Notes: This is my counterpart to Crystal Rose of Pollux's chapter of the same name, as such, there will be all the same dialogue, and a few identical paragraphs as well. These are Micky and Peter's points of view, of the time when they met Davy and Mike.

Ventura, CA, one year, three months prior:

This was it. Peter and Micky were at the bus stop, bags in hand, as they said their goodbyes. Micky's mom was trying to hold back a few uncooperative tears and Jenna hopped in place.

"You have to write me as soon as you reach LA," she was saying. "And you have to tell me all about the skyscrapers and the stores and any famous people you meet."

Micky nodded. "And you have to write me back," he said. "And tell me all about home and mom and any boys you meet."

"Micky!" She said, laughing. "I'm being serious," he said. "You meet any boys, I want to be the first to know. I'll grab the first private jet out here to Ventura and tell you if he's worth the trouble."

Peter, meanwhile, was talking to Aunt Franny, who had also come to see them off. "I've packed you both a lunch," she said, handing a brown paper bag to Peter. "Don't let Micky see it until you're both hungry, or he'll eat both portions. Although, he could do with some meat on his bones, he's so skinny..."

She shook her head at Micky's skinniness and then handed Peter a crisp fifty dollar bill. "And this is for emergencies," she said. "Keep it hidden, keep it safe, and don't use it until you feel you have reached the last little bit of your luck."

Peter nodded and smiled at Aunt Franny. "Thanks," he said. She looked at him and smiled back. "Oh dear," she said, her eyes welling with tears. "I shall miss you both dreadfully! Whatever am I supposed to do now, with no boys tearing through my kitchen, making a racket and eating my food?"

Peter leaned in and gave her a hug. "Just say meatloaf," he said. "And I'm sure that wherever we are, Micky will hear you and come running."

Aunt Franny laughed. "Peter, you always know just what to say," she said. "And when you don't, you make up for it with your good natured heart!" Peter wasn't sure exactly what she meant by that, but he knew it was a compliment of some sort, so he smiled. "Thanks," he said.

"Hey, kids," the bus driver said. "Either get on the bus or go away! I don't got all day!" Micky turned to the driver. "Yeah, yeah!" He said. "Hold your horses, we'll be on soon!"

He turned back to Jenna and gave her a hug, picking her up and spinning her once. She gave a small surprised yelp and slugged his shoulder playfully when he set her down. Then he hugged Aunt Franny, who seemed to have caught the sniffles. Then he turned to his mom, who was still trying not to cry.

"Bye, mom," he said, hugging her. "Goodbye, Micky," she said. "Go, follow your dreams. But remember, you'll always have a home here if you want to come back." Micky nodded before letting go and turning to the bus. He waited as Peter hugged Jenna and his mom, and then Peter picked up his guitar case with his bass in it and his bag of clothes and climbed onto the bus.

They wouldn't have any act at all without drums, so after the events of what Micky referred to as The Case of the Evil Musicians, they had dipped into their LA fund to buy a new set. Micky had a large case with the golden drums packed in it as well as his bag of clothes, and he struggled with pulling them onto the bus. Peter set his stuff down and went to give Micky a hand as the bus driver rolled his eyes and sighed loudly.

"Hurry it up," he barked, as Micky and Peter tried to get the case through the door. Almost right after the driver said that, the case cleared the door and Micky and Peter both went flying backwards into the driver.

After they finally got settled into their seats, with the case safely stored in the baggage compartment and the driver giving them many spiteful little glares through the rearview mirror, the bus started and they were off.

The bus ride was fairly uneventful, they played a few road games, they talked with a lady who sat in the row across from them, and Micky accidentally shot a rubber band at the driver while he was making a rubber-band ball.

Needless to say, the driver was more than happy when the two of them took their things and stepped off the bus stop in LA.

"Wow, Peter, I'm finally here!" Micky said excitedly, the smile never leaving his face.

"Yeah, it sure is fun," Peter said, smiling himself. It was just another city to Peter, but somehow, a bit of Micky's excitement was rubbing off on him, and he looked around happily at his new hometown.

