Lost Summer of the White... (Max POV/Adult) Chapt 11 2/1[WIP

[Realistic Dreamer]

Title: The Lost Summer of the White Room
Author: Realistic Dreamer
Category: Max POV
Rating: Mature/Adult

Summary: I think the title pretty much says it all. The summer after the White Room, something we really know nothing about.

Disclaimer: The characters presented are the sole property of Jason Katims, Melinda Metz, UPN and Fox. They are not mine, and no infringement is intended.

Dialogue was taken from transcripts of Max to the Max and The White Room, courtesy of Crashdown.com.

Author's Note: I owe a debt of gratitude to a lot of people. Debi, Angie, Debbi, Lindsay, Sylvia, Kath and Liz have all been my sounding boards for bouncing off ideas, have given me great advice, and have sacrificed of their time. Ladies, you've been wonderful help and great encouragement, and I can never thank you enough.

The amazing banner was made for me by LongTimeFan. I completely love it and thank her from the bottom of my heart.



You're what kept me alive. The thought of you." ... Max Evans

The Lost Summer of the White Room - Prologue Part 1

Max stands frozen in place, the phone still pressed to his ear. The line is dead, and panic is beginning to set in. As he slowly replaces the receiver, one thought runs through his head over and over, like some sort of demented chant.

Nasedo has Liz, Nasedo has Liz, Nasedo has Liz.

Abruptly, he pivots, and heads through the doors of the Crashdown, his decision made. He is going to the sheriff to enlist his help. The hell with worrying about exposing his secret to the man who has been watching and waiting for him to do just that for months now. It doesn't matter anymore; he'll take his chances.

"We've got to go to Valenti," Max's voice is strained as the others fall in behind him, hurrying to keep up with his rapid, determined strides.

"And tell him what?" Michael hisses as they move down the sidewalk. "There's two Maxes. The good one's right here, but please help us catch his evil twin?"

"That's not what he means," Alex protests.

"Then what are we going to say?" Michael throws out the question.

"I don't care what we say," Max grinds out. "Liz's life is at stake. Valenti is the only one with the resources. He could put out an APB, contact other towns."

They aren't equipped to search for Liz. He knows that; they all need to realize it as well. She and Nasedo could be anywhere; Max has no idea, because they were cut off before Liz could give him any clues to their whereabouts. This is completely beyond them. They need the sheriff's help, and if it means he is exposed as an alien, that's what Max is willing to do.

"If we tell him, he'll know everything."

Max can hear the underlying current of real fear in Isabel's voice. "I don't care anymore."

"You can't make this decision yourself, Max," Michael warns him. "Not this time."

"We all have to agree," Isabel nods her head.

Max knows that Michael and Isabel are nervous and scared. He understands that; hell, he's terrified himself. And taking it to a vote gives them an easy way out. It would force Max to comply. It wouldn't mean that they would give up the search for Liz; they just wouldn't go to Valenti. They might as well give up right now, if that's the case, because it would be nothing but a fine, useless effort.

"Since when?" Max argues furiously. "Weren’t you the one who went off with Topolsky by yourself? Liz’s life is in danger, and suddenly we’ve got rules?"

"No," Michael retorts. "There's always been rules. Tell no one. You're the one who broke that. You're not going to do that again."

Max and Michael's eyes are locked in an angry challenge when Maria breaks in with an idea of her own.

"Wait, wait, maybe we don’t. Okay, look, as far as Valenti knows there’s only one Max. That’s you. So as far as he knows, you’ve taken Liz."

Maria quickly outlines her plan. She and Alex will go to the sheriff and tell him that Liz went out with Max. That she'd later called Maria in a panic, telling her that Max started acting strangely. It was scaring her and she wants to come home, but he's not letting her. If it sounds like a kidnapping, the sheriff will do whatever he can to find her, and then they can follow him. Max quickly realizes that it's a good plan, and he agrees.

As he waits for them to feed Valenti their tale he paces, anxious. He's wound tighter than a coiled spring with the need to do something, anything. Once Alex and Maria are done, they then go to find Tess. Max knows they need to bring her along. He resents the additional precious time that ticks away while Michael finds her, but she is the only one who can help them figure out what Nasedo is trying to do. Max breathes a sigh of relief when he finally hears them.

"Michael, you don't know who you're dealing with," Tess warns.

"No, but you do," Michael retorts, as he pushes her roughly into the jeep. "And that's why you're coming with us."

Tess and Michael are barely seated when Max takes off. As they drive, they question Tess about what Nasedo could possibly have planned, but she pleads ignorance. She has no idea, she tells them. He rarely confides in her.

Max finds that hard to believe, especially when he remembers how smugly amused they'd looked that night when he'd gone to their house to get Liz. She had called him, pretending she was asking her mother's permission to stay for dinner, and he could easily read the undercurrent of panic in her voice. It was clear, when he got there, that Tess and Nasedo had made a game out of toying with Liz, and were enjoying it immensely. They were very much on the same page.

His irritation rises another notch when Tess once again takes advantage of their being forced together to bring up her version of their destiny. Max is incredulous at her one-track mind.

"You can’t deny this, any of you. It’s our destiny. It’s what we were planned for," her voice is plaintive. "Even if you don’t want to believe me, you can’t hide from the truth."

"It’s not about the four of us right now," he says impatiently. "It’s about Liz."

"Liz is human," Tess says dismissively, as if she is nothing to worry about. "She has nothing to do with us."

Max is furious, and has no desire to even try and hide how he feels. Does she really not understand how little they trust her? Tess has earned no place in their circle. From the minute they set foot in Roswell, she and Nasedo have done nothing but play games with them. They have been a thorn in his side and a pain in his ass since they got here. He has just run out of patience, and it's time Tess realizes exactly where she stands. She is the outsider. There might be four aliens, but it is definitely not "us."

"No!" Max tells her angrily. "You have nothing to do with us!"

"Michael, is that what you think?" Tess turns to appeal to him. When he looks away, she tries again. "Isabel?" There is no help there either. Tess sinks into the corner of the jeep, an obvious air of hurt surrounding her.

It is while they are on the road that they see the signal, and Tess tells them that she gets what Nasedo is up to. He is leading the special unit to him. Great, that's just f*cking brilliant. During the rest of ride, it is now never out of Max's mind that the FBI will be there too. But, he can't think about that; the only thing that matters is Liz. He is furious that the shapeshifter is putting himself and her out there as bait. All he wants is to get to them before Nasedo can possibly give her up to the special unit.

When they reach a carnival where the signal originated from, he orders them to split up. Seeing Valenti enter the funhouse, he is suddenly hopeful, knowing that the sheriff can lead him to Liz. He races to follow, his pulse pounding with the adrenaline thrumming through his veins. The maze of mirrors is confusing, making him anxious again. He knows that Liz is close, but he can't find her, and it is beginning to scare him. When he rounds another corner, he sees Nasedo, and all his fear turns into anger. He wants to strangle the shapeshifter, he is so pissed off. Max confronts him, demanding to know where Liz is, impatient with his explanations.

And then he sees her, and all gives way to sheer, sweet relief. Forgetting everything else, and leaving Nasedo behind, Max hurries to pull her into his arms and get her away, only to collide with a clear, plastic barrier. His elation turns to ashes; they are separated still. He beats on it in vain ... and that's when he somehow knows. This is going to end badly. A hopeless resignation to his fate begins to well up inside of him; his entire body seems to bow under the weight of it. Max splays his hand against the plastic, begging her to leave.

"Get out of here," his voice is low, his gaze dark and haunted.

"Not without you," Liz's eyes brim with tears as she aligns her hand with his.

His heart breaks that he can't even touch her as she stubbornly refuses to go.

"Max, look out!" she cries.

At her shouted warning, he tries to escape, but it's useless. Pain explodes as they swarm over him, slamming him into a wall, restraining him and hauling him away.

He is held face down on a gurney as they usher him into the hell that is Eagle Rock, and he panics when he can barely breathe. They push him roughly into a white room and he stumbles, falling to the floor. Quickly picking himself up, Max moves frantically around the walls, beating on them with his fists over and over in a futile attempt to find a way out. He finally stops, at last acknowledging what he already knows.

There *is* no way out for him.

Fear and despair overwhelm him, and his legs give way as he slides slowly to the floor. He pulls his knees to his chest, trying to make himself invisible, all the while knowing that there is nowhere to hide. He rocks back and forth, his mouth parched with dread and his body trembling, as he begins the long wait for what will come.

[Realistic Dreamer]

Gentle Readers ... I am really blown away by the responses you've given. The consensus seems to be that this is unexplored territory, never really touched on by the show. I agree, and I've always felt that the oversight, for lack of a better term, has done the character of Max a great disservice.

I wanted to let you know that I will be following a posting schedule for awhile. My plan is to post every Wednesday night. I would post more, but I'll only say that what I've got so far took me all summer to write, it's that painful.

I also wanted to say a special thanks to LongTimeFan for the wonderful banner she made for me. I added it the other day, and if you haven't seen it, you should take a look.

Thank you again for all your feedback and encouragement and, as always, I'd love to hear from you.


"You're what kept me alive. The thought of you." ... Max Evans

The Lost Summer of the White Room -Prologue Part 2

The long, sleepless night gives way to day, and a disembodied voice asks him where he's from. Max rises hesitantly from the corner of the room, where he has been huddled for what seems like an eternity. Despite his best effort to steady his voice, it quavers as he tells them that he is Max Evans of Earth. This is not what they want to hear, and there is stark terror as the faceless ones rush in to take him. They will do this the hard way, he is told.

"Why are you doing this to me?!" he cries hoarsely, as he struggles against them. "Why?! Why ..."

He is not strong enough to fight them all, and they strap him down on a gurney, taking him away to run their tests. Before they begin, he is injected with a powerful drug. His abilities, his gifts all seem to drain away; he is vulnerable and exposed as he lies in the restraints, unable to protect himself. His systems, bone structure and organs are then all thoroughly examined, every possible tissue and bodily fluid sampled. His face burns with helpless shame and misery at the way they obtain his semen, but he remains stoically silent. Tears well up, and furiously he fights them back. He will not relinquish this small amount of control; it is all he has left. He is given less regard than an animal. They wear their bio suits as if he will somehow contaminate them, and handle him as if he is nothing but a thing.

When they finally finish, they push his gurney back into the White Room. There he waits, and his restrained hands involuntarily clench into fists when the head of the special unit comes in, wearing one of the white suits. He stands in front of Max and, after a moment, pulls the hood off his head with a flourish, at last revealing himself.

"You and I don't need to stand on procedure, now do we, Max?" he smiles as he continues to remove his protective clothing.

Max is stunned. The unknown monster of all his nightmares now has a face. And it's one that he knows.

From their vantage point around the corner from the sheriff's station, Max and the others watch Valenti and the new deputy as they walk rapidly to the sheriff's SUV. Max can feel his all his senses go on alert as he sees Fisher back away, allowing Valenti to take off. This is what they've been waiting for. Throwing the jeep in gear, Max peels around the corner, intent on following him.

He is startled when he sees the deputy run into the middle of the street, and he has to gear down quickly, braking hard to avoid hitting the man. Max swears under his breath. Nothing, absolutely nothing is going right.

"Whoa, wait, slow down!" the deputy yells, holding his hands in front of him as the jeep comes to a stop within scant yards of him. "Where are you going in such a hurry," he comes around to the driver's side door to demand.

"Nowhere officer," Max does his best to answer calmly. "I'm really sorry," he adds a belated apology when the deputy gives him a hard stare.

"Well, I think you're just going to have to learn to slow down," Fisher says, as he pulls out his book so he can give Max a speeding ticket.

Max is clenching his fists on the steering wheel, completely frustrated, when Isabel comes to the rescue. She leans forward to get the deputy's attention, giving him the kind of look designed to make any man think that the sun rose and set around him.

"You know, you're so right, officer," she says in a low, intimate tone, her eyes staring deeply into his. "And we promise never to do it again."

Deputy Fisher can't seem to tear his gaze away. After a few moments, he snaps the book closed. "Good enough, this time" he smiles, as he steps back from the jeep.

"But, I'll be watching," he admonishes.

At those words, Max frowns slightly. For a moment, he has the feeling that there is something slightly off, something wrong. He gives the deputy a searching look, but his face is open and friendly and maybe a little slow on the uptake. Max can't waste any more time, and he pulls away, aware that Fisher is still watching, but unaware of the look of satisfaction that crosses his features.

