Keep Trying to Find, part 2

[tamcranver]

Part 1

Frank pretty much had to stop himself from crying with joy at the sight of thousands upon thousands of CDs and records arranged in a maze of racks inside Questlove Music. He loved the people on Wolf Mountain—he really did, they’d taken him in without questioning it and treated him just like they’d treat any Amalthean kid, even though he didn’t have super powers—but their idea of music mostly sounded bizarre and boring to him, and punk rock just sounded like noise to them. He and Mikey and Gerard had been practically living off Mikey’s iPod, and he’d known every single one of the 5,242 songs on it after the first two years. He was dying for some new tunes.

“Hi,” said a voice from his right, and he turned. The girl at the counter was giving him a vaguely amused look, and he realized he’d just been standing in the doorway like a complete idiot.

“Hi,” he said awkwardly.

“Feel free to actually look at the rest of the store,” she said. “20% off all CDs.” Looking bored, she picked up a magazine from the counter and started flipping through it. There was a band Frank didn’t recognize on the cover.

“Okay, thanks,” said Frank, though it looked like she was pretty much done talking to him. He stood there for a moment longer to look at her. She had bleached blonde hair and a lot of freckles on her nose, and she was wearing a Bon Jovi shirt just like one Frank had had when he was eight or nine. Something about her looked really familiar, which didn’t make much sense, seeing as how the majority of people he knew were back on the mountain. Since “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” was just about the cheesiest thing he could possibly say, Frank decided to forget about it and check out the new release aisle. That was what he’d come there for, anyway.

He read the backs of about a dozen CDs, marveling at all the bands he’d never heard of who were apparently super big now. It was a little hard to concentrate on the music, though. He had the weird feeling he was being watched. He wasn’t Mikey, he didn’t have detailed feelings about the future and stuff, but he definitely got a kind of funny prickly feeling on the back of his neck. He turned around to see the girl behind the counter hurriedly put her head back down to bury her nose in the magazine.

Weird. He could think of two possibilities: either she thought he was shoplifting CDs, or she thought he was cute. If it was the first one, and he kept on browsing in a law-abiding fashion, she’d probably leave him alone. If it was the second…well, the girl was kind of pretty, and seriously familiar, but it wasn’t like Frank was going to be in town long enough to actually start anything. He turned his attention to the CDs again and tried to put the girl out of his mind.

But then, like, five minutes later, he was checking out the Rolling Stones posters on the wall when, out of the corner of his eye, he could see the girl looking at him again. He turned his head to meet her eye, and she put the magazine up in front of her face again.

Oh, what the fuck ever. He walked over to the counter, put on his best polite smile, and said, “Hey.”

She put the magazine down and looked at him like she was trying to figure him out. “Hey,” she said. “Sorry to stare, but…you look really familiar.” Before Frank had time to bask in his vindication, she said, “That totally sounds like a line. Sorry. Are you…Frank? Frank Iero?”

Shit, he was supposed to be incognito. He was about to open his mouth to deny it, to say that he’d never met her before, but then it hit him. “Jamia?” Even Uncle Brian couldn’t have blamed him, not if he’d known how Frank felt at that moment. It wasn’t every day you reunited with a long-lost best friend.

She burst out into a huge white grin. “Holy shit!” She stood up and practically lunged over the counter to hug him. Frank’s face was suddenly buried in her hair and she was squeezing him hard enough to crack a rib or two, but he didn’t mind. “Oh my God, you’re alive!” she said, pulling back to look at him.

That made him laugh. “Well, yeah. Last time I checked.” Now that he knew what to look for, he could recognize her pretty easily. Jesus. The last time he’d seen Jamia, she’d been sniffling and packing up all her stuff into a backpack while her new parents waited downstairs with Spencer and Brendon at the Smith Children’s Home. “How’ve you been?” he said.

“God, how’m I supposed to even answer that?” she said with snorting laugh. “I mean, where do I start?”

“How’d your parents work out?” They’d seemed nice enough, if a little boring, from what Frank could remember.

She grinned. “Great. They’re awesome. They drive me nuts, but not in a bad way, you know?” Frank thought of his own family, such as it was, and nodded. She took a step back and poked him in the shoulder, as if she couldn’t quite believe he was there, and said, “How about you? What are you even doing here? Did the aliens finally let you go?”