It wasn't very long, however, before LA began to lose it's luster for the two boys. Micky, who was practically just starting out in life, soon realized that the road to fame was not as easy to travel as he had always thought, and Peter, who had gotten used to routine life, found the transition back to traveling a bit difficult.

They found a cheap hotel in the center of town, and stayed there for a few days while Peter looked for more permanent housing and Micky, who still claimed a foreknowledge about such things, immediately started digging around town for gigs.

Peter soon found a small, but nice apartment in a complex in the center of town, and they paid the first month rent in advance, leaving only a little for food and other necessities.

He was a little reluctant at first to use so much of their small reserve of money, but Micky promised that the two of them would find work in no time, and would have more money by the time the next months' rent was due.

Los Angeles, CA, One year, two months prior:

They were out of food and didn't have enough money to pay the next months rent, and what's more, neither of them even had a job to earn money for the future.

Peter had landed a job earlier that month, washing cars at a local car wash, but had been fired after the first day after tripping over a hose and drenching his new boss in hot soapy water.

Micky had been looking for a job in the only profession he had ever known; a hotel concierge, but no hotels wanted to hire the long-haired weirdo.

So now, they were getting kicked out of the apartment.

They didn't really mind that much, the landlord had been mean anyway, and they weren't allowed to play their music, talk in anything louder than a hushed tone, and walk loudly, as it gave him a headache.

But still, they had no idea how they were going to get by now. Without a steady place to live, they couldn't find a steady job. Without a steady job, they couldn't earn a steady paycheck. And without a steady paycheck, they couldn't afford a steady place to live.

That night, Peter remembered with sudden clarity how horrible life on the streets could be.

He found them a nice little spot to stay, hidden from anyone who didn't know how to look for one. But it was still too open for his tastes.

They had been forced to leave most of their stuff behind, but they still had a lot of luggage to drag around, which made them an ideal target if any thugs happened to spot them. Peter had his bass, his amplifier, and a small duffel bag full of clothes, and Micky had his new drum set all packed up on a cart, and a backpack of clothes for himself.

Not to mention Peter could feel Aunt Franny's fifty dollar bill burning a hole in the secret pocket inside his jacket, along with the last of their reserve and the small amount they'd earned by busking. It hadn't been enough money to pay for the rent, and without a place to store groceries, he hadn't been able to buy food.

But now, he worried about what would happen if they were to get jumped and he was found to have so much money on his person.

Besides the fear of being jumped or robbed, it was also cold and dark, two things that Peter hated with a passion. He shivered under his jacket, it wasn't winter anymore, summer was right around the corner, but that didn't matter at night.

And when it was dark, every little sound, every small shadow, seemed to grow out of proportion until Peter was certain some monster lived down the alley, some beast growled out in the night.

And on top of that, Peter was uncomfortable. He had been sleeping in a bed for the past two and a half years, it was very hard to return to sitting on the concrete with your back against a cold brick wall.

So he returned to his old habit of keeping very still all night, staring at the darkness until his eyes were adjusted, and keeping careful watch over his possessions until morning came.

He had often done that when he traveled, and he had gotten used to needing little sleep. The longest he had ever gone without any sleep was four days, before he had been so exhausted that he had barely been able to sit down before he'd slept, and then he would wake up a few hours later, and start the cycle all over again.

And that was during the good times. Sometimes you weren't so lucky. Sometimes it rained. Sometimes it snowed. Sometimes you got a midnight visit from rats. Sometimes you were jumped.

That was life on the streets, and now Peter realized there was no way he could let anything like that happen to Micky.

Tomorrow, no matter what happened, he would find them a place to stay, he would find a job, and he would make sure Micky was well taken care of.

Malibu, CA, One year, one month prior:

This was it, their last shot. The end of their luck. Peter took the precious fifty dollars out of his pocket and handed it to the woman who was letting them stay in her spare room.