"You're the deputy," Max breathes.

"You have your tricks," the agent shrugs, "I have mine."

"Who do you think I am?"

"That's what we've been trying to find out at the lab," Pierce tells him. "You know, there's something very strange about your x-rays ... "

Pierce tells him about his normal systems, and his abnormal blood. He then goes on to ask Max what he knows about special unit agents, all of whom have been killed in the past, going back to 1964. All were found with silver handprints on their chests. These are questions he cannot answer. The agent is getting more and more angry at Max's lack of knowledge, and Max knows he will suffer immeasurably for it.

The orb - the one that Topolsky told them the special unit had - appears in his hands. Pierce demands to know where the other one is and how they work. When Max doesn't tell him what he wants to know, he is drugged.

A nauseating lethargy sweeps over him as the room begins to swim in lazy, sickening circles. Before he leaves, Pierce makes a great show of tenderness, gently brushing Max's hair back from his forehead.

"Shh, shh …"

There is a soothing whisper of comfort that Max knows is nothing but a mocking lie. He fights the bile that rises to pluck at the back of his throat in helpless revulsion at the act.

He has no idea how long he is left alone, because time no longer has meaning. He is completely defenseless as he lies there. Even the steady undercurrent of terror that has been with him since his capture is muted by the drugs he is mainlining, settling to a dull, incessant ache in the pit of his stomach.

Max does nothing but stare blankly at the ceiling. He is in the most dangerous situation of his life, and he can't think coherently. Images of Pierce, Nasedo, Valenti and the others all beg for his attention, but he only touches on each of them briefly before moving on.

Max allows his thoughts to drift to Liz, and a picture of her beautiful face floods his mind. He pretends that she is with him, imagining the solace she would bring to his wounded heart if she were here.

Liz's dark hair falls around them like a curtain as she leans over him, and for a moment he turns his face into the silken strands he's always loved. She reaches down to cradle his cheek, her hand gentle and warm, the skin so soft. Her gaze is filled with the tenderness that he believes. He leans into the caress.

His lips part, yearning to tell her how much he loves her, and she places her finger against them, shaking her head in a way that lets him know that she already understands what he aches to say. As she slowly traces his lips, he loses himself in the dark depths of her eyes. They are compelling, telling him what she doesn't speak ... rest, be strong, come back to me. The contact is his hope, his lifeline.

There is a small, encouraging smile on her face as she fades from view.

He knows it was nothing but a figment of his drugged imagination, but he closes his eyes, reliving every moment, every touch.

It is while he is lost in the memory that Isabel comes to him. Max is not surprised to see her. He knew she would try and contact him. He understands that she is somehow dreamwalking him, because she too is affected by the drugs coursing through his veins. He wants to help her, but cannot, because the drugs have taken away his control.

Isabel wants to know where he is, but he has no idea. He tells her what he can, that Deputy Fisher is Agent Pierce. Max shows her the symbol that was embedded in the entryway of the facility. Then, in some still alert, rational part of his mind, he realizes that they are coming back for him. He begs her to go as his terror begins to strengthen. When she refuses to leave, he summons all his resolve and literally throws her out of his head.

The awareness of the dream plane has not translated into reality. Max continues to stare at the ceiling through lids that are heavy from the drugs. He doesn't respond as the agent hammers him about the crash, the orbs and the location of the other communicator. Pierce breaks open a packet of ammonia and holds it under Max's nose, shakes him repeatedly, but it has no effect. He is too deeply under.

Pierce issues new orders. Max must be made coherent, and the technicians go to work again. The restraints come off, and he is given different drugs, ones to counteract what he was given before. Stimulants now course through his system, and he is on the high of his life. Everything is now too much ... too loud, too bright, too everything. He is preoccupied with the flow of his blood as it races through his veins. He is transfixed by the thundering of his heart; it feels as if it's trying to beat it's way out of his chest. Max has moved into the realm of hyper-awareness. The drugs give him more energy than he really has, and he is restless, unable to stop prowling around, stripping off his shirt because it chafes against skin that is suddenly too sensitive.

The door opens, and Max backs into a corner, watching them warily. They push a large vat, filled with water and ice, into the center of the room. His eyes widen as they come for him, but there is nowhere to run. Two of them grab him, pulling him off the floor, and he struggles as they strong-arm him into the tub. Freezing water closes over his head, and Max is now in a complete panic as they hold him down. He can't breathe, he's drowning. He thrashes furiously, claws at them, finally breaking the surface to draw in one blessed mouthful of air before they hold him under again.

Long, terrified moments pass, and Max is literally starving for oxygen, his straining lungs ready to explode. His struggles slow and weaken, and he can't help himself. He lets out what air he has, and swallows water. It is only then that they yank him up above the surface. He coughs and chokes and gags, leaning wearily over the side of the tub to expel the water he's taken in.

His lungs heave, pulling in the sweet air, and he tries to get up. But, they won't let him out. They push him back, holding him in the icy water. The pain of it is like nothing Max has ever felt before. His body is wracked with uncontrollable tremors that are so violent his teeth rattle and the water churns around him. He can't stop shaking, every muscle cramping endlessly with the cold. Max groans with each breath he takes, it hurts so bad.

They watch him dispassionately. Finally, after long minutes, they pull him out of the tub and drop him onto the floor before leaving the room. Max lies trembling on his side, his arms wrapped around himself to try and conserve what little body heat he has.

Clumsy with exhaustion, Max slowly pulls himself to his feet. He has some vague idea that he has to get his blood circulating, so he begins to stumble around the room, trying to keep moving. His body numb, he falls often and stays close to the walls so that he can use them to help him get up again. He finds his discarded scrub shirt and pulls it on. At least it's dry. When he reaches the end of his strength, he huddles into a corner, pulling his legs up to his chest, dropping his head onto his knees. He shivers as he waits; he knows they'll be back.

He has never been so cold.

Max closes his eyes, and his mind goes immediately to Liz. He pictures her kneeling beside him. In his imagination, he feels her heated touch on his icy skin, her breath warming his cheek, her kiss willing life and hope back into him. He knows that she's not with him, but he talks to her as if she is.

I don't … " he falters, his voice hoarse, "I don't know if I can do this."

Liz gently lifts his chin and cradles his face in her warm hands. She gazes into his tired eyes, her own luminous with love and encouragement.

"Yes, you can," she leans her forehead to his, watching as his lids fall closed, spent. "You have to, Max," she entreats him. "I'm waiting for you. You have to come back to me."

"They won't let me," his anguished whisper is thick with the tears that he refuses to shed even now. "You know that they won't ever let me go."

"Don't you give up. Don't you dare give up," she murmurs, as she touches her lips to his. The caress is tender, and his mouth clings to hers. "You can take your strength from me," her voice is earnest as they break the kiss. "I can be strong for both of us."

He searches her determined features, nodding his head before letting it fall wearily onto his upraised knees once more. He feels her hand in his hair, her slender fingers sliding through the strands over and over.

"Rest, Max," her voice is low and husky and soothing. "Just rest."

tbc

[Realistic Dreamer]

Gentle Readers ...

I want to thank you all for your feedback. I am overwhelmed. I really want to respond to your comments, something I will try to do after the prologue is finished, but right now I'm trying to stay out of the way of what is going on. I hope you understand.

The diaglogue comes from transcripts of Max to the Max and The White Room, courtesy of Crashdown.com


"You're what kept me alive. The thought of you." ... Max Evans

Prologue - Part 3


When they return, they find him slumped against the wall, his head buried in his arms, asleep. Max comes awake with a start, taking in a staggered breath. He raises his head slowly to stare at them with bleary eyes. They've brought back the gurney, and they're rolling in other equipment as well, things that he is not sure what they're used for, but menacing nonetheless. He presses himself back into the corner when they come to get him. They pull Max to his feet and strip off his shirt, dragging him over to the gurney. Pushing him onto it, they force him to lie back and wrestle his wrists and ankles back into the restraints.

He doesn't understand why they all back away ... until he hears the door open again. A new wave of terror washes over him when he sees Pierce stroll into the room.

"How are we feeling, Max?" the agent takes his place next to him, looking him over almost casually. "Hmm, you don't look so good," he approves.

Max swallows hard, but doesn't answer, watching him with the wide eyes of prey that has been hypnotized by its predator. Pierce turns away, reaching to take a metal band from the equipment cart. It has wires attached to it that are connected to what Max can only guess is some sort of voltage regulator. The agent holds it idly, turning it over and over in his hands, before refocusing his attention on Max with a chilly smile.

"I wanted to do this myself," he leans over to tell Max in a conspiratorial tone.

Pierce hands the metal band to the technicians, who push it roughly down on Max's head. They then place electrodes on his chest. Max struggles, but can't take his horror-filled eyes away from Pierce, whose smile widens in expectation. Reaching over, he cranks the voltage and watches with keen interest.

Max thought he knew pain, but he hadn't plumbed its true depths until now. The agony is beyond anything he could have ever imagined. His entire body arches like a bow. He strains against the restraints, desperate to free himself and claw the instrument of torture off of his head. His eyes squeeze shut, and his mouth opens as scream after scream escapes him. White hot shards of pain pulsate through his head, taking away every thought and reducing him to an incoherent mass of suffering. He can't get away from it, he can't protect himself from it. He is helpless. When Pierce increases the voltage, the pain is so exquisite that Max loses control of his bladder.

The unrelenting torment finally becomes too much for him to take, and Max loses consciousness. Before the welcome darkness takes him, he hears the hated voice one more time.

"Huh," Pierce sounds almost disappointed. "I guess aliens have no stamina."

The agent waves his arm in Max's general direction, and the technicians take the metal band off. They remove the restraints and replace his soiled scrubs, handling them with distaste, before placing Max on the floor again. The gurney is pushed out of the room, and a special chair is brought in, put near the wall. Pierce goes to the equipment cart, picking up a virtual reality headset. There is a secret smile of anticipation on his face as he looks down at it, and then at the unconscious Max, before putting it back again. He jerks his head towards the door, and the technicians quickly scurry out of the room. Pierce leans casually against the wall, settling in to wait.

He becomes impatient at the length of time that passes. It is while he is beginning to consider ways of forcing Max back to the surface that Pierce sees him begin to stir. He straightens.

The first thing Max is aware of is the cold, unyielding floor beneath him. He lies there, his head pounding relentlessly, trying to work through the confusion that fogs his mind. Then it all comes back to him, along with a heightened sense of awareness of another presence in the room. His entire body jump starts with the burst of adrenaline. Max is a blur as he rockets up off the floor, grabbing Pierce and pinning him against the wall, fisting his jacket tightly.

It is clear from his widened eyes that the agent had no idea Max was capable of such speed and power. Max sees the complete fear and he knows that, for this one moment, Pierce has underestimated him. Max glares at him, breathing harshly. There is only one thought in his mind ... if he could kill his tormentor with his powers, he would.

But Max's body betrays him. There are no powers. And that one act has used up the little strength he has. As he falters, Pierce's smirk returns. Max begins to sag against him, his eyes going unfocused, his head lolling and coming helplessly to rest for a moment on Pierce's shoulder.

"Don't even *try* to use your abilities, Max" Pierce's sibilant whisper is in his ear. "The serum we injected you with … very effective in suppressing the neurotransmitters in your cerebral cortex. Experiments on the alien in the 40's taught us that that's where most of your powers come from."

The agent's grasp on Max's arms is now the only thing holding him up. He begins to walk Max backward across the room, towards the chair that is there. He moves like a tired child, lulled by Pierce's soothing "come on, sit down, it's all right." Max sits down on the chair obediently, all fight gone, his face a mask of weary confusion.

"That’s not your real weakness, though, is it?" Pierce says softly. The hated voice carries a knowing quality, as if he has finally figured out the greatest vulnerability of Max Evans. "I’ve been going about this the wrong way the whole time," he shakes his head, slightly annoyed with himself. "It’s not that you’re part alien; it’s that you’re part human."

The agent's finger presses a button on a remote he's been holding in his hand, activating restraints that are built into the chair. They snap together at his wrists and ankles, startling Max and setting his heart pounding in renewed fear. Pierce moves to the equipment cart, taking up the virtual reality visor and coming to stand behind Max. He jams it down on Max's head, pulling low, gutteral sounds of terror from him.

'No more. Please, no more,' Max silently begs. He feels his stomach muscles start to tighten as the now-familiar flood of adrenaline once again starts to flow through his veins. His body strains against the restraints. He knows what's coming, knows that he can't stop it. Every nerve is screaming as he waits for it to begin.