Frank knew, he knew she couldn’t be serious. She couldn’t actually know, so it was stupid to be so surprised and a little freaked. Still, he couldn’t help it, and he was pretty sure it showed on his face, because Jamia’s grin faded and she frowned at him with one eyebrow raised. “Frank?” she said. “That was supposed to be a joke.”

Frank tried out a smile. “Duh,” he said, with what had to be the fakest-sounding laugh ever. “I got that, actually.”

She didn’t stop frowning, though. “You sure don’t look like you think it’s a joke.”

“No, I do.” He rolled his eyes, feeling like the worst actor on the planet. “Aliens. Ha. Where’d you get an idea like that?”

She stared at him, giving him that same searching look she had when she was trying to recognize him. Finally, she let out a long, loud breath, blinking slowly and mouthing the word What? to herself. Closing her mouth, she swallowed and then said, “Are you fucking with me? Aliens?” Her voice rose at the end, and Frank had a mental image of Uncle Brian teleporting down from Wolf Mountain to kill him.

“Could you maybe keep it down?” he muttered under his breath. There didn’t seem to be anyone in earshot at the moment, but that didn’t mean someone couldn’t come in and hear, and fuck, he’d just totally given away the fact that the alien thing was true. He fucking sucked at secrecy.

Jamia shut her mouth again. Her eyes were huge. After a long moment, she said, “Christ. I always thought ‘Frank got abducted by aliens’ was a euphemism for ‘Frank blew up a car and got sent to juvenile hall.’”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Frank was startled into a laugh. Only for a moment, though, because he really hadn’t expected anyone would even know where he’d been, much less be spreading the information around. “Who told you that?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

“Brendon,” Jamia said instantly. “When I heard on the radio that you and Gerard and Mikey were missing, I freaked the hell out. My parents had to stay up all night with me for two nights in a row because they couldn’t calm me down enough to actually go to sleep. Spencer called me with that bullshit story about you getting adopted by Gerard and Mikey’s grandma, and then a month later Brendon said you’d sent a postcard from some alien colony or something.”

Shit. Frank had totally forgotten about that postcard. He couldn’t believe Uncle Brian had actually let him send such a dumbass thing in the mail—probably he’d sneaked out to the Refugee Search Office to scribble on a P.S. before Tegan delivered the postcard. And now who knew how many people Brendon and the other guys at the Home had told it to? Frank was such a moron. “Gerard and Mikey’s grandma really did adopt us,” he offered quietly. “That wasn’t bullshit.”

“It’s true, then?” Jamia blinked slowly, like she was barely processing what she was hearing. “Seriously. Are you telling me the Minnellis’ grandmother was seriously an alien?”

“We’re going by ‘Way’ now,” said Frank, managing to inject a little bit of smartass into his tone. More seriously, he added, “Jamia, this is supposed to be a huge secret. Everybody’s gonna kill me if they find out I let it slip, so could you please, please not tell anyone?”

“I’m still kind of stuck on the ‘alien’ thing,” said Jamia, frowning at Frank, but finally she sighed and said, “Come on, nobody’d believe me, anyway.”

Frank thought about Agent Viglione holding a gun to his head six years ago and said, “The scary FBI guys might.”

Jamia gave him a sharp look before nodding slowly. “Yeah,” she said thoughtfully. “I could see that.” They were silent for a long moment before she said, “Honest, Frank, I won’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t do that.”

If there was one thing Frank had always known about Jamia, it was that she was a genuinely cool person, not the kind who’d freak out and rat out her friend and his family to the Men in Black, so he nodded. “No, I know.”

“Good,” she said. “So, what’s the deal? Do you live on another planet, or what?” Frank wondered if he’d sounded like that when Gerard and Mikey had finally figured out where they were from—totally awed and kind of freaked out, but still managing to keep it together.

“No,” he said. “Just out in the middle of nowhere, in this town they built up on a mountain.” He wondered briefly if he should even be telling her that much about where the settlement was, but hell, how would anyone find it from the description ‘out in the middle of nowhere on a mountain?’ “Not a lot of music stores up there,” he added, hoping to steer the conversation away from the Amaltheans. “I haven’t bought a CD in six years.”

“No shit?” Jamia gestured with one hand towards the shelves of music in the store. “Well, you’ve definitely come to the right place. You still listening to all that pop-punk stuff?”

“I’m not still listening to anything except what’s on Mikey’s iPod,” said Frank. “Seriously, Jamia, I’m dying here. You don’t even want to know how many times I’ve listened to, like, every single song the Smiths ever did.”