They had hopped from hotel to room to apartment and back to hotel until they weren't even really in LA anymore, but in nearby Malibu, still looking for work, downgrading with every new place to afford the cheaper rent.

So Peter sighed as the woman pocketed the very last of their money, and led them to their new room.

It was certainly a sight to see, it was tiny, only half the size of their old hotel room, and it was ugly, with faded brown wall paper covered in bright yellow birds flying around red flowers. There was no window, and the only furnishings in the room was a creaky bed and a scratched up old reclining chair that no longer reclined.

But, the fifty dollars paid for the whole month, plus three meals a day, and nobody ever said they had to spend every waking moment here.

Peter knew Micky well enough to not argue, and took the bed willingly enough. He was tired anyway, from all the stress of not only moving back out into the big, bad world, but having the added pressure of taking care of someone else while he was at it.

They were going to have to work twice as hard from now on, looking for any job they could take every day, and spending all their evenings playing music in bus stations and on street corners. This room was the bottom of the barrel, if they got thrown out of this place, they would simply have to give up on the act for now and hitch-hike back to Ventura. They wouldn't even have enough money for a bus trip.

Malibu, CA, one year prior:

Micky and Peter were sitting in some seats backstage at the Great Oak Theater, putting up a front of complete and utter ease.

They had gotten over pre-act jitters years ago, but the sheer importance of this audition had started the butterflies up again. They knew, however, that if you looked like you knew what you were doing, people believed you knew what you were doing, and that was very important to the people hiring them.

They had been sitting their for about ten minutes when two other guys came and sat in the empty seats next to them.

Peter glanced up at them and decided they were certainly another act, judging by their costumes. The taller of the two boys was wearing a gaudy cowboy costume of red and blue, with shiny stars on it, and the shorter and obviously younger boy was wearing some sort of red uniform Peter couldn't place.

"I think we're in for quite a wait" The short boy said quietly. He spoke in a British accent, and Peter perked his ears. That wasn't something you heard every day. In fact, he'd only ever talked to one other person with a British accent before. "Everyone and their dog seems to be here…" The boy continued.

"Well, $250 isn't small change; I can't blame them…" Said the cowboy. "We're really going to have to stand out."

He set his guitar case down, accidentally knocking it against Micky's gold drum set. Peter's mind immediately turned to that night last year, when Micky's first drum set had been destroyed, but he shook that thought away. These two guys didn't seem all that tough or mean.

"Oh, sorry…" The cowboy said, glancing down at Micky's drums.

"Eh, that's okay…" Micky said absently. "They didn't exactly give us a lot of room to work with."

"Yeah," Peter said, adjusting the guitar strapped to his shoulders. It sure was uncomfortable, with the back of the chair pressing the bass into his back. "I kept my case in the prop room so that no one would trip over it."

"Uh-huh," said the Cowboy, before everything lapsed into silence.

Micky continued to send discreet glances at the other act, and Peter could tell that he had heard what they'd said about money earlier. "So you guys are in this to win the money, huh?" he asked.

"Aren't we all?" asked the short boy.

"Well, we sure are," Peter said with a sigh. "We ran out of money for the bed and breakfast we've been staying in. We've got to win this; that's our lodging money up there."

"It's a living, though," Micky said, shrugging it off. "We've just gotta believe we can win this."

The two boys in costume looked at each other, something seemed to be wrong.

"…Was it something I said?" Micky asked in confusion.

"That's your lodging money?" the short one asked. "That… just happens to be our rent money, too."

"We've got the crankiest landlord in the history of landlords…" said the cowboy, and now it was Micky and Peter's turn to look at each other uncomfortably.

It was one thing to be in it for the money, and they truly did need the money, but for the first time, it occurred to Peter that other people really needed the money too. Who was to say that they truly deserved to win? Maybe the other boys needed it even more than they did. Maybe they had families to take care of, our worse, maybe they didn't have any family at all to care of them.

"…Well, this is awkward," Micky said. It now appeared that they were sharing their seats with someone who needed the money just as much as they did, if not more.