Pierce gives no warning as he uses the remote to activate the headset. Max flinches, his entire body clenching in sick anticipation as he tries to somehow brace himself for the agony that will once again pulsate through his head.

It never comes. Instead of the pain, Max sees an image in front of his eyes. Michael.

"You have feelings," Pierce tells him, his voice carrying the slightest hint of disbelief.

The image changes, morphing into his beautiful sister. Isabel.

"Emotions."

Another press of Pierce's finger on the remote shows him two more people who have become important to him. Alex and Maria.

"Friendship."

And the image changes one last time. The dread has been building steadily with each loved one shown him, and Max barely holds back a moan. Liz.

"Love," Pierce lets the word roll mockingly off his tongue.

As Max gazes at her beautiful face, the scene suddenly morphs out of all recognition. Instead of her smiling visage, he sees her body being placed on a gurney, blood streaming from her nose, her head falling to one side. Lifeless.

dead ... dead ... Dead ... Dead ... DEAD ... DEAD ... DEAD ...

Grief wells up inside of him ... towering, violent swells of anguish that crash in razor-sharp waves over his heart, slicing it into bleeding ribbons as they fall and recede and then build to fall again. A long, agonized wail of desolation and denial finally escapes.

" ... Noo!!"

"Trick photography, Max," Pierce tells him.

" ... Noo!!! ... NOOO!!!" his screams rend the air. He can't stop; he'll never be able to stop.

"Max. Max! Computer rigged. Virtual reality, Max. It's not real. It's not real," he shouts in Max's ear, trying to get him to understand. "We didn't kill her, we didn't kill her," he lowers his voice as he realizes that Max is subsiding, that he's getting through to him.

Max can barely breathe. How can he accept anything that Pierce tells him? But, for the first time since he's been captured, Max wants to believe his tormentor, chooses to believe him. In an agony of desperation, he latches on to the hope of the words he hears ... truth or lie ... and holds them fiercely to his chest.

'Not dead. Not dead,' he whispers to himself. 'She's not dead.'

"I just wanted to show you what can happen. What will happen," the agent tells him.

"You're evil," Max's voice is low, hushed with horror and revulsion.

"I'm evil?" Pierce scoffs. "I'm risking my life to save my country, my planet, from being colonized by alien life. By you. Tell me where the other one is."

"The other what?" Max asks wearily.

"We found this in the crash," Pierce thrusts the orb in front of Max's face. "We have spent fifty years looking for the other one, and we know that you have it. It took a little persuading," there is a hint of satisfaction in his voice at the memory, "but Topolsky told us. Tell me where it is."

Max's lips tighten as he remains silent. Despite Pierce's shouted "Tell me!" he refuses to speak, to give up the location of the other orb.

In a rage, the agent raises his hand, now ready to beat the answers out of Max. At the very last second, he restrains himself with effort, slowly lowering his arm. Walking away for a moment, he carefully straightens his suit, using the time to regain his composure. He then takes a deep breath, obviously having decided on a different course of action.

"Okay," Pierce says calmly. "I'm going to give you a choice, Max. You can either tell me where the other orb is, or you can tell me which one of your friends you want me to kill first. Hmm?" He thrusts his arm into Max's field of vision, pulling back on his sleeve to reveal his watch. "And you have 10 seconds."

The agent's finger pushes a button on the remote that is still in his hand, and the countdown begins.

"Maybe," Pierce's voice is a whisper in his ear, an almost seductive slide of words that lets Max know he's relishing the idea, "maybe I'll start with Liz."

With another simple press on the remote, the vision of a bloodied and lifeless Liz once again fills the screen, and he delivers the coup de grace.

Screams that have fallen to a whisper inside of Max, but have never really stopped, rise up once again, choking him. He knows ... he knows ... they will kill her. He doesn't know how, and he doesn't know where, but they will take Liz and she will die, horribly and violently. Because of him. He can't let that happen. He will never let that happen. As long as there is breath in his body, he will do whatever he has to do to protect her from them. If it means giving up the orb, then the orb is well lost.

"Okay, stop it!" his despair rings out in the silent room. "Stop!!"

And *there* it is. What he has been waiting for so long to hear is at last in Max's voice ... surrender. Pierce comes up behind Max and quickly pulls the virtual reality headset off. He hurries to crouch in front of Max, staring up at him, searching. The defeat he sees etched on Max's features makes him smile as he realizes that he has finally worn him down and beaten him. The resultant thrill that courses through Pierce is almost orgasmic, better than really good sex. Not that there was ever any doubt, he smugly tells himself. The alien was never a match for him from the very beginning.

"I'll tell you where it is," Max says hollowly. A note of pleading comes into his voice. "Just don't hurt Liz."

"Huh. You do have feelings. Just like us." Pierce sounds vaguely surprised.

Max barely hears him. He stares straight ahead, seeing nothing as the tears he has fought for so long begin to well up in his eyes; one escapes to slide silently down his cheek, followed by another, and another.

He is completely broken.

"Whatever you are, you better tell me the truth ... for Liz's sake."

Pierce knows that there really was no need to utter that last threat. It is simply another twist of the knife in a soul that has already been cruelly wounded. He takes a deep, satisfying breath and smiles.

In a monotone voice, Max tells the agent exactly where to find the orb. Pierce hurries from the room, eager to take possession of the elusive communicator that has been the object of an unprecedented fifty year hunt.

Max has no idea how long he will be left alone, and he really doesn't care. He stares blankly at the white walls, the ever-eternal white walls. An incredible numbness has taken over, and it is a relief to simply feel nothing. After all the relentless torment he's endured, he has finally overloaded. Something inside of him has just disconnected.

He closes his eyes, too exhausted to keep them open any longer. He lets his mind drift to thoughts of Liz, even though he feels unworthy now. His thoughts of her are the only thing keeping him going, and he envisions her kneeling beside him.

He can feel the brush of her warm fingers against his cheek, and he turns his face away, defeat in every line of his body. He is so tired.

"I tried, Liz," Max says thickly. "I tried so hard to be strong, to give that bastard nothing. And in the end," a deep breath shudders in his chest, "in the end I told him everything he wanted to know."

Liz's hand cradles his jaw, gently urging him to lift his head. Although he gives in, his eyes remain fixed on the ground, and she crouches lower to catch his gaze.

When he finally meets her eyes, his own well up again with tears. He sees no disappointment in their dark depths.

"I couldn't ... " his voice cracks, and he swallows hard before trying again. "I couldn't let them take you. I would never let them take you. You have to know that."

"And yet," Liz shakes her head in tender reproach, "you seem to feel that it's somehow made you a failure. Don't you see?" her gaze is luminous. "Don't you see that you didn't lose? That you are more human than Agent Pierce will ever be?"

Liz reaches up to brush his lips with her own. Max wishes that his arms were free, that he could wrap them around her and forget everything in the press of her body against his. When she tries to break the kiss, he follows her as best he can, not ready for the caress to end. After long moments, she finally leans back.

Max's gaze clings to hers. Her presence, her words, her very understanding, are the balm that his weary heart has needed. Somehow, amazingly, he can feel determination beginning to gather inside. He sees it in Liz's eyes ... she knows that he will try and fight his way back one more time from the brink of being destroyed by Daniel Pierce. Her smile is radiant.

"You come back to me, Max Evans," she whispers as she leans forward to rest her forehead against his. "I'm waiting for you."

tbc

[Realistic Dreamer]

Gentle Readers ...

Thank you again for your feedback and encouragement. It really means so much to me, and I love to hear what you think.


The Lost Summer of the White Room - Prologue, Part 4


The head of the special unit once again enters the white room, and he stops. There is a look of supreme satisfaction on his face, for in his hands he is finally holding both of the orbs.

He sees Max slumped over in the chair, having fallen into a fitful sleep, his head resting on his arm. His position is made awkward by the restraints. As he watches, Max begins to wake up, slowly lifting his head. Pierce takes the moment to study him. Max is clearly exhausted, his too-pale face the color of skim milk, a bruised look around his eyes that is emphasized by the dark smudges beneath them. He can see tired confusion in Max's features during the unguarded moments that he looks around.

As Pierce continues to study him, he sees Max straighten with effort, becoming more alert and wary. The agent is slightly surprised that there still seems to be some fight left in Max. No matter. That is easily taken care of. He walks up to Max, placing both of the orbs carefully on a small table that is next to his chair.

"You finally told me the truth about where you hid them," he commends. His voice hardens. "Now, make them work."

"I can't," Max says, apprehension beginning to thicken his voice.

"Do it!" Pierce raises an impatient hand, ready to strike.

"I'm telling you the truth now, too."

"Make them work," the agent grips the arms of Max's chair, looming over him, threatening. "Make the orbs work."

Max's weariness bleeds from every word. "I don't ... know ... how ..."

Pierce crouches in front of Max's chair, staring at him for a moment, before rising and lifting his voice. "Let's begin," Pierce commands.

The technicians, all of whom have been waiting for his signal, come swarming in to the room. Max turns his head as they enter, frantically tries to follow their movements. They bring with them monitors, IV poles and bags, a cloth-covered equipment tray on wheels, and a long, metal gurney. Pierce removes the tray from its base and places it in front of Max, flipping back the material to reveal large, razor sharp instruments. These aren't the surgical kind. These are the hack-and-saw autopsy kind. The agent picks one up and handles it carefully, the gleaming edges lethal. Max can't take his terrified gaze off it.

"I can take you apart, piece by piece," his voice is once again a silky whisper that seems to slide over Max, "and make sure that you stay conscious enough to feel every second of it." He leans forward, and there is that smile of anticipation on his face again.

"Think about it."

He wants this, Max realizes. Pierce wants this.

And it is at this moment that Max understands that, just as he hadn't plumbed the true depths of pain before the session of electrical shock, he hadn't plumbed the true depths of fear either.

'What does that mean?' the thought screams through his head over and over. 'What does that mean?!'

'What the fuck does that mean?!?'

God help him, what are they going to do to him? Lay open his chest, and take out one organ at a time? Remove each limb one by one? Will they take away his eyes? Leave him as nothing but some blinded, mutilated thing, all while keeping him alive?

What will be left of him when Pierce is done?

The wave of helpless panic that washes over Max is so suffocating that it leaves him gasping for air. He has become almost mindless with dread.

"I can't tell you what I don't know," he pleads, anguished desperation in his eyes. "I can't tell you what I don't know!"

Pierce studies him for a moment. "Bring in the surgeons," he finally says.

As the surgeons make their way into the room, the technicians come to stand beside Max's chair. When they signal that they're ready, Pierce activates the remote, and the restraints pop open. They pull Max from the chair and his legs give way immediately; he is too weak to put up any sort of resistance.

The sounds that come from him are the low grunts and harsh breathing of pure primal terror. He turns his head to search the eyes of each one of them, one after another, as they drag him to the metal gurney. He sees no mercy.

There is no hope for him.

Once he is restrained again, Pierce makes his way casually over to Max's side.

"This man," he points to one of the surgeons that is standing by, holding out a scalpel for Max's horrified inspection, "will hurt you. This man," another faceless one who enters Max's field of vision has a large syringe filled with a green liquid in his hand, "will help you. Tell me what I need to know, and he will take the pain away."

And now Max knows how it is all going to end. He isn't a fool; he hears exactly what Pierce is telling him. The agent doesn't say that they will stop, merely that Max won't feel it anymore. Whatever he tells them isn't going to change what's going to happen to him. They are going to take him apart either way. The bargaining power of the orbs is not in keeping Max from being mutilated ... it is in keeping him from feeling the exquisite pain of it.

And, with that realization, resolve wells up inside of him. There is only one thing that he still has control over, and that's how he chooses to endure. He knows that he will eventually become a broken, mindless, screaming thing, but he will not make it easy for them. He'll try to acquit himself bravely and well for as long as he can. It's all he has left.

"Who's ... inhuman ... now?" his voice trembles with weakness.

Malice and hate flare in Pierce's eyes at his words. But, there is also complete satisfaction in them as well. That's because Max has really given the agent exactly what he wanted, all the way down the line. His refusal to tell Pierce where the orb was allowed him to torture Max. His threats against Liz and his family and his friends forced Max to give up its location. He has done what none of the other heads of the Special Unit have been able to do. After 50 years, Daniel Pierce is the one who has taken possession of the other orb. And now, Max's inability to tell him how they work is the green light that the agent has been waiting for ... his chance to take the alien apart. No more reading the documentation. It's the real thing this time.