“You know, I don’t remember Mikey that well, but somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “Well. Lemme give you a rundown: Jamia Nestor’s favorites from the last six years. A magical musical mystery tour.” In a lower voice, she added, “But don’t think you’re off the hook. Before you leave, you and me are going to find someplace less public and catch up.”

“Sure,” Frank said, relieved that at least they weren’t going to have to get into the ins and outs of the Republic right there in the middle of the damn store. Plus, who knew if he’d end up seeing Jamia again—Frank didn’t have to go to the music store tomorrow, he could just leave for the next town in the tour without ever having to tell her about the details of living with Gerard and Mikey’s people.

Actually, that idea wasn’t as comforting as Frank had hoped it might be. He smiled as Jamia led him through the store and pretended that they’d never stopped being friends. It was easier than one might think.

It was thirsty work, talking about every major album from the last six years. After a while, they went downstairs—as it turned out, Questlove Music had a basement, with a shitload of LPs and a vending machine—and got a couple of sodas.

“Jesus,” said Frank, cracking open his Pepsi. “This place is awesome.”

Jamia smiled hugely. “Yeah, I know,” she said. “And Mr. Thompson, the owner, is totally awesome. He knows, like, everything about music, and he goes to a lot of the shows around here, and I think he has a band, too. I get a 15% employee discount on top of the sales, so you better believe I buy a ton of music.”

“I’m so jealous,” said Frank, and he totally was. His summer job was usually weeding the vegetable garden. And then, because Jamia seemed like she’d be interested and why the hell not, he said, “So, like, I’m staying with these guys who tech for the Used, so we’re spending the summer going on tour with them.”

“No shit?” Jamia said, looking vaguely envious herself. “That’s awesome. What are the Used like in person?”

Frank thought about it. In the time he’d known them, Bert had gotten into a wrestling match with Bob that had ended with both Quinn and Bert sitting on Bob’s chest, Jepha had bounced on Bob and Ray’s sofa bed and asked Gerard and Mikey seriously if there was room for one more in there, and then they’d gotten smashed and played Super Smash Brothers with Ray and Frank and Bob and Mikey while Gerard watched and Bert petted Gerard’s hair and laughed loudly at absolutely everything. “They’re cool,” he said finally. “Kinda nuts, but in a fun way.”

“Wow,” said Jamia. She maybe looked a little impressed, Frank thought. “I want to do that, someday,” she said. “Go on tour with a band, I mean. My parents said I could do it in a couple years, after I graduate. I don’t play an instrument or anything, but I’m good at selling stuff, so I could sell tee-shirts or CDs.”

“Gerard and Mikey and I have a band,” Frank said. “Maybe if we ever get our shit together, you could come on tour with us.”

Jamia blinked confusedly. “Wait. Don’t you all live in the middle of nowhere with the aliens? Where were you planning on touring?”

Well, that was the hard part, wasn’t it? It was weird—on the one hand, Wolf Mountain was home, now. It had Uncle Brian and Worm and Tegan and Sara, and the house he’d lived in for the last six years, and gardens Frank had helped grow and buildings he’d helped build. On the other hand, he was still human. It didn’t seem to matter to the Amaltheans, but it mattered to Frank. The Republic was a great place to be if he wanted to spend the rest of his life being the guy with no super powers in a tiny-ass town full of super hero aliens who spent most of their time talking about nature and philosophy and shit. But he didn’t. He wanted to be in a rock band and watch movies and play video games and maybe sometimes talk to people who couldn’t read his mind. He just wasn’t sure if he was ready to strike out on his own, and he didn’t want to make Gerard and Mikey leave the Republic if they didn’t want to. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “It’s hard, because we don’t have a drummer.”

“Hmm.” Jamia scratched at her chin thoughtfully. “If you’re looking for a drummer, I know a guy.”

“You do?”

She shrugged. “Sure. You know him, too. You remember Darren Wilson, from the Home? He plays the drums. Greta and Bob have this little folk music thing going—God, you wouldn’t believe how stupid in love those two got when they hit puberty, it’s totally disgusting—but anyway, Darren plays with them sometimes. He’s pretty good. I should get you his number.”

