden voice, which was always a hit with the girls. Mike sounded so at-ease when he sang, too, performing his piece better than he ever had before. By the time Micky closed with "I'm a Believer," Davy leaned over to whisper that most of the crowd was on their feet.

He would have liked to get up and wander around the stage a bit. After restraining himself for so long, Micky just wanted to ham it up - to go all out with the piece that kind of felt like his trademark. Despite this, he had the good sense to remain seated - not only would the drum part stop if he left the kit behind, but he'd inevitably trip on every single thing on the stage. Funny? Yes. Painful? Also yes.

As the song finished, Micky could barely hear himself play over the roar of the crowd. Eventually, he gave up on the last few measures, losing his composure and dissolving into relieved laughter as he tossed the sticks at the drums. A moment later, Davy nearly knocked Micky over as he wrapped his arms around him in a hug.

"I knew you could do it!" the shorter boy screamed over the cheering.

"We were pretty S-O-L if Davy couldn't get you up here," Mike yelled. "We were all pretty sure you'd do it, though."

"You didn't have a back up plan!?" Micky demanded, incredulous.

"WHY WOULD WE?!" Peter shouted from across the stage.

Why would they? The simple question said volumes. They weren't the Monkees unless they were all together.

Mike and Davy helped Micky to the front of the stage. When Peter joined them, they took a bow.

Micky was pretty sure that their set was the very best they'd ever played, and judging by the cheering, the audience agreed.

—-

Backstage, Michael leaned on an old, retired speaker. He honestly didn't care about the layer of dust atop it, even though it almost certainly spent years accumulating there. With ten bands huddled backstage, all waiting for the results, any little bit of real estate the boys could find was well worth it, especially considering how exhausted the past month left them.

"Move over," Peter muttered. I'm gonna climb up there so I'm not crowding anyone.

Michael glanced sideward, meeting eyes with the lead singer of Confused Ravioli. He looked tired, too… And irritated. Any little bit of space they could give each other would certainly be appreciated. "Yeah, c'mon," Mike said, holding the speaker steady so that Peter could climb to the top. It seemed as if the blond didn't mind the dust, either; giving it a glance, he merely shrugged and sat down in it. This caused a cloud of grime to project outward in all directions, resulting in a rather violent sneeze by Davy.

"That's nice, that is," Davy muttered, coughing.

The space really looked quite large before, when several dozen people weren't crammed into it. With the low lighting and dusty corners, though, it seemed so compact and uncomfortable.

"How long is this gonna take?" One of the members of the Gargoyles questioned. "We got things to celebrate!"

The statement preceded a chorus of snickers from the group's other members.

"Sure, they'll probably win," Micky muttered, as he huddled with his knees drawn up to his chin at the base of the speaker. "No reason to rub it in."

"Well, to the victor go the spoils," Mike muttered derisively. As awesome as the Gargoyles were, they were awfully full of themselves.

"Hey, we were spot-on!" Davy said. "We played our hearts out. Don't 'to the victor' at me until the results come in."

For everything being done and over, his bandmates sure weren't in the most stellar of moods, Mike thought to himself with a chuckle. It would be nice to win, certainly, since Micky had a lot of bills to pay – in fact, the entire reason Mike put the Monkees through all this was solely to pay for Micky's hospital stay. The competition circuit was far too strenuous and much too demanding for such a casual group.

But he wouldn't say whether or not they did good enough to win until they got the results. He hoped, certainly… But Michael was also prepared for the more likely scenario that they just didn't measure up to get a prize. The other bands were far more competitive - he knew at least half of them threw their lives into the art of competition, and this one just happened to have the biggest prize. "Well, whatever happens, y'all should be damn proud of yourselves."

At least he earned a smile from the others for the compliment.

Finally, after what seemed like an hour of waiting, one of the stage hands stumbled through the waiting bandmembers and as close to the center of the room as he could get. Flipping through the wrinkled pages on his clipboard, he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "All these groups with animal names…" And then "Which one was it?" and then, most suspiciously, "Oh, well."

"Now wait a second— " Mike began, holding up one finger. He wanted to know what the heck that even meant. Maybe the statement spelled good things for one of the groups with an 'animal name.' Then again, the stagehand looked harried enough that Michael couldn't believe for a second that he was talking about a first-place winner.

The man with the clipboard ignored him, though. "Okay, I need all the groups out onto the stage, huh? Go on."