"Open him up," Pierce orders in a matter-of-fact voice.

In his terror, Max retreats from reality. His determined pulling away from the hell he that is in is total and absolute. He knows that he will never get to tell Liz all the things that are on his heart, so he goes to her in his mind. His only chance to say good-bye to her is there.

She is standing small and straight and true as he comes to her. The love shining in her eyes has been his strength; it's what's kept him alive.

He stops in front of her, gazing down at her beloved features, his own expression sad and resigned. The space between them becomes as nothing as they sway together, his hand lifting to lovingly tuck her silky hair back behind her ear. A tremulous smile graces her lips at the familiar act, and she wraps her fingers around his wrist, pressing a lingering kiss there.

"I wish," his dark head is bent over hers as he whispers with infinite regret, "I wish I could have seen you ... one more time."

"Please, please come back to me," her low voice, husky with unshed tears, pleads.

Max tries to smile. "I don't think they'll let me."

He lowers his head, his lips searching for hers. They cling to each other tightly, desperately needing to become one, all the while knowing that everything is against them and his time is short.

She moans when the kiss ends, lifting her face to see the heartbreaking sorrow in his eyes, as his thumb gently caresses her cheek.

"I love you," his words are so quietly spoken that they are barely a breath of sound.

It is while he is imagining these final moments with her that he feels Isabel's presence hovering around the edges of his awareness. At first, he doesn't respond, simply staring blankly at the ceiling, completely lost in the world he's created. Her probing becomes more and more strident as she takes his face between her hands, willing him to see her.

"Max! Max, Max! There’s no time. You have to listen to me," she cries, frantic for him to hear. "Michael and Nasedo are coming to rescue you. Ok, Max? Max, do you hear me? Please, Max, please! You have to listen to me!"

Max takes a shuddering breath, coming back from the deep recesses of his mind to the more accessible awareness of the dream plane. He looks up at Isabel, and the all-consuming fear he's once again beginning to feel is written all over his features.

"H-he ... wants me ... to make the orbs work," he gasps. His eyes are wide with terror as he silently begs her to tell him what to do.

Isabel falters for a moment, biting her lip uncertainly. She has no idea how they work.

"Okay," she says. "Tell him anything. Get him alone," Isabel stresses. "Get Pierce alone in this room. Tell him anything." Max understands what she's saying; he'll have to make something up.

He realizes that she's beginning to be crowded out, that her place is being taken by the faceless surgeons. 'No! No, don't leave, please don't leave,' he pleads in his mind. Tears blur his vision, and he blinks them furiously away, needing desperately to see her. But she is gone.

And then sheer agony brings him back completely to the surface. They're making the first incision, slicing down into the flesh of his chest. He can't hold back the cry of anguish at the pain, feeling the warm blood begin to flow over his skin.

"Stop!!!"

Pierce has been standing next to the gurney, watching with a fascination that is terrible and obscene. He's waited for this for years, for his entire career. To see what only a select few have seen ... the inside of an alien. A fleeting look of disappointment crosses his features. Max has succumbed so quickly. The agent was hoping it would go much farther before he had to call a halt to the proceedings. But he is philosophical. After all, there are the inner workings of the orbs to consider, and it's not like Max is going anywhere. There really is all the time in the world to take him apart.

"Stop," he echoes, holding up his hand in an imperious gesture.

"I'll ... tell you how they work," Max tells him, his voice trembling. "But only you."

The agent pauses before making a sweeping, almost theatrical motion with his arm. "Clear the room," he commands, his gaze holding Max's captive. They all hurry to follow his orders, closing the door behind them. Pierce then removes the restraints on Max's wrists, and uses some gauze to wipe at the blood on his chest.

Max's face is ashen, his eyes dark with misery. Soft, low grunts of pain accompany every breath he takes. He pushes back on his elbows as he moves to sit up, his weakness making him clumsy and slow. He looks down in horror at the deep cut on his chest; his fingers skim, touching it carefully, almost unable to believe it's there.

Pierce wastes no time, picking up the orbs from the tray and giving them to Max. "Make them work," his voice is low and soft, but the demand is clear.

His terror palpable, Max takes the communicators and holds them awkwardly, not knowing what he should do to try and fake it. He finally puts the orbs together, matching up the whirlwind symbols. His heart pounds relentlessly as the agent watches closely, waiting for something to happen. Max can feel Pierce's impatience seething below the surface.

"It takes ... a little time," he stalls breathlessly as he continues to hold the orbs together, twisting them slightly as if the motion will activate them.

Moments tick by, and Pierce finally huffs out an angry breath.

"I'm bringing them back," he says flatly.

"No," Max's voice is hoarse, pleading. "Just wait."

"You had your chance," the agent leans close to hiss in Max's ear. He turns and starts to walk away, intent on calling for the surgeons again.

Swallowing hard, Max doggedly continues his pitiable charade, holding the orbs, turning them in his shaking hands. He can't look at the agent. He continues to focus on the orbs and, in an agony of fear, he waits ... for the faceless ones to come swarming back, for his reprieve to be over and for his mutilation to resume. What he doesn't wait for is any sort of rescue. Although Isabel's told him that they'll come for him, he doesn't really believe it. They can't know where he is, because he doesn't know where he is.

Max is surprised and at a loss when Pierce comes back to lean both elbows on the equipment tray and gaze at the orbs. He wonders if it's some sort of trick, or some new game he's playing. Hazarding a quick look, Max is stunned to see eager fascination in the agent's eyes, a small smile beginning to curve the corners of his lips as he stares. The deep breath Pierce takes is pure satisfaction. Max looks down at the orbs with a frown, wondering what it is that he can possibly see.

An explosion rocks the room, startling him. Max throws up an arm protectively, shielding his face from flying glass as the two way mirror shatters. His adrenaline flows faster, his heart speeds up at this new, unexpected threat. When he sees Michael and a virtual stranger step through the hole, dressed in standard-issue FBI suits, he is confused and wary. He doesn't know whether to trust what he sees or not. He wonders if the drugs and the extreme physical and emotional torture have taken their toll, and if his hold on reality is finally slipping.

"It's Nasedo, Maxwell, don't worry," Michael hurries to the gurney, trying to reassure him. He takes the orbs and slips them in his pockets while Nasedo loosens the remaining restraints, pulling them back and freeing Max.

"Are you all right?" Michael asks, while the shapeshifter helps Max move his legs around.

He'll never be all right again.

"I am now," his voice is low and strained as he slides off the gurney. His knees buckle immediately. He can't stand by himself, and Michael moves to grab him before he falls to the floor. He pulls Max's arm around his shoulders and tightens his grip around his waist. Max sags, his head lolling. He hasn't the strength for this.

"All right, let's go," Michael pants. He struggles toward the opening, almost carrying Max.

Max can hear Michael and Nasedo arguing back and forth, but he can't seem to follow the conversation. He knows that Michael is angry and upset, but isn't sure why. The only thing that Max is worried about is Pierce stopping them. He lifts his head to look back anxiously, wondering why the agent is letting them go. Pierce is in the same position, smiling as he stares into space, oblivious to what's going on right in front of him.

Michael starts moving again. Max can't seem to keep his legs under him to walk, and Michael has to drag him much of the way. The claxon sound of alarms begins to resound, and Max's heart lurches in his chest. They've realized he's gone, and they want him back. Michael drags him through a set of doors, and a breathless, wounded moan escapes Max when two agents stop them. He can't go back. He can't go through any more.

Michael tells the men that Pierce ordered him to get the prisoner out, and the agent needs them. The urgency in Michael's voice convinces them, and they go to help, leaving the way clear again. With great effort, Max lifts his head. He can see the sheriff, standing at the entrance, waiting for them. Michael adjusts his grip as Valenti moves to help.

Max knows one more moment of complete terror as the sheriff brushes around them, pulling out his service revolver. He doesn't hesitate at all, firing his weapon. Max flinches, trying to see who Valenti was shooting at. Pierce is on the floor, blood spurting from a wound in his shoulder, and Max is fiercely glad.

The sheriff hurries to help as the security doors clang shut behind them. The facility is now in lockdown, and Pierce and the Special Unit are on the other side, with no way to get to him anymore. Michael and Valenti help Max out of Eagle Rock, and Max breathes in the clean, sweet air. Close to breaking down completely, tears blur his vision and he blinks them away.

As they assist him down the path to the waiting cars, he can see Liz in the distance. In a completely literal sense, he's free.

[Realistic Dreamer]

Gentle Readers ...

Your generous feedback has truly touched my heart. I appreciate it more than I can say, especially given the content of the prologue. It was probably the hardest thing I ever wrote, trying to give Max's point of view on the darkest time in his life. It was something that I felt needed to be examined.

I want to thank Flamehair, cocopucks, frenchkiss70, Ellie, Sali103, FaithfulAngel24, begonia9508, majikhands, behrinthecity, BelevnDreamsToo, Mt Gazer, Timelord31, ruthandnina, LovinGuerin2Much, Erina258, linliz68, trulov, Michelle in Yonkers, cherie, Scottie and alienmom for the awesome feedback. It really encouraged me, and helped me feel that I was getting across how horrific this was for Max.

I also want to thank all the lurkers who have been reading this. I'm really a lurker myself much of the time. I love that you've been following along with this.

A special thanks goes to Debi, Angie, Debbi, Lindsay, Sylvia, Kath and Liz for their continued support, ideas and brainstorming. You're really the best.


Chapter 1

Max shuts the door to his room, easing it closed. He turns the knob carefully so as to make no sound, as if even the slightest click would upset his tenuous grip on his control. He remains still for a moment before turning and leaning back against the wood, releasing a shaken breath. Slowly, his knees unlock and he slides to the floor.

A shudder runs through him as he stares blankly in front of him, thinking back to the moment he walked into his home for the first time since ... since ...

He remembers the word that went through his mind.

'Showtime.'

Max and Isabel enter the house and his gaze quickly moves around the room. He has to reassure himself that things are just as they've always been, that nothing's changed. More than anything he needs, needs the safety and security of his familiar surroundings. But what he feels is a vague disquiet. Although everything is as it's always been, it seems foreign, different ... off. His first reaction is that the room is drab and dull, the air is somehow lifeless. And then he realizes that it's not the room, it's him.

Max hears his mother moving around in the kitchen and turns to Isabel, who is watching him anxiously.

"Shit. What did you tell them?" he asks in a low voice, alarmed to realize he hadn't thought about a cover story. "Did you get a chance to tell Mom and Dad anything about why we were gone?"

"Friday night - carnival in Hondo, Saturday - day at the lake," she elaborates quickly. "You stayed at Michael's both nights, I was with Liz and Maria. We were celebrating taking the last of our finals. I had the chance to check in with them a couple of times, so I don't think we need to worry about them being suspicious."

Max nods. There is a flicker of something in his eyes at the mention of the carnival that is gone almost immediately. Isabel lays her hand on his arm, and she can feel the muscles tighten, almost as if he wants to pull away. She watches Max make a conscious effort to relax.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I was so afraid that I would get tripped up trying to remember what I'd told them. I figured that nothing succeeds like the truth, so I tried to stay close to that."

"No. No, you did great," he shakes his head. "It's a good cover story."

"Max. Isabel," he turns at the sound of his name to see his mother coming from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. "When did you get in?" she asks.

"Just now," Isabel pins a bright smile on her face.

"Well, you two look exhausted," their mother scolds lightly as she walks up to give her daughter a hug.

Max watches them with eyes that are suddenly filling with tears. Furiously he fights them back, as he had in the white room. The burst of overwhelming emotion has caught him off guard. All the way back from the desert, he had been steeling himself for the moment he'd see his parents, worried that he would break down in front of them. By the time they'd pulled in the driveway, he'd thought he was in control and ready.

"Celebrating the end of finals is serious work," Isabel laughs, looking over her mother's shoulder to see Max struggling to get a grip on himself. She prolongs the hug, trying to give him more time to regain his composure.

Gently, Diane disengages herself to move over to her son. Max gives her a sheepish look, lifting his hand to awkwardly scratch at the back of his ear.

"Michael's couch isn't exactly conducive to a good night's sleep," he tells her ruefully, before she pulls him into her arms.

He remains frozen for the smallest moment before he forces himself to wrap his arms around her. He closes his eyes and a shuddering sigh escapes.

Diane leans back to look at him, a frown wrinkling her forehead. She reaches up to brush his hair back in that mothering way she has, and suddenly it's all Max can do to keep the panic off his face and not pull away.