Holy shit. He’d talked about finding a drummer this summer, but it had mostly been a pipe dream. If Darren was even sort of good at drums, if he actually liked their music enough to want to play with them….He wondered if he had little cartoon hearts floating over his head, because it sure felt like it. “Jamia, have I ever told you that you’re the coolest girl in the whole world?”

“You have,” she said, “but it’s been way, way too long.” She grinned. Frank could feel himself grinning back, and they just stood there like that for a minute, smiling at each other like idiots.

Upstairs, they could hear the bell over the door ring. The moment was broken, whatever it had been, and Jamia sighed. “I hear work calling,” she said. “You can stay down here if you want, but I gotta go make sure nobody steals anything.”

“What’d be the point of staying down here by myself?” said Frank. “It’s creepy down here.”

Jamia turned to walk up the stairs, but not before Frank had seen a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “Well, come on then,” she said with a beckoning gesture. “Let’s go sell shit.”

As it turned out, the customer was Mikey. Frank wasn’t too surprised—art was cool and all, but Mikey’d been dying for new music as long as Frank had. Uncle Brian somehow never seemed to think trips to the music store were a high priority when he went out for supplies.

“Hey, Frank,” Mikey said, staring at a display of Iggy & the Stooges record covers on the wall near the door. Frank couldn’t help being amused, though he was sure he’d looked like that an hour ago.

“Mikey!” Frank said. He gestured towards Jamia, who was peering at Mikey curiously, like she was trying to recognize him. “You’re not gonna believe this, but guess who I ran into?” Because there was pretty much no chance Mikey hadn’t picked it up from his brain, Frank answered his own question: “You probably won’t remember her, but it’s Jamia, from the Smith Home.”

“Hey, Mikey,” Jamia said with a friendly expression.

Mikey turned to look at her. “I remember. Hey, Jamia.” His eyebrows scrunched together in a frown over his forehead, and he switched his gaze to Frank. He raised one eyebrow, while the corner of his mouth turned down, and Frank inwardly winced. Crap. He was really pissed. “Frank,” he said, sounding totally uninterested, “could I maybe talk to you for a second?”

Jamia looked from Frank to Mikey and back again, and said, “Oh, you know what, I totally forgot, I have to inventory this shipment of new releases in the basement. I’ll be back in a sec.” She turned back towards the basement door, giving Mikey one last vaguely concerned look before vanishing down the stairs.

“You told her?” Mikey said in Amalthean, glaring at Frank. Damn, it was a good thing he couldn’t shoot lasers out of his eyes or something, or Frank’s goose would be cooked.

“I didn’t really tell her,” he said, switching to Almalthean, too. “She guessed.”

“She guessed because you told Brendon and Spencer and Jon in that postcard when we were kids,” said Mikey, not looking appeased at all.

Frank couldn’t really argue with that, but hell, he’d been ten years old, and how many ten-year-olds could keep that kind of thing to themselves? “So, what, you’re just going around reading people’s minds now?” he said, changing the subject. “If you’re trying to keep the whole alien thing secret, that’s not exactly the best way to go about it.”

“I didn’t have to read it!” Mikey said, rubbing angrily at his nose. “It couldn’t have been any clearer if she’d had a big red sign over her head that said, ‘Hey, look, an alien!’ What the fuck, Frank, people weren’t even supposed to think we’re the same people we were six years ago, and now she not only knows who you are, but she knows about the Republic, too!”

“She recognized me, okay? We were best friends for years. What was I supposed to do, lie to her?” The thought made Frank mad. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t be a totally impassive Man of Mystery, and meeting old friends was supposed to be a good thing—at least, it was when your adopted brothers weren’t aliens. This wasn’t Frank’s fault at all.

The wrinkle between Mikey’s eyes smoothed slightly, and he said, “I guess not.” He looked down at his sneakers and said, “I’m not good at the whole, um, not-reading-minds thing.”

It seemed like a total non sequitur, but Frank had known Mikey long enough to know that it meant, “Sorry. I suck at keeping this secret, too.” Frank felt his anger melt away, and he said, “She won’t tell, Mikey. Honestly, she’s really cool.”

“Yeah,” said Mikey, nodding. “She always seemed nice.”

And maybe this wasn’t going to be a bad thing at all, because now maybe Jamia and Gerard and Mikey could get to know each other. They’d never really been best buddies back at the Home, mostly because hanging out with other kids had freaked Gerard and Mikey out and Jamia wasn’t willing to go out of her way to hang out with guys who didn’t want to hang out with her. But now that they were older, Frank could maybe get his favorite people to all like each other.