"You said it," the cowboy agreed.

More silence followed. There didn't seem to be an easy way out of this; someone was going to lose.

Nobody said anything, and it was soon time for the auditions. Micky and Peter and their seat-neighbors watched as the various performances took place; some of them were good, and some of them fell flat on their faces.

"Entry 17," the judge called. "Connecticut Yankee and the California Dreamer?"

Micky and Peter stood up and made their way to the stage, where Micky gave Peter a small smile, as if to reassure him that they were going to do just fine, and then launched into the comedy routine they had chosen to do this night, his James Cagney impression.

"Alright you dirty rats, listen up and listen good," he said harshly to his drums as began to unload them. "Cause I'm only gonna say this once. I'm lookin' for a man, and you know where he is. If you know what's good for ya, you'll help me find 'im.""

Of course, the drum didn't respond, so Micky shook it a little as he set it down. "Not talkin', eh?" He said. "Listen up, you yellow bellied rat, that man has ten thousand dollars with him, and that money belongs to me. I aim to get it back, and you're gonna help me!"

Micky's fingers slipped and he dropped the next drum, but he simply ad-libbed as he picked it up. "Oh, we've got ourselves a wise guy, here!" He said, looking at Peter. "You know what we do with wise guys?"

"Oh, please, go easy on him!" Peter said dramatically, giving his bass a small twang to make sure it was tuned.

"Oh, don't worry!" Micky said in his best mob boss voice. "I'm not a mean guy. I'm gonna take care of this clown real good."

Peter gasped. "No," he said. "You don't mean!?"

Micky set down the drum and picked up the next one, which appeared to agitate him even further. "Mmm!" He groaned. "You!" Peter looked at the drum in mock horror and sympathy as Micky began shaking his head strangely. "You're the rat, who killed my bother!"

They went on for a short while as Micky finished setting up his drums.

Once the set was ready, Micky sat down, glanced up and gave a slight nod to Peter, who began playing the bass line to their song Words, a song Micky had written almost a year and a half ago, but they hadn't performed very often until recently.

As soon as Micky started singing, (with Peter singing backup, of course,) Peter closed his eyes and focused on the music.

At the same time, he listened to Micky's voice, paying attention to how Micky was doing. He did this every time they played this song, as it had been written for a particular Master of Words, who had broken Micky's heart, and every time they sang it, Micky seemed to get over her just a little bit more.

Once the song was over, the audience burst into applause, and Peter thought he might just be imagining things, but they seemed to be clapping for them louder than they had clapped for anyone else so far.

Even the judge smiled at them as the announcer walked up onto the stage to announce the next act. "Entry 18," he called. "Lone Star and Union Jack?"

As Micky and Peter made their way off the stage, they were passed by their two seat neighbors from earlier. Lone Star and Union Jack, the judge had said. Now the costumes made a bit more sense. The cowboy had to be Lone Star, and the short British boy had to be Union Jack.

Now that Peter thought about it, the short boy's red coat did seem like a picture of a Royal Guard he'd seen once, except the guard in the picture had been wearing a hat. Briefly, he wondered why the boy didn't have one. It sure would have made his costume more realistic. Maybe he hadn't been able to find one.

As they passed each other, Peter gave them a small smile, trying to wish them luck. They seemed like nice people, and if he and Micky didn't win, he wanted the prize money to go to someone else in need.

"How do you think we did?" Micky whispered as they sat back down. Peter let out a sigh of relief and sat down next to him. "I'm not sure," he said. "But I haven't been that nervous in a long time. I'm glad it's over!"

"Hopefully, it's not over yet!" Micky responded. "If we make it to the next round, we have to actually participate in tonight's contest."

Peter was about to respond when the Lone Star and Union Jack started singing. He forgot all about talking then.

The short boy was playing the tambourine and the cowboy was playing guitar, but that wasn't what held their attention. The short boy was singing an upbeat song about how life was better now that he was in love.