*** Pierce makes a great show of tenderness, gently brushing Max's hair back from his forehead.

"Shh, shh …" ***

"Are you okay?" there is concern in her voice.

Max forces himself to nod and smile.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," he tells her. "I just need a shower and a decent night's sleep, that's all."

"Well, can you hold off a bit? We were just going to start dinner. Your father is outside firing up the grill for steaks, and I could use some help in the kitchen," she grins. "We thought we could continue your celebration."

When it's ready, Max sits down at the table and makes himself eat every bite, cleaning his plate as if he is any other starving teenager. He thanks his parents for the excellent meal and waits as long as he can before excusing himself. Walking into the bathroom, he closes the door quietly behind him, kneels in front of the toilet, and throws up everything he ate.

When his stomach is empty, he falls back weakly to sit on the floor. He pulls up the neck of his t-shirt to wipe the sweat from his face, wondering if he has it in him to get up. Once the serum they'd given him had worn off, sometime during the night in the van, his alien physiology allowed him to recover some of his strength. But the events of the day have drained it all away again. He is just so tired.

The entire evening was one long nightmare of making small talk and acting normal. Max lets his head fall back against the door and closes his eyes. He hopes that he never has to go through that again. A mirthless little chuckle begins to well up, and he clamps down on it immediately because he can feel the dark undercurrent of hysteria behind it.

He knows better than that. This is only the beginning. Tomorrow, he will get up and go to school, and act as if nothing ever happened. He'll clean out his locker for the summer, get through the blow-off day, and then go to work at the UFO Center. And he will pretend that everything's normal, and that he is fine.

Max runs a weary hand down his face. He then holds it in front of him, watching it tremble, closing it into a fist to keep it steady. Listlessly, he lets it drop into his lap. He should get up and move toward the shower, but he can't find the energy. For a long time he sits there, just staring.

It is only when he hears Isabel coming down the hall that he struggles to his feet. He knows that he's avoiding her, but he simply can't deal with any more right now. He walks into his bathroom and shuts the door, going to the shower to turn on the water. Over the sound of the spray, he hears her tentative knock.

Moving to the door, he leans his forehead against it as he asks her what she wants.

"I just wanted to know how you were doing," she tells him. "I thought maybe you'd like to ... to talk."

Taking a deep breath, he backs up and cracks the door.

"Thanks, Iz, for checking on me," he says in a low voice, trying to smile but not quite succeeding. "I'm okay. I just ... I just want to take a shower and go to bed."

He can see the concern on her face, and he knows that she's worried about him, that she wants him to confide in her. But he can't, he just can't. It's too raw, too close to the surface, too dark and ugly and all too terrifying. He is barely holding it together as it is. If he lets even the smallest piece of it go, it will all come down around him and it will bury him alive.

Finally, Isabel thrusts her hand through the crack in the door. Max grasps it, gently tightening his grip for a moment, before releasing it. She pulls away, and then backs up slowly to turn and leave the room. Max once again closes the door and leans his head against it, fighting back the tears that sting his eyes.

Blowing out a breath, he straightens and begins to strip off his clothes, throwing them into the corner. Later, he tells himself, he will wad them up and take them out to the trash. There are too many memories associated with them; he won't wear them again.

Max steps into the tub, pulling the curtain closed behind him. He positions himself directly under the shower head, bracing his hands on the tiled wall in front of him. With his head bowed, he lets the hot water sluice over his tired body, closing his eyes. He stays there for a long time before shaking himself out of his abstraction, grabbing the soap and a washcloth. He pauses for a moment to adjust the temperature. It just isn't hot enough. He adjusts it again, until the water just short of scalding.

As he slowly lathers his body, he stares at the wall, but doesn't see it. Max's mind has begun to drift, and before he realizes it, he is back in the white room. His face crumples, panic flaring in his eyes as he once again feels their hands on him.

They are restraining him, stripping him to take samples of his hair, mucus, sweat, saliva … semen.

They are drugging him.

They are holding him down in the icy water, pushing him under, not letting him breathe.

They are tearing his head apart with white hot shards of agony.

They are hurting him.

They are killing him.

An agonized cry is torn from him as he throws the cloth against the wall. He drops to his knees, water cascading around him. He can't stop shaking as harsh, guttural sobs wrack him. Tears that he told himself he would never shed again course down his face.

More than anything, he hates how helpless he was. That they could do whatever they wanted to him, and he couldn't stop them. That he was so exposed, so vulnerable. That he was less than nothing. Not human. A thing.

He wraps his arms around his stomach as he rocks back and forth in grief and helpless rage. He hates them for what they've taken from him ... his relative innocence and naivete. Max hates them more for what they've put in it's place ... intimate, firsthand knowledge of the depths of cruelty and depravity that men can sink to. Unconsciously, his fingers go to his chest, to the place where they began to open him up. He shudders, because he can once again feel the blade slicing through his flesh.

Max looks down, somehow expecting to see the deep cut, even though he knows he's already healed it. There was a small part of him that thought about leaving it to heal by itself, so that it would scar. A reminder. But he'd never be able to explain it away.

Max struggles to stop his emotional freefall. He can't do this. He can't let himself do this. He has to get back in control, be in control, remain in control and never lose that control again. Because if he doesn't, he'll go insane.

Max begins to relentlessly push it back, push it away, push it deep into some dark place in his psyche where he can close it off and wall it up. He tells himself that he can't deal with it now, that he has no time for this. He has to push it away, because if he doesn't, he'll never be able to pull off pretending that things are normal.

He finally gets up, turning off water when he feels it getting cold, shivering at the dark, unbidden memory of an ice bath. He towels himself dry and puts on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, avoiding looking at himself in the mirror. He really doesn't want to know if there are any ravages from his ordeal still on his face, or if his eyes are truly as haunted as he feels.

Max steps into his room and walks over to the nightstand by his bed, grabbing the handset for his phone. He presses the number one, his speed dial for Liz. As it rings, he tries to think of an opening line he can use. He's sure that her defenses will still be up, that he has a daunting task ahead of him to try and convince her to change her mind, but for now he just needs to hear her voice.

"Hi, this is Liz. I can't come to the phone right now. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you."

"Hey ... hey, it's Max," he falters for a moment, before going on more strongly. "I know that this isn't the time to get into it," he gives a shaky laugh at the sheer understatement of it all. "It's all too weird and complicated for that. Just ... just please, please meet with me tomorrow ... after school maybe ... and talk to me? We really need to talk. Bye," he says softly, before disconnecting.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, his legs spread, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands loosely clasping the handset. He brings it up to his face, resting his forehead against it, closing his eyes. Max wishes he could talk to her, but it's probably better this way. There is so much lying between them right now, and over the phone isn't the best way to begin and address any of it.

He replaces the handset with a sigh, and pulls back the covers on his bed. He crawls between them, his entire body aching. As his eyes flutter closed, he can feel himself already drifting off. Instinctively, he pulls himself into a fetal position as he falls into a troubled sleep.

[Realistic Dreamer]

Gentle, Gentle Readers ...

I really don't know what to say. I am so amazed by your feedback, how you're responding to the story. That you trust me to tell this just blows me away. I really hope that I can live up to you expectations.

I want to thank jbcna, behrinthecity, sylvia37, Timelord31, flamehair, frenchkiss70, Ellie, BelevnDreamsToo, cherie, Erina258, linliz68, Gater101, alienmom, Devil Kitty, Scottie, Breathless, ruthandnina, trulov, Applebylicious, LovinGuerin2Much, out of this world and gnomie for taking the time to leave such awesome feedback.

I also want to thank everyone who lurks (people after my own heart) for taking the time to read this. I appreciate the unspoken support so much.


The Lost Summer of the White Room - Chapter 2

"Maaax," the familiar voice croons. "Maaax. You need to wake up now."

Lying on the cold metal gurney, a helpless whimper escapes Max as he turns his head away. He clenches his fists in the restraints, his eyes remaining tightly closed. He doesn't want to see him. He doesn't want to have to look upon the face of his tormentor. Not again.

Daniel Pierce is a handsome man, soft-spoken and urbane, charming when he wants to be. His very appearance is what makes the evil of his heart all the more horrifying.

"It's time to play, Max," the agent leans over to murmur in his ear. "Did I ever tell you that my favorite game in the whole world was Operation? Of course, you don't look anything like the patient on the board, but it'll be fun to try and find all the same parts. Tell me," his voice slides to a whisper, "do aliens have a wishbone?"

Max whips his head around, opening his eyes to look at him. Pierce is smiling as he holds out a pair of forceps for him to see, turning it this way and that, the lights winking off the gleaming surface of the instrument. Max swallows hard against the overwhelming fear that clogs his throat, threatening to choke him.

"I'm tired of reading the documentation, Max," the agent tells him as he twirls the forceps between his fingers. "It's so dry and boring, so hopelessly out of date. It's all decades old. That," Pierce shakes his head almost regretfully, "is completely unacceptable. It's time to bring everything up into the new millenium, and you're going to help us do it. It was so good of you to volunteer," he approves.

At the briefest nod of the agent's head, the technicians appear, wheeling in an instrument tray. Pierce sets the forceps down and turns toward them, holding out his arms. They help him don a green surgical gown. Latex gloves are snapped into place on his hands and a mask is tied around his face. When he turns to Max again, only his eyes are visible. They are sparkling with anticipation.

"I'm ready to begin. Scalpel," he orders, and the instrument is slapped into his waiting, outstretched hand. "I've always wanted to say that," he leans over to confide, before straightening again.

Max watches him line up his first stroke, pressing the razor sharp steel down against his chest. A bright bead of blood appears on his skin, and it blurs as tears of sheer terror fill Max's eyes. Pierce makes the first bold cut, slicing well down into his flesh, scraping along his sternum. Max's scream of agony rends the air.

"Now," he hears Pierce say, "let's see if we can find that wishbone."

"Max! Max! You have to wake up," a voice commands, close to his ear.

He feels a hand over his mouth, stifling his screams. Another hand has his wrist in a firm grasp, holding him down. Max is still in the throes of his nightmare. He fights fiercely, twisting and arching his body, desperately trying to escape. Isabel goes flying back into the wall as he shoves her away from him, landing with a thud on the floor, momentarily dazed.

"Don't!" Max's voice cracks as he cries out in terror. He scrambles awkwardly back into the corner of the bed, the covers tangled up around him. "Don't hurt me anymore! Please, please don't," he begs.

"Max," Isabel whispers, horror stricken at the sight of her brother wrapping his arms protectively around his chest, his whole body shaking.

"You won't find what you're looking for inside of me," he pleads hoarsely. "You know you won't find it."

"Max!" Isabel scrambles across the floor, kneeling beside his bed, "Max, you have to wake up! You're having a nightmare."

She has never been so scared in all her life. She realizes that, although his eyes are wide open, he doesn't even know she's there. His gaze is filled with horrible images that only he can see. Max has always, always been in control, and to see him like this is devastating. She swipes at tears that are blurring her vision.

"Max," she lowers her voice to a soothing timbre, "Max, you're okay. You're safe. No one is going to hurt you, not while I'm here," Isabel promises. "We got you out in time."

"No!" pure, primal terror is etched on Max's face. "He's playing a game," he says fretfully, as his fingers move carefully over his chest. He winces as if the deep incision is still there, is still causing him pain. "He's playing a game, and … and I have to play too."

"What game, Max?" Isabel dreads the answer. "What game?"

Max gives a jerky little shake of his head, pressing himself further into the corner. He raises his arms once again in front of his chest, trying to ward off a threat that only he can see.

Isabel is thankful that her parents' room is on the opposite end of the house, and that they keep their door closed at night. She continues to talk to Max in soft, quiet tones, trying to pull him out of his nightmare. She doesn't touch him again, knowing that he won't realize that it's her.

After what seems like an eternity, she can see him begin to subside. His harsh breathing slows and starts to even out, his arms gradually fall to his sides. Isabel can see the tension and terror easing. His eyes blink and finally begin to focus. He turns his head to find her kneeling beside his bed, biting her lip, her blonde hair tangled around her worried face.

"Iz?" his voice is confused. He frowns slightly. "What … what's the matter?"

Max looks down at the covers twisted around him, and he becomes aware of his position on the bed. He makes a strangled sound, low in his throat, and he struggles with the sheets and blankets as he tries to move toward the center of the mattress. Being pressed back into the corner reminds him too much of the White Room. He is dismayed to find that, in his sleep, he seems to have been searching once again for the illusion of relative safety the corners of the Room offered.