Jamia poked her head out of the basement. Evidently seeing that Mikey and Frank weren’t killing each other, she walked up with a smile on her face. “Sorry about that. Crisis averted. So, Mikey, how’ve you been? How’s Gerard?”

“Okay,” said Mikey with a small, crooked smile. To Frank, he added, “I left him at the art gallery. He had a huge crush on this girl who had a painting there, so I thought I’d better leave them alone.”

Frank snorted Pepsi out his nose, making Jamia snicker, and said, “You’re kidding!” Amaltheans didn’t really think about sexuality the same way that Earthlings did, but Frank would have put money on Gerard being exclusively into dudes. True, Frank had never seen him date anyone, male or female, at the Republic, but he did kind of seem to have the hots for Bert. Plus, in the brief and murky “before we got too much like brothers to avoid an incest-y vibe but after my balls dropped” period of his adolescence, he and Gerard had done a little experimenting, and Gerard had definitely seemed into it. “I always thought he was gay,” he said, because he knew Mikey wouldn’t take it the wrong way, and Jamia wouldn’t care.

“Well, you know, that’s a very limited view of the wide spectrum of sexuality,” said Mikey primly, sounding so much like Gerard that Frank had to laugh.

“Oh, hey,” he said, because he didn’t want to leave Jamia out, “I didn’t get a chance to tell you—Jamia thinks she can hook us up with a drummer for the Black Parade.”

Mikey transferred his gaze to Jamia. “Really?”

Jamia gave him a little half-shrug. “Sure. I mean, I don’t know if you guys’ styles will match up or anything, not having heard you play, but I can give you his number. He’s a real nice guy.”

“Rad,” said Mikey, nodding slowly.

Frank couldn’t help himself—he slung an arm over Jamia’s shoulders and beamed at her, at Mikey, at the world at large. “Did I or did I not tell you she was cool?”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Jamia, rolling her eyes. “Are you guys gonna buy some CDs or what? I’m totally gonna lose my commission if you hang out here and don’t buy anything.”

Mikey gave her a confused look. “You get a commission?”

She snorted out a laugh. “No. But seriously, six years on top of a mountain? I’m hooking you dudes up with some music, and you better believe you’re hooking me up with some alien music, too, because I’m not even gonna believe you if you tell me there’s a planet full of people who don’t listen to any music whatsoever.” In a softer voice, she said, “Shit. Sorry. I promise I won’t say anything like that if there’s anyone but us around.”

Mikey smiled, a goofy, crooked Mikey smile, and said, “Okay. Do you wanna come watch the concert tonight with us?” Jamia raised her eyebrows, and Mikey said, “I’m kind of psychic,” as if in answer to a question she hadn’t even asked.

“Ah, so that’s why you never talked,” said Jamia knowledgably, and Mikey’s smile grew.

Frank couldn’t even believe how completely, overwhelmingly happy he was. “You should totally come,” he said. “You could come hang out with Bob and Ray and us backstage beforehand, and we’ll get a great view of the show. And I bet Bob and Ray could totally tell you about how to get a job selling stuff for a band.” He paused. “Unless it’s our band, in which case, you’re already hired.”

“Assuming you get your shit together,” she said, but she was smiling.

“Assuming we get our shit together,” Frank repeated. “Come on, it’ll be awesome.”

Jamia shot a look at the clock. “Well. I get off work at five, so that gives me plenty of time to get over to the park. I better call my parents, though.” She shook her head with a grin. “Fuck! I didn’t even think I was going to get to go to this show.” She looked at Frank, who was still hugging her with one arm, and gave him a noogie. “Who’d have thunk it?” she asked. “A Smith Home reunion, right here at work. This is downright heartwarming.”

Frank knew she was joking, but actually, he agreed.

**

You’d think, Ray thought to himself, that with all the shows he had set up over the last five years or so, the excitement would wear off. But no—it pretty much never got old to think that he had an important part in making sure these shows happened, and to think that as long as he was working, he was pretty much going to get to see a concert every night. Hell, there’d been tours where it felt like his birthday every single day, and even the crappy ones were more exciting than working at the rest stop. The most thrilling thing that ever had happened there was when some criminal was on the loose, and he and James psyched themselves into thinking that the fugitive was taking a leak in the men’s room while they mopped the lobby.