"Wow, they're good!" Micky whispered nervously. Peter smiled and nodded. They truly were good, although the song had a sort of country feel to it, and the British accent didn't quite mesh with the sound.

Peter watched breathlessly throughout the performance, for some reason feeling happy that this act was doing so well. At one point during the song, Micky nudged him and pointed nervously at the judge, who was smiling at the other act.

The song ended, and Peter turned back to watch the other act begin a second song. The cowboy started playing his guitar, and Peter could tell this song was even more country than the first one. But, surprisingly enough, the British kid started singing this one too.

Peter frowned. Maybe the cowboy couldn't sing. But that didn't make sense, he'd obviously written it, the song had country western written all over it. But he decided that whatever the reason, the song was good, and he closed his eyes to listen better.

That was what it was all about, wasn't it? Money came and went, gigs would always be there, LA would never run out of stars. This, right here right now, was about the music, and whether or not this act won or lost, they had good music, and Peter was resolved to enjoy it.

Halfway through the sad song, a small twang could be heard, and Peter opened his eyes as the guitar stopped playing. The cowboy and the short boy were staring at each other, eyes wide, and Peter could just make out the broken string dangling from the guitar. He gave a small quiet gasp and leaned forward, wondering what on earth was going to happen next.

Then the British kid jumped forward and held his microphone up to the cowboy so they both could sing into it. Peter was confused. If the cowboy could sing, why hadn't he been singing all along?

He listened as the two finished their song, the British kid slipping into a beautiful harmony.

The last line of the song brought tears to Peter's eyes, although he quickly wiped them away before Micky saw.

And if in the end we should go

Both our separate ways I know

the lessons I've learned here is worth it all.

It made him think of Micky, and how, without Micky, Peter would never have even thought about performing his music, and he was suddenly struck with what would happen if something were to happen, and the two of them went their separate ways.

When they were finished, the audience clapped and applauded, perceptively louder than they had for almost every other act.

The act walked down off the stage and began talking as they walked back to their seats. As they got closer, Peter and Micky could hear what they were saying.

"...Come on, Tiny; that was a fluke…" Said the cowboy.

"That was no fluke!" Said the British kid. "Not only was it not a disaster and not a fluke, the audience liked your singing."

"Gosharooney, you bet we did!" Micky exclaimed as the two sat down and the cowboy began rooting through his guitar case. "I'll bet you anything that tonight's gonna come down to you versus us!"

"Yeah!" Peter agreed, before he blinked in confusion. Perhaps it had all been some kind of ploy, play with the judge's heartstrings a little. "Wow, if they're that good after a disaster, then..." He could just see that happening. "You… you didn't actually plan for that string to go, did you?"

"Are you kidding, Man?" The cowboy said, giving Peter one of those looks.

"I didn't think so…" Peter said, feeling his face get red. He must've said something dumb again.

The cowboy smiled and turned his attention back to the guitar case, but his smile soon faded as his search through his guitar case came up empty.

"Agh, I don't believe it," he said. "I don't have a spare G!"

The British kid winced.

"You mean we have to go out and buy one?" He said.

"Well, you don't have to; you're more than welcome to stay here and check out the rest of the competition," The cowboy explained. "I can go and make a quick run to the nearest music store."

Well, there was no reason for that, if the two of them needed money as bad as he and Micky did, they shouldn't have to buy another string, not when he himself had a spare.

"Hey," he said to the cowboy. "I'm sure I've got a spare G in my guitar case; you can have it!"

The cowboy looked up at him, blinking in surprise.

"Really?" He asked.

"Sure!" Peter said, smiling. "Just because we're rivals doesn't mean we shouldn't help each other out."

"Well, I'm much obliged, Shotgun," Said the cowboy, tipping his hat.

Peter blinked. "You're welcome… I think," he said. "First time I've ever been called that…"

"He means it as a term of endearment," the British kid assured him. "Same reason why he's always calling me 'Tiny…' I'm Davy, by the way—and this is Mike; you can probably guess from the accents and the costumes that he's Lone Star, and I'm Union Jack."