"What did I do?" he's apprehensive as he rubs a hand down his face.

"You were having a nightmare. You don't remember?" Isabel asks. When Max looks away she knows that, if he tries to tell her he doesn't remember, it will be a lie.

"Yeah, yeah I do," he finally admits, raking his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair as he turns his gaze back to her again. "And no," he forestalls her, "I don't want to talk about it."

"Max," she argues, "you were screaming and shaking and thrashing around on the bed. Whatever it was, it was bad," her voice trembles a bit. "You have to talk about it."

"I can't," he says harshly, and stops to take a deep breath before he tries to explain. "Look, tomorrow morning, from the minute I walk out of this room, everything has to be normal. I have to pretend everything is fine. I'm just a guy who spent the weekend with his friends celebrating the end of the school year. And that's all."

Isabel gets up off the floor and sits down on the bed, facing Max. She lays her hand on his arm and she can feel the muscles tighten, as if he doesn't want to be touched. She lets go almost immediately as she searches his eyes. She can see something there ... something dark and panicked and haunted. He only meets her gaze for a moment, before looking away again.

"You have to let it alone, Isabel," he falters for a moment, and clears his throat. "I know you want to help, I really do. But, I can't do this, I can't pull this off, if I ... I ..." he trails off helplessly, unable to articulate what's going on inside him. "Don't ask me about it. Please."

Isabel doesn't know what to do. She knows that it's not good that he won't talk about what happened. She wants to argue with him, but she hesitates. She could feel the small, fine tremors under her hand when it rested on his arm, tremors that he is working so hard to control even now. Although he doesn't look at her, she can see on his face that he is struggling to hold himself together. And in his voice she can hear it. He is on the brink, and he's terrified that he will fall.

She can't do it. Max is nowhere near ready to talk about what they did to him. She can't push him. If she does, she could be pushing him right over the edge, and that scares her more than anything else. Isabel blinks back tears at the sight of her broken brother. For this moment, she is ferociously glad that Daniel Pierce is dead.

"Okay, Max," her voice is soft and low and reassuring. "Okay. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

The words are an opening, and she hopes that he'll take her up on her unspoken offer of a listening ear. She's not surprised, however, when he doesn't say anything. Isabel stays with him for awhile. The silence is long and unbroken, because she doesn't know what to say and Max doesn't want to talk. Finally, when he seems calmer and more in control, she gets up and gestures towards the door.

"I'm gonna go back to bed now," she tells him, "unless you want me to stay?" There is a questioning note in her voice.

Max looks up at her and shakes his head.

"No, you go ahead. I'm fine."

Isabel can't help the little snort that escapes her at his words. She reaches down and gives his arm a quick rub, again feeling his slight, unconscious pulling away.

"Iz," his voice stops her when she reaches the door, and she turns back to look at him.

"Thanks," he says softly.

She gives a him a shaky smile, her eyes stinging with tears, before turning away and leaving the room.

Max watches the door close, and moves to get up off the bed. His t-shirt is soaked with sweat, sticking to him. He needs to take another shower. He frowns when he realizes that he is still all tangled up in the covers. He begins to push at them, and his movements become more frantic when he can't seem to get them undone. They're twisted around him like living things, binding him. Suddenly, he's in a full blown panic. He kicks and tears at them, finally getting free, and he throws the sheets and blankets away from him with a muffled cry.

His hand is trembling when he rubs it down his face, breathing hard. They're only bed covers, he tells himself as his heart pounds.

Max makes himself get up, get a fresh t-shirt and pair of boxers, and move to the bathroom. His shower is a quick one. When he comes back into the room, he glances at the clock. It's 2:30 in the morning and, although he's exhausted, he doesn't even think about lying down. He doesn't want to fall asleep now.

So, he paces. He walks around his room, trying to turn off his increasingly active mind. Max can feel himself tensing up as unbidden memories once again start to work their way to the surface. His stomach begins to churn. As fast as the images flash through his head, he pushes them back. But they keep coming ... sights, sounds, smells, feelings. They're overwhelming. He can't stop them.

'Think about something else,' he coaches himself. 'It's over. You know it's over. Think about something else.'

Max casts a longing look at the cordless phone beside his bed and, before he knows it, he's holding the handset, pushing the number two, his speed dial for Liz's cell. The need to hear her voice, to talk to her, is just too great. His heart catches when the call goes immediately to voicemail, and he presses the disconnect before carefully setting the phone down again.

He tells himself that it's okay, that talking to her face to face will be much better. That once he's gazing into her dark eyes, intertwining her slender fingers with his, feeling her presence all around him as their connection flares to life, then he'll be able to convince her that she's everything to him. That she's all he needs. That they belong together.

Much as he had in the White Room, Max begins to imagine the scene ... where he plans to take her, what he plans to say. He rehearses the whole conversation in his mind.

He gears down the jeep as he pulls to a stop, throwing it into park next to the old radio tower. He holds tightly to the steering wheel as he gathers up his courage. Everything is riding on this. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Max turns to Liz, his heart pounding as he watches her. She's staring through the windshield at the patterns that the shadows of the old tower are making on the hood. A warm, gentle breeze plays with her hair, catching it and blowing it back from her face.

She finally looks at him, her eyes sad and resigned. She bites her lower lip as it trembles, and the first tear brims over to slide down her cheek.

Carefully, he lifts his hand to cradle her jaw, his thumb brushing the tear away.

"I shouldn't have come here with you," she says in a thready voice. "We both know it's over now."

"No," he tells her quietly as he shakes his head. "It's not over, Liz. It'll never be over between us."

"You have a ... a wife, Max," her eyes are tragic as her voice breaks. "And a planet to save. A whole other world that doesn't include me."

"Liz, please. Please listen to me. The man they took my dna from on my home planet, he had a wife. My human donor, maybe he had one too. I don't know," he shrugs helplessly. "But I do know this," he says earnestly. "I know hardly anything about Tess in this life. And what I do know, I don't particularly like. I don't remember anything about her from before. Not one single, solitary thing. Hell," he gives a mirthless laugh, "I don't remember anything about me from that life either."

"Even my mother, from that life ... I didn't recognize her." He frowns. "Seeing her was like seeing a stranger. There was no forgotten emotion that came rushing to the surface when I saw her. Anything I felt was because I thought she was beautiful, and sad."

"I have a mom ... Diane Evans," his eyes are earnest, his voice sure. "My relationship, my mom relationship, is with her. No one will *ever* replace her," he tells her calmly. "I might try to forge some sort of relationship with my mother from the other planet, if the chance ever presents itself, but she will never be first. It won't change what I have with Mom. It never could."

"Don't you see?" Max leans close to press his forehead to hers. "It's the same way with you. When I saw you for the first time, way back in 3rd grade, that was it for me."

Liz closes her eyes, and more tears slip down her flushed cheeks. She gives a shaky, breathless little laugh at the memory of one of the first flashes he'd ever showed her ... a quiet, shy, lonely little boy who saw in a pretty, sweet-faced young girl someone who made him feel, for the first time, that maybe this world had a place for him after all.

"I love you," he says in a low voice. "I love your courage, your loyalty, the way your mind works, all these things about you. What I told you yesterday is the truth ... you mean everything to me."

He pulls back to look deeply into her eyes. "You have to give me a chance, Liz. What we learned, it's all so new and confusing and complicated. I know that."

"There's a whole other world that's depending on you," she looks down, defeat and confusion and the first glimmers of hope all chasing themselves across her features. "I can't get in the way of that."

Max places a warm finger under her chin, gently lifting her face so she can meet his gaze.

"I'm an alien, Liz," he tells her softly. "I don't belong here, but you made a place for me in your heart and in your life. And that gave me a place in this world. Because you love me," his voice cracks a little. "Let me do the same for you, please? Yeah, there's a whole other world that I came from, that seems to need me and Michael and Isabel. You think that maybe you don't belong there, but I can make a place for you too, just like you did for me here, because I love you. Give me a chance to do that. I know I can make it work. At least let me try."

He gathers Liz up in his arms, tears falling down his face, as she breaks down and begins to sob. He presses a kiss onto her shining hair as he whispers in her ear.

"Don't give up on us. We can do this, I know we can. We can figure it out. Just ... just don't give up on us."

Coming out of his reverie, a genuine smile lights up Max's face for the first time since he got home. He thinks ahead to seeing Liz in the morning, so sure that he'll be able to convince her. There is an eager hope in his heart at last.

Stifling a yawn, he grabs the blanket off the floor and lies down on his bed, pulling it up around his shoulders. And he falls asleep with thoughts of reuniting with Liz soothing his wounded soul.

[Realistic Dreamer]

Gentle Readers ...

Thank you again for the incredible feedback. It really means a lot to me, because I love hearing what you think. Ellie, cocopucks, cherie, Gnomie, Frenchkiss70, Flamehair, Sylvia, Erina258, behrinthecity, Timelord31, BelevnDreamsToo, trulov, Scottie, linliz68, IAmLongTimeFan, 561270, Devil Kitty, Bloody Crow and ruthandnina ... I can never thank you enough for the encouragement your feedback gives me. And again, I appreciate everyone who reads this.

This next part is transitionary, which I always have a hard time writing. But, I made myself do it because it's so necessary to set up the next chapter.

Parts of the dialogue come from The Convention, and were taken from transcripts from crashdown.com.

As always, I'd love to hear what you think.


Chapter 3

"Max! Max, wake up," Diane stands in the doorway of her son's room as she tries to rouse him. As she waits for signs of life, she feels a certain amount of nostalgia, realizing that there are only a few more years of the beginning-of-summer routine left. "It's time to get up for school; it's getting late."

When she'd realized that Max hadn't made an appearance yet, she decided to check up on him, finding him sleeping hard. She watches for movement, some indication that he's beginning to stir, because she knows he likes to roll over and catch 10 more minutes, and then 10 more, and then 10 more.

She gets an exasperated look on her face at his lack of response. "Come on, it's the last day you have to do this, lazy. Let's get a move on."

"MAX!" she raises her voice to an almost-shout.

He has been lying on his stomach, his head buried in the pillow, one arm thrown out to hang over the end of the bed. Startled out of his deep sleep, he flies up onto his knees, looking around in a panic, his heart pounding. He is breathing in short pants as he tries to see the latest threat. When he realizes that he's in his own room and that he's safe, he slumps in relief. Max becomes aware of his mother's presence in the door, and he looks hesitantly at her over his shoulder.

"Bad dream?" she asks dryly.

'You have no idea,' he thinks, as he shakes his head slowly in the negative.

"Well, get up. Isabel's already dressed and eating. You know she doesn't like to be kept waiting for a ride," his mom starts down the hall. She comes back to poke her head around the door again, finding him up and moving around the room. "Oh, and one more thing. Milton called. He knows this is your last day of school, and he wants you to start work today as soon as you can. He was muttering something about the summer rush and that you'd understand, and then he hung up. That man," she rolls her eyes, "is a real trip to talk to."

"Yeah, okay," Max's voice is muffled as he pulls his t-shirt over his head. Once he has it off he looks, but his mother is gone, having shut the door quietly behind her.

Tossing the shirt in the hamper, he goes to the dresser to find something to wear, grabbing a pair of khakis and clean underwear. He then heads to the closet, intent on pulling out his short-sleeved, black button-down shirt. It's a little much for the last day of school, but he wants to look good for Liz and he knows that she likes it.

Heading for the bathroom, he takes another quick shower ... his third in less than 24 hours. Once he feels clean again, he steps out of the tub. He uses a large towel to rub himself dry before wrapping it low around his waist and walking back into his room.

Max dresses hurriedly, unwilling to face the wrath of a waiting Isabel, before heading into the bathroom to brush his teeth and comb back his wet hair. It doesn't take him long to finish both tasks, and he begins to turn away. But then he turns back again. He places both palms on the vanity, leaning forward to study his face in the mirror.

He told himself last night that he really didn't want to know if the ordeal had left any lingering effects on his features. That was only partly true. What he really didn't want to see if all the darkness in his soul could be easily read by anyone who was looking closely enough.

Max tries to be impartial as he examines his face, turning his head one way and then the other. His skin is paler than normal, but not too bad. There are no bruises or marks. It's only his shadowed eyes that look dark and weary and old somehow. He gives his reflection an experimental smile, and shudders at the grimace he sees. It's a good thing he's known for being quiet and reserved, he thinks as he turns away, heading into the bedroom.