There was definitely something to be said, though, for having those years at the rest stop under his belt. For one, they made him appreciate his current job all the more. He thought some of the kids who were working as techs on this tour could have used a year or two cleaning toilets with him and James.

Kyle was one of the guys working with the guitars for Brand New. Ray didn’t have anything in particular against him, but he had to admit, he didn’t know why a guy who was supposed to be setting up for a kickass live concert would be leaning against a post listening to his iPod, totally ignoring all the work being done around him. Sure, Brand New wasn’t playing first tonight, but still.

“Hey,” Ray called to him, readjusting the awkward weight of Quinn’s amp in his arms. “Hey, Kyle, wanna give me a hand with this?” Kyle showed no signs of having heard him, so he tried again, a little louder. “Dude! Kyle, a little help here, man?” It was hard to keep a grip on the amp with sweaty fingers, and somebody else getting two of the corners would’ve been really fucking nice.

Fortunately, Kyle seemed to hear him this time. He pulled out his earbuds, gave Ray a goofy, vaguely apologetic smile, and walked over to take some of the weight off.

“Hey, thanks, man,” Ray said when they’d gotten the amp more or less in position and had managed to find the cords to hook it up.

“No problem,” said Kyle, who was already reaching into his pocket for the earbuds. Ray was about to suggest that if Kyle stuck around for five minutes to help Ray untangle the cords, they could go get something to eat before the show, but before he could even suggest it, Kyle had turned around and was disappearing backstage to do…whatever the hell that guy did when he wasn’t standing around and getting in the way.

“What the hell?” asked Ray aloud, and Matt, who was screwing around with the amp cords for Jepha’s bass, gave him a wry smile.

“Dude’s not much of a team player,” he offered. Bob grunted in agreement from his place on the drum riser, and Ray resisted the urge to go into one of what Bob called his “old man rants” about kids today.

It was probably just as well he avoided spewing a bunch of invective against the younger generation, because half a minute later, their “nephews” showed up, poking their heads up over the edge of the stage and peering curiously at Ray.

“Hey, free labor!” said Ray, and Frank grinned broadly and levered himself up onto the stage.

“Does that mean you’re gonna let us help?” he said eagerly.

“It’s practically my duty, right? To help an aspiring young band learn the ropes and all that.”

Even Mikey cracked a smile at that, and he and Gerard climbed up the stairs to sit by Ray’s side among the piles of tangled cords. “Wow,” Gerard said. “That’s a lot of cords. Are they all for this one amp?”

“Nope,” said Ray. “There’s another one outside the tech bus. You know where that is?” At Gerard’s nod, he said, “Okay, you and Mikey wanna go get that one and bring it here? Frank, you can stay here and help me find the cord that goes with this one.”

Mikey and Gerard obediently wandered off. Neither of them were big guys, but Ray figured that what with the whole telekinesis thing, they could probably handle an amp between the two of them. If they could use it without causing too much of a stir, anyway. It was actually kind of a big disappointment that Ray wasn’t going to be able to see much of their super powers on tour—he got the need for secrecy and everything, but it was still a bummer.

Frank pulled at the knot of cords with heartening enthusiasm, though, so Ray managed to shake off his irritation at Kyle and his own lingering science fiction nerdery to take a moment to explain what this amp was for and where they were putting it and why.

Frank listened to it all with at least a mild and polite interest, but when Ray was done, he said, “Cool. Hey, Ray, is it okay if I bring a friend to the concert tonight?”

Jesus, Frank worked fast. Ray couldn’t imagine how he’d managed to make a friend in the what, six hours the boys gone out today. But it wasn’t like it was a big deal or anything, so he said, “Sure. Who’s your friend?”

“Hmm,” said Frank, ducking his head and apparently fascinated by a piece of electrical tape on the floor all of a sudden.

“What was that?”

Frank shrugged. “It’s. Okay, so back before Gerard and Mikey and I ran off and met up with you guys, I lived in this group home, right? And my best friend there was this girl named Jamia. And it turns out that she works at the music store, so I thought. You know. We could catch up.”

All of that sounded pretty normal. What wasn’t normal—and honestly, the kid was so outgoing that even after two days with him Ray could tell this was weird—was the way Frank was still picking at the piece of tape and avoiding Ray’s eyes. Crush. That had to be it. Ray was struck with a sudden urge to go, “Aww!” and ruffle Frank’s hair, and really, he saw no particular reason to put a lid on it.