"All of us?" Someone asked.

"Alla you," the stagehand replied. He continued flipping through the pages, nervously, as if searching for something. "Yeah, they took the partitions down. Uh, stand just along the back. Together, by group."

Mike glanced at Micky, who was looking back at him with a degree of concern not shared by the much more excited Davy and Peter. Already heading toward the stage doors, Davy looped his arms around Michael's and Micky's, pulling them onward, as Peter took Micky's shoulders and ensured that he didn't trip over anything on the way.

They were herded onward by the mass of people both in front of them and behind them. Once they were on the stage again, Mike squinted, momentarily shielding his eyes with his hands against the overhead floodlights until his vision adjusted. Eventually, they came to stop just off to the left of center stage.

"Did you hear what that guy was saying?" Micky leaned over, whispering. "Back stage, I mean."

Mike nodded. "Somethin' about— " He paused, looking into Micky's eyes. Something was different about them…

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

A man wearing a tailored suit strode in from stage right, waving his arm with a flourish. The microphone cord trailed along behind him like a rat's tail. The audience went crazy, and finally, Mike was able to put a face with the announcer's name. He was one of the radio personalities on KRIX.

Mike stared down into the crowd as they cheered, barely able to make out any faces through the glare of the lights. If he squinted, he could see the features of some of the people in the front row, though. After a while, he recognized Micky's sister, who was on her feet, waving. Off to the side, though, Mike also saw a handful of photographers with their expensive cameras. Nestled among them, he noticed Felix Macleod.

Inwardly, he bristled, but it was too late to do anything now.

As the applause died down, the announcer went on. "I'm Kevin Allister, your afternoon DJ for KRIX, California's number one home for rock-and-roll." He had to pause for a moment as the crowd applauded again. "You've all been waiting patiently for the judge's decision, but first, every participant in the top ten will get a free family dinner from one of our sponsors, Captain Crocodile's pizza, just up the road in Pasadena!"

As the crowd cheered again, Davy leaned over and whispered, "Captain Crocodile's got a new hobby, looks like."

Allister continued, holding up a card. "Your third place winner of one thousand dollars is…" He paused for dramatic effect, then read, "the Tuxedo Kitties!"

They stepped forward to take their envelope amid generous, albeit unenthusiastic applause. Understandably, they looked upset, despite the win. Unlike the rest of the gathered bands, who still had hope for the grand prize, the Tuxedo Kitties were out of the running with a small consolation. Mike couldn't be disappointed, though. He crossed his fingers, hoping that out of the two remaining rewards, the Monkees would win one of them. Even the second place prize would help.

"In second place, the winner of five thousand dollars… Indigough!"

A butterfly started fluttering around in Mike's stomach. Surely he and the other Monkees were good enough for a prize. Dare he hope that they'd done good enough to win first place? As the crowd applauded loudly for Indigough, Mike threaded his fingers into his hair with one hand, and shook Davy's shoulder with the other. "I think we did it, buddy," he whispered. Peter seemed to be doing his best not to jump up and down in place, and Micky was wearing his characteristic beaming grin - an expression Mike hadn't seen on his face for weeks.

He could feel it. They all could.

They won.

He could even see it in the eyes of the others. Flower Child's bassist flashed him a thumbs-up. The Gargoyles' lead singer had his eyes narrowed, while their drummer looked away. Cedric and the Rabid Rabbits were already giving themselves conciliatory pats on the back.

"And now," Allister continued. The crowd was already on their feet.

"The moment you've all been anticipating for the past month. Your king of the stage. The grand prize winners of ten thousand dollars, sponsored by KRIX and the University of California - Los Angeles…"

Mike couldn't breathe. He was almost dizzy.

"THE GARGOYLES!"

The crowd screamed so loud that Micky had to put his hands over his ears. Peter jumped once, pumping his fist, before he realized that they hadn't won, after all. Davy started to slump, but Mike caught him under the shoulder, hoisting him back to his feet.

The gargoyles were leaping around like lunatics as balloons fell from above, and confetti rained onto the audience. The little bits of paper fell in front of the lights, making them look almost as if they were twinkling. Mike saw Felix climbing onto the stage, just as Kevin Allister stepped directly in front of him, meeting his eyes.

"The guys downstairs were supposed to tell you before the awards were handed out," the DJ said quietly. "We can't even give you the pizza dinner. You were disqualified!"