"I'm Peter," said Peter. "Connecticut Yankee."

"And that would make me the California Dreamer," Micky said, grinning. "Name's Micky." He turned back to Peter. "Hey, I thought you were gonna give them that G-string?"

"Oh, right!" Peter exclaimed. "I'll go get it…"

"Actually, maybe I'll follow your example and leave my guitar case in the prop room, too," Mike said, picking it up. "Lead on."

Peter indeed led the way, and the conversation continued as they walked.

"So how long have you guys been doing this act?" Micky asked.

"About a year and a half," Davy said. "You?"

"Oh, we've been at this for a while—couldn't even tell you how long," Micky replied. "Peter and I have been traveling around Southern California, just playing for anyone willing to hire us."

"It's not going too well, though," Peter confessed.

"Yeah, I figured that when you said that you were kipping at a bed and breakfast," Davy said.

"…Kipping?" Micky repeated.

"Oh, you Colonists…" the English boy mused, rolling his eyes.

"One of these days, we're writing a British-slang-to-Texan-drawl phrasebook," Mike deadpanned.

Micky and Peter both got a chuckle out of that, and Peter now opened the door that they had arrived at. Inside the room were rows and rows of shelves with a vast array of items and props stored upon them; Peter's guitar case had been proped up against one of them, and it only took him a moment to find the G-string.

"Here you go," he said, handing it to Mike.

"Thanks; you saved me a lot of trouble," Mike said, stringing it onto his guitar and testing it out. He then rooted through his pockets. "I'll pay you for it if you just give me just a second to find my money."

"Oh, no; please, don't bother!"

"Come on, Man; it's only right—"

"I insist—no strings attached!" Peter said. "…Well, no strings except the actual string, obviously…"

"But you only said just a few seconds ago that you don't have enough money!" Davy pointed out. "For the second time, I might add!"

"It's just a guitar string; it's not like it's… well, something like that," Peter said, glancing at what looked like a jade sculpture of a monkey on one of the shelves.

Davy glanced at it, and he suddenly frowned.

"What's wrong?" Micky asked.

"I've seen that thing somewhere before," Davy said, taking it off of the shelf. "But where?"

"Well, it's probably just a prop from some show you must've seen here," Micky said, waving it off. "Come on; I want to go back to the stage and get a look at the rest of the competition!"

"Hold it," Mike said, now looking at the monkey sculpture, too. "Hold everything for just one second."

He reached into his pockets again, this time coming up with a page of a newspaper.

"Davy? I think I found where you saw that thing before…"

Micky and Peter crowded around him and saw an article about a stolen jade sculpture of a monkey.

"That picture of the missing jade sculpture looks just like that prop!" Peter exclaimed. "Wow, what're the odds of that?"

There was a bit of silence as the four looked from the paper to the figure in the English boy's hands.

"…It is a prop, right?" Peter went on. "I mean, it has to be a prop! This is a prop room; everything in here is supposed to be fake!"

"Yeah—supposed to be," Micky said, resting his chin in his hand as he pondered. "That's also why it'd make sense to stash something here—no one would give it a second look since they'd pass it off as a prop."

"There's that," Mike agreed. "And never mind the fact that all of the objects surrounding where that thing had been are covered in a layer of dust—while that thing didn't even have a speck of dust on it…"

Davy gulped, staring at the thing in his hands.

"You know, it is quite heavy…" he said. "Is… is there an easy way to tell real jade from a replica?"

Micky suddenly paled.

"Well, offhand, I'd say the fact that there are three angry guys standing by the door, blocking any and all means of escape we might have, kinda suggests that we might have the real McCoy here."

The other three turned to face the door in shock, staring down the three thugs in suits glaring back at them—one of them had his hand in his coat pocket, obviously going for some sort of weapon.

"What do you think, Guys?" Micky squeaked, his nervousness making itself known in his voice.

Mike exhaled, and moved in front of Davy. "I reckon we just got ourselves headlong into a whole mess of trouble," he declared.