Max grabs his keys and wallet from off the dresser, walks to the door and pauses. He tells himself that he can do this, that he's done it a million times before, but he feels shaky and nervous and off balance inside. He takes a few deep breaths. Then, like an actor stepping out on stage, he opens the door and walks out of the room. Another charade of normalcy is about to begin.

When he reaches the kitchen, he stops before he enters and gives the air a quick sniff. Max heaves a sigh of relief, thankful that there's no lingering aroma of unrecognizable food today. The last thing he wants to face is another Martha Stewart concoction. He knows his stomach couldn't handle it.

Max can hear his mom and Isabel talking together, so when he walks in he has a small smile on his face. He strolls to his mother's side to plant a quick kiss on her cheek, offering her a quiet "morning." He tells Isabel "hey" as he passes her, seated at the table and casually dressed, clearly ready to go and waiting on him. Max heads to the refrigerator and pulls it open.

He is examining the contents, none of which appeal to him, when he hears his mom leave the room. Even though he's not looking at her, he knows that Isabel is now blatantly studying him. He contemplates the orange juice.

"I can feel your eyes drilling holes in the back of my head, Iz," he says softly, not meeting her gaze as he pulls out the carton. He sets it on the counter and closes the refrigerator door with his foot before digging in a cabinet for a glass.

"Sorry," she looks quickly away with the guilty mien of someone caught in the act.

"But ... " he lets his voice trail off in a leading way.

"But, I'm wondering how you're doing, okay?" she says anxiously.

Max pours himself some juice and returns the carton to the refrigerator. Finding the tabasco sauce, he shakes some in the glass. His back to Isabel, he picks it up to see the dark red color swirl through the juice. He is also watching the liquid ripple, just a bit. His hand must be trembling. Max brings it under control before he turns and walks to where she's sitting.

"I'm fine," he finally answers calmly, taking a sip as he stands next to her.

"Sure," Isabel scoffs. "How can you possibly be fine?"

Max finishes the rest of his juice in a few quick gulps before setting the glass on the table. He jerks his head towards to the door.

"Let's go," he says, his abrupt change in demeanor letting her know that this conversation isn't going to happen, at least not in the kitchen.

He yells a goodbye to his mom and leaves the house, headed for the jeep. He can hear Isabel echo his farewell and slam the back door, hurrying to catch up with him. He walks quickly, his strides smooth and long. Once they settle in the jeep, Max puts the key in the ignition. Before he can start the engine, however, Isabel places her hand on his and he stills.

"How can you be fine, Max?" she demands again, her gaze dark with worry.

Slowly and carefully, he pulls his hand out from under hers. Isabel can see only his profile, because he doesn't look at her. His jaw is tight, his lips pressed together, his eyes slightly narrowed as he looks straight ahead through the windshield.

"Because I have to be. Because I don't have any other choice," Max finally replies. There is a long pause. "Besides," he mutters in a low voice, the words torn from him almost against his will, "believe it or not, I'm used to it. If there's one thing I know how to do, it's this."

"Huh? What do you mean?" she asks, confused by the weary bitterness she can hear. "Do what?"

Max doesn't answer right away, upset with himself for revealing as much as he has. He continues to study the garage door, as if it holds all the answers to his fucked up life.

"I look normal, I act normal, no matter who's watching or why," he finally tells her after a strained silence. "It's all I've done for almost a year, and I'm really good at it now."

"All the time, when the Sheriff was watching me, turning up everywhere I was … school, work, the Crashdown, Marathon, our camping trip in Frazier Woods, here talking to mom," his voice gets tight at the memory of finding Valenti in his home, planting doubts about him in his mother's mind. "I had to look normal."

"Topolsky being at school, watching me, waiting for me to screw up and reveal myself, ingratiating herself to my friends and trying to get something to 'prove' I'm an alien," he says sarcastically. "I had to act normal."

"Anonymous men in black watching me, following me," he eyes are dark as he remembers being on the road, coming out of a convenience store and being startled to see one of them. Finding out that they were in his hospital room after he was discharged, going through the garbage. Knowing that there were agents behind them as he and Liz walked down the street, acting as decoys, while Isabel and Michael and Maria went to search the FBI's motel room. "I had to be normal."

"Kyle, watching me so he could find something to ruin me in Liz's eyes. Larry Trilling showing up at the UFO Center again during the convention and watching me, telling anyone who would listen that there was something suspicious about me. Hubble … " his voice cracks a bit as he remembers being kidnapped and nearly killed.

He can still see the crazy old man, embittered with grief and seeking revenge for the murder of his wife. Completely terrified, all Max could focus on was the gun that Hubble had trained on his chest as he shouted that Max was a killer alien and deserved to die.

"This son of a bitch is gonna die today, and nothing's gonna stop me, so go ahead! Unload every bullet in your chamber."

He can still hear the gunshot as it reverberated in the night, still smell the coppery odor of blood that seemed to hang in the air after the Sheriff shot him. He can still see the old man sprawled in the dirt of the abandoned parking lot, crumpled and awkward in death. He remembers breaking down afterward in front of Valenti, screaming at him to come and get him.

"What did you tell him?! Why did he come after me? You're the Sheriff. You're supposed to protect me! But all you've done is go after me! You believe all these crazy things. You're just like Hubble. You want me?! Well, here I am!"

The very next day, Max put on the performance of his life, one worthy of an Academy Award. No one, other than Valenti and Michael and Isabel, ever knew how close he'd come to death the night before. And no one knew how profoundly affected he was by what had happened. "Normal," the word comes out as barely a breath of air.

There was one who watched him that he doesn't mention. Even now, Max won't think about. Not if he can help it. Like someone protecting a tender wound, cringing away from all contact, his mind still shies away from the memories whenever they spring to the surface. His mom, looking at old videotapes, asking questions because she had doubts about him, wanting to know why her son was different.

Not her too ...

He can't talk about them, those moments that felt like betrayal, even though he knows, he knows, that it was only because she wanted so much to understand him. And while he loves his mother fiercely, he has never been able to fully trust that the love of his parents is unconditional, and he doesn't know why. Isabel always knew she was home, from the moment that she saw the Evanses on that dark road in the desert. Max never felt that he was home until he saw Liz for the first time.

"What I'm doing now is just more of what I did before," he tells her with a shrug. The ingrained habits of the past year are kicking in, and already he is in complete control again. "Don't worry, Isabel," he assures her, "I know this drill."

He glances at his watch, realizing that they will be late if they don't leave now. Max knows that Isabel isn't happy with what he's told her, or with the way he's handling everything that happened to him, but it's the best he can do. He turns the key in the ignition and starts the jeep, throwing it into reverse and backing out onto the street. They make the drive in silence, and it is only when they are almost within sight of West Roswell High that he realizes he hasn't asked her to make other arrangements for a ride home. He curses under his breath, because he knows that if there's one thing that will piss Isabel off, it's a break in her routine.

"Damn it. I need a favor, Iz. A huge one," Max says hurriedly, because he can see the school building in the distance. "I need you to find another way home today."

"What?" she sputters. "Why? You do realize that half the kids won't even be there today. How am I going to find someone to take me home?"

"Oh, please," Max rolls his eyes. "There isn't a guy out there who wouldn't drop everything to give you a lift, and you know it."

"Yeah, well maybe I'm not in the mood to be drooled over today. Look, just tell me why and I'll see what I can do."

"I need to hunt down Liz and talk to her," Max doesn't hear the level of anxiety that's rising in his voice. "This whole situation, it's all wrong," he mutters. "I let her go yesterday because she looked really, really … she looked like she couldn't handle any more, you know?" Max voice trembles as he remembers her ravaged features, her tragic eyes. "You didn't see her face. She looked how I felt, like one more thing would just break her down completely," he is so worried that he doesn't realize how much he is revealing to his sister about his own fragile state. "I couldn't push her anymore, I just couldn't. I thought maybe it would be better to let her alone for a little bit, let her regroup. But I really need to talk to her."

"Okay, Max," Isabel hastens to reassure him. "I'm sure I can find someone. Alex doesn't drive, but maybe he and I can hang out for awhile, make a day of it. We'll figure out something."

"Thanks, Iz," there is a small, grateful smile on Max's face as he pulls into the school parking lot.

As they get out of the jeep, Isabel urges him not to wait for her. She knows that he's anxious, so she simply nods her head in the direction of the building and gives him a quiet "go, already." As she watches him hurry away, she hopes with all her heart that at least something will go right for him.

[Realistic Dreamer]

Gentle Readers ...

I am really sorry about this. I apologize for the length of the chapter, plus the fact that I divided it up.

This is not how I planned to address this next part, but my husband, in a fit of marital sharing, decided that he needed to give me the head cold from hell. I've been sick for a week, and this is as far as I've gotten.

I had to decide whether or not to try and stick to the schedule I gave myself, and post what I had (since this is Wednesday), or hold off until probably next week, because I'm still not feeling all that great. I decided to go with what I had. I hope that's okay.

As always, I'd love to hear what you think. Your feedback is a treasure to me.


Chapter 4a

Max hurries across the parking lot, his legs moving in long, distance-eating strides. He is completely focused on the doors of the school, and there is determination in every line of his body. He stops for no one, doesn't meet anyone's gaze, doesn't even hear his name being called out in greeting. All he wants to do is get into the building and find Liz. When he reaches the entry way, his palm slaps onto the metal door and he pushes it open smoothly, his pace never faltering.

Once inside, though, he stops for a moment, a little surprised at what he sees. The halls are a mess. This year, the concept of clean-out-your-locker day has been taken literally. There isn't a floor of the school that isn't completely covered by old papers, discarded notebooks, trash of every kind. It would seem that, as they went through their things, students simply threw over their shoulders anything that they didn't want to keep.

Max starts to move again, but he walks more carefully, mindful of the shifting nature of the layers of garbage under his feet. He heads in the direction of Liz's locker, thinking that he'll start there. While he walks, his eyes are constantly searching for her. As he rounds the corner and heads down the hallway, he peers ahead, hoping to see her slender form in the distance, standing in front of her locker and rooting purposefully through her stuff.

His heart clenches in disappointment when he doesn't see her, but he shakes it off. It's the last day before the official start of summer vacation, and Liz is a popular student, especially with her teachers. Because she's intelligent and personable and loves to learn, she is a favorite of theirs. She could easily be with any one of them, saying goodbye. Or, he thinks hopefully, it could be that she hasn't gotten to school yet, that he's beaten her here.

Max walks slowly to his own locker, which is almost all the way down the hall. When he reaches it, after having turned back several times to look for her, he spins the combination, pulling it open. He doesn't hurry as he rifles through the contents. While he puts what he wants to save in the backpack he'd left the day before, he continues to look for her. Then, like every other student in school, he tosses what he wants to get rid of onto the floor.

Once he's done, he stands there, in a minor agony of indecision. He could go to her locker and stay and wait for her. But maybe she got here ahead of him, and has already cleaned it out. Or, he could try and see if he can find her with one of her teachers. But if he goes to any one of her classes, he could miss her stopping here. He doesn't know what to do.

Finally, picking up his backpack and slinging over his shoulder, Max starts down the hall. He stops at her locker, and turns to lean back against the one next to it, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He'll wait here, give her some time to show up.

To the casual eye, Max looks like any other guy, hanging around and biding his time until his girl shows up. No one knows that his heart is pounding furiously in anticipation, or that his stomach is roiling, he's so nervous.

He just needs to see her, just needs to talk to her. He's worried about her; she seemed so emotionally fragile yesterday. Max knows that he won't rest easy until he sees for himself that she's alright. Once he knows that she's okay, they can move on to the rest of it. He believes with all his heart that they'll be able to figure out how to deal with everything they've learned. After all, they love each other.

"Come on, Liz," he whispers. "Where are you?"

Max lets a half hour go by ... a half hour during which his heart flies into his throat every time a petite, brunette girl turns the corner to come down the hall, only to have his it fall to his feet again when he sees that it isn't her.

Finally, he decides that he should go and look up her teachers. Liz has to be with one of them. He can wait for her in the hall while she says her farewells, and he can walk her back to her locker and help her with her things. Then, he can give her a ride to the old radio tower, the place where she slept in his arms for the first time, and they can talk.

Max pushes away from the wall. He'll start with Miss Hardy, their biology teacher. He walks to the class they've shared and, when he enters, he's assaulted by so many memories ... their shy attraction, her discovery of his alien blood cells during one of their experiments, the way they drew closer and closer to each other as the year went on. He loves this room.

"Max," Miss Hardy, seated at her desk, exclaims with pleasure. "It's good to see you. Come in. Are you here to say goodbye?"

"Yeah," he tells her, a small smile on his face. "I really enjoyed having you for a teacher all year. This was a good class; I learned a lot."

"I'm glad that you feel that way," she beamed. "A teacher always likes to hear that they've imparted knowledge to their students. So, do you have any big plans for the summer?" she leans forward a bit to ask.

Beyond learning to use my skills and abilities to save the home planet I just found out about? the thought flashes through Max's mind before he can stop it. Nope, not a one.

"No, outside of working at the UFO Center, I don't have any big plans at all," he tells her, his voice quiet and respectful.

"Well, I know this always falls on deaf ears, but during the summer you should try and review what you learned during the year. You know, dig out your old notes," Miss Hardy encourages. "It'll help you when you come back in the fall."

"I'll be sure and try and do that," Max lies, thinking about all his notes lying scattered on the floor in front of his locker. He hesitates for a moment, and then asks in what he hopes is a casual voice. "Have you by any chance seen Liz today? I'm trying to catch up with her."

"No, no I haven't," she shakes her head in the negative. "I'll tell you what," she offers. Miss Hardy knows Max and Liz are an item now, and she enjoyed watching them get together. They were just too cute. "If, or when, I see her this morning, I'll let her know you're looking for her, okay?"

Max gives her a genuine smile. "I'd really appreciate that. I have to go now," he starts backing towards the door. "Thanks again for a great class."

"You're welcome, Max. Enjoy your summer."

Max nods, before turning and walking through the door. There are about six other teachers that Liz had that he has to look up, scattered througout the building. He goes to each one of them, making sure to walk past her locker after visiting with each one, just in case she's there.

He keeps coming up empty. She hasn't been to see any of her teachers, and she isn't at her locker. Although he tries to remain calm, Max is getting more and more anxious. In between the last few visits, he's tried calling her cellphone as he walks down the halls. He keeps getting her voicemail, something he's beginning to have a bad feeling about. He leaves her a message.

"Hey, Liz," he says quietly, "I'm at school right now. I cleaned out my stuff, and I was hoping to see you. I can meet up with you here, if you like. I'll tell you what, I'll wait for you by your locker. Maybe we can go for a ride, and ... and talk. If I don't run into you, I'll stop by the Crashdown at lunchtime," he promises.

"I miss you," he tells her, his voice is husky with feeling, before he disconnects.

True to his word, he goes back to her locker, leaning back against the wall and resuming his stance. And he waits.

[Realistic Dreamer]

Gentle Readers ...




Chapter 4b

Max pulls the jeep smoothly over to the curb, just a few feet from the entrance to the Crashdown. He kills the engine, and then sits for a few moments, gripping the steering wheel tightly in his fists. He takes deep, calming breaths ... in and out, in and out. He concentrates on them, hoping they will help him quiet his racing mind, help him focus.

The early afternoon sun beats down on him. He doesn't have the soft top on the jeep, preferring to have the wind racing past him as he drives. But, the summer heat is relentless and, now that he's parked, he can feel the sweat begin to form, feel a bead of it trickle down his back.

Max gives himself a few more moments, getting under control his anxious, churning stomach. He realizes that his adrenaline is up and running for this meeting, and he wonders idly if he'll eventually become an adrenaline junkie, the flow of it through his system has happened so often lately.

Max closes his eyes, and rests his forehead on the steering wheel. He needs this to go well.

"Please," he whispers, "please."

Opening his eyes, he leans back in his seat and takes one more deep breath. Then, he gets out of the jeep and moves towards the Crashdown doors. As he opens them, he is so intent on seeing if he can catch a glimpse of Liz that he completely misses the 'Help Wanted' sign that is posted there.

Once inside, he pauses for a moment. The restaurant is still humming with the remnants of the lunchtime crowd. His eyes sweep the room carefully, looking for Liz. He doesn't see her but that's okay, he tells himself. She could be in the back room, she could be upstairs in the family living quarters, she could be somewhere else and will meet him here like he asked.

He'd waited for Liz until the school was almost empty. Nearly all of the students had gotten there early to clean out their lockers and say goodbye, so by early afternoon there was hardly anyone left in the building. Teachers were locking up their classrooms and leaving, giving him curious looks as they passed him by, before he finally pushed away from the wall and admitted defeat. He wasn't going to find her here.

Max spies a lone empty table. He moves quickly to take a seat, picking one that will allow him to see both the entrance to the restaurant and the door to the back room. He immediately grabs a menu and fiddles with it. Although he has it memorized, he needs to do something with his hands.

Max takes in the crowded restaurant, watching the waitresses moving about. They aren't as familiar to him, because they work during the day and he's normally at school. All the time, he's on the lookout for Liz. Whenever the back room door opens, his head turns, hoping to see her. Max goes through the same motion when someone comes through the entranceway doors.

As time passes, and he still hasn't been waited on, he begins to feel edgy, uneasy. To distract himself, he looks down at the menu. He's dismayed to see that it's shaking a bit, and he hurriedly puts it down with a quietly muttered "shit," knowing that his hands are beginning to tremble again. He leans forward as he drops them into his lap so they are out of sight, clenching them into fists. His body rocks back and forth just a bit ... a very slight, barely detectable movement. He's not even aware that he's doing it.

Max lowers his head to stare down at the table, his eyes getting wide and panicked as he realizes that his breathing is becoming harsher, his heart is starting to hammer in his chest, and he is breaking out in a cold sweat. He feels as if there isn't enough air in the whole world to breathe. Everything is closing in on him.

Max has no idea what is happening. All he knows is that, suddenly, he's terrified. Deep down in his gut, there is this irrational need to run that is so strong that he pushes his chair back from the table. He's halfway out of his seat when he hears an indifferent voice.

"Are you ready to order?" Agnes asks flatly.

He jerks his head up. They stare at each other for a few moments, Anges with her impatient face, Max in the middle of rising from his chair.

Although she doesn't realize it, Agnes has just become a lifeline back to the present for Max. Her interruption has broken the grip of terror that was strangling him, and he is now struggling furiously to work his way back to a calm, rational state.

"Max," she rolls her eyes, "should I come back, or do you know what you want?"

He eases himself back into his seat, feeling awkward and embarrassed. "I'll have a Will Smith Burger, an order of Saturn Rings and a cherry coke," he says hoarsely.

Agnes writes his order down on her pad, and then turns away, muttering to herself.

Max rakes a trembling hand through his hair, breathing deeply to calm himself down. 'What the hell was that?' he worries, completely shaken by what just happened. He looks around hesitantly, wondering if anyone is staring at him.

Max works hard to get himself back in control again. He talks to himself, tells himself that everything is okay. Just act normal, he coaches himself. He's so preoccupied that he startles when Agnes comes up, putting his glass of cherry coke in front of him. It sloshes a bit; her delivery is a little careless. She will never be known for being the best waitress at the Crashdown.

She's moving away from his table when Max finds the presence of mind to stop her.

"Agnes, wait," he calls in a low voice.

"You need something else?" she asks as she turns back.

"I was just wondering if Liz was working today," he tries to sound nonchalant. "I'm trying to catch up with her."

A thunderous frown appears on Agnes' face. "You're gonna to have to go a long way if you want to catch up with that one," she says darkly.

Max stares at her blankly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," she crosses her arms in front of her chest, fairly bristling with resentment, "she's gone. At the last minute, she decided she had to spend the summer with some aunt in Florida. Left early this morning. Nancy and Maria took her to the airport in Albuquerque. And now, Jeff thinks I should just cover her shift tonight. He's in his office right now," she jerks her head toward the back, "rearranging the whole damn schedule for the week."

"She's … she's gone?" Max repeats, unable to comprehend what he's just been told.

"That's why there's that 'Help Wanted' sign in the door," she huffs. "We're gonna have to replace her."

He whips his head around, finally seeing the sign that he missed when he walked in the door. When he turns back, Agnes is walking away, muttering under her breath.

Max stares at her retreating figure, his body going utterly still. She's gone, she's gone, she's gone. The words begin to careen around in his mind in a terrible, mocking litany that he is helpless to stop.

No, she wouldn't do that, he tells himself, dazed and disbelieving. Liz wouldn't do that, just leave and not tell him. Not now. Not after the confessions of love they made to each other in the van. They'd chosen each other. They'd held each other all night long, clinging together in a world that had suddenly become a much darker and more terrifying place ... a world that wanted to rip them apart.

Liz is confused and upset, unsure of her place in his life after what they'd heard. He knows that. But ... but she wouldn't leave. Not without giving him a chance, giving them a chance to figure it all out.

There has to be some mistake, he thinks, bewildered. Agnes has to have gotten it wrong; she got it mixed up somehow.

Max scrambles out of his seat, nearly knocking it over in his haste, headed for the back of the restaurant. He has to talk to Mr. Parker, find out from him what's going on. He'll know for sure where Liz is. His chest is tight with dread as he pushes through the doors that lead to the office. When he sees Jeff sitting at his desk, he pauses for a moment to collect himself. Max knocks softly on the open door to get his attention.

When Mr. Parker looks up, his face becomes shuttered and forbidding. "What do you want?" he asks tightly.

"I was ... I was wondering if Liz was here," Max's voice is strained. "I need to talk to her."

Jeff looks back down at the work schedule that he is trying to rearrange, erasing and making changes. "Liz left for Florida this morning, to visit her aunt," he tells Max briefly, without looking at him. "She'll be gone for the entire summer."

"Is there a number where I can call her?" Max asks hoarsely. "An address where I can write to her?" he pleads.

Jeff is clearly uncomfortable with the situation. "Liz told us that under no circumstances were you to be given any information as to where she is." He raises his head to meet Max's eyes. "No contact. She was very clear on that." At the growing devastation he sees on Max's face, Jeff sighs. "I'm sorry, Max. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have things to do," he says as he lowers his head to go back to his work.

After a long moment, Max backs up, suddenly awkward in his growing anguish. His life is falling into a shambles; all his hopes and dreams are tumbling down around him, landing in a nightmarish jumble of wreckage at his feet. He makes a low, smothered sound before turning and rushing out of the restaurant. As he strides towards the jeep, he's pulling out his cellphone. Once seated behind the wheel, he goes immediately to his voicemail.

"Come on, come on," he mutters as he scrolls through the messages, searching for something, anything from Liz. "Shit!" he throws the phone down on the passenger seat when he finds nothing from her.

He digs furiously in his pocket for his keys. He is so anxious to be on the road that he is suddenly clumsy, and even this simple act is a supreme test of his patience. With a strangled oath, he finally pulls them free. His hand is shaking as he puts the key in the ignition, turning the engine over and pulling away from the curb. He shifts quickly through the gears, headed for home.

He has one last hope, and it's that she left him a message on his answering machine, or an email. As Max flies down the streets of Roswell, he doesn't allow himself to think that there won't be anything there. It is only by sheer force of will that he is holding the devastation at bay.

Max gears down as he pulls into the driveway. The jeep jerks to a stop as he shifts into park, pulling the keys out and vaulting out of the driver's side door. He races into the house and goes immediately to his room, slamming the door behind him to give himself some privacy.

He checks his answering machine ... there's no message there. He moves slowly to stand in front of his computer, and he's suddenly frozen. He can't bring himself to turn it on. Rubbing his hand down his face, he stares at the blank screen. There is a desolation rising up inside of him that is deeper, darker and more encompassing than anything that he ever felt in the White Room.

His legs giving out, he drops down onto the chair. Max turns on the computer, going through the start-up process. He accesses the internet and moves the cursor to the email icon. His lips part, and he breathes out one last "please," before doubleclicking. The list of his unread emails pops up, and he scans them quickly.

There is no email from browneyedgirl.

Max's hand falls off the mouse and drops to his side. He stares straight ahead, seeing nothing, his eyes dark and hollow with unfathomable pain, as the last of his hope crumbles into dust.

She's really gone ...

[cherie]

Oh, my! Those two sad yellow dudes (the not smiling ones) just made my heart ache before I read the first word of this chapter. I cannot even say how much I dislike Liz right now. (as I did in the show when she flounced down the hill from the pod chamber) Gah!!!! A lot of people think Max became a jerk in season 2, but Liz became a jerkess (is that a word?) for me in destiny.

I know this is going to break my heart, but I am so loving it. It's wonderful!