“Ray! Fuck, dude, knock it off,” said Frank, batting Ray’s hand away. “It’s not like that, you douche.” He was sort of flushing a little, though, so, mission accomplished.

Mikey and Gerard reappeared a minute later, apparently putting a lot of concentration and effort into lugging the amp over. Somewhere along the line, they’d managed to pick up Bunny and Bauer—Ray was actually kind of amazed that they were able to avoid tripping over them, but he guessed being able to talk to animals helped with that. Once they’d gotten the amp more or less into the right place, Mikey sighed loudly and bent down to scratch behind Bunny’s ears. “Okay,” he said. “Now what?”

Ray checked his watch. “Well, sound check’s in an hour. After that, you wanna grab something to eat? The concert’s not starting until eight, so we should have time to go grab Chinese or burritos or something.”

“Awesome,” said Frank, springing to his feet. “You need us to do anything else?”

Ray contemplated making them stick around while he tuned Quinn’s guitar, but then again, he had the whole tour to teach them every detail of setting up for a show, so he said, “Nah,” and flapped a hand in their direction. “Shoo.”

The kids dashed off, dog and cat in tow, and Ray went to hook up the amp Gerard and Mikey had brought.

“Where are they off to?”

Ray turned his head around. Bob was standing behind him, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Ray smiled back and said, “Who knows?”

“Well, as long as they stay out of trouble,” said Bob. He shrugged and grinned a little, like it was a joke, but Ray had known Bob enough to recognize when he was worried.

“Hey. They’re not gonna do anything,” he said. He would have added that their concerts hadn’t really attracted many alien-hunting FBI hunters in the past, but that might have sounded weird to Matt, who was still setting up stuff on the other side of the stage, so instead he said, “Frank’s bringing a girl to the show tonight.”

Bob’s eyebrows shot up. “You serious?”

“Apparently she’s a friend of his from back in the day.”

Bob made a vaguely horrified face and said, “Jesus, you don’t think they’ll…I mean, teenagers don’t sleep together on the first date, right?”

Man, that was a kind of scary thought. The RV wasn’t huge, and the walls weren’t super thick. Plus, if Frank and…what was her name, Jamia?...were using the sofa bed, Gerard and Mikey were going to find themselves sexiled. Oh, God, were Ray and Bob going to have to give Frank a safe sex talk? Ray shook that image forcefully from his mind and said, “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Frank said they were just friends, and we’ll be leaving in a couple of days anyway.”

Bob nodded, not looking terribly reassured, and Ray reached out from his position on the floor to grab his hand. “Relax, man. It’s all gonna work out.” He tried to be as confident as he could about it—mind over matter and all that.

Set-up and soundcheck went without a hitch, and dinner was actually pretty fun. Gerard, who’d been pretty close-mouthed over the last few days, was happy to wax eloquent about the art gallery while everyone else ate their burritos. Now Ray kind of wished he’d gone along with Gerard and Mikey, because he really wanted to see the silverware skeleton sculpture.

“So. What did you and that girl talk about?” Mikey asked casually in a moment when Gerard had paused to take a sip of Coke.

Gerard made a funny squeaky noise and choked on his drink. Bob pounded on his back for a moment before he coughed and said, “I’m okay.” Red-faced, he gave Mikey a dirty look and said, “We talked about art.”

“Ah,” said Mikey wisely. “Art.” Frank smirked.

Dear Lord, thought Ray. Frank, he could see meeting a girl his second day among Earthlings, but Gerard? Shit, were Ray and Bob doomed to spend their summer living in a WB teen drama? He pictured himself as Jonathan Kent on Smallville. Which of course would make Bob Martha. Ha.

“What are you laughing at?” Bob asked, looking quizzically at him.

“Ah, nothing,” said Ray, sharing a grin with Mikey. Having a psychic teenager around had its advantages, not the least of which was that it made sharing an inside joke incredibly easy.

It ended up being a really great concert, too—the crowd was into it, but not completely insane to the point where they were trying to rip off Bert’s clothes, which happened every now and then; there weren’t any major technical difficulties; and perhaps best of all, the guys seemed to be having a really good time. Ray had seen them do a good show completely hung-over, or when Dan had the flu, or when Quinn and Bert were mid-feud, but the best shows were always the ones when the band was having fun.

Frank, who was bouncing around backstage like some kind of head-banging rubber ball, looked like he was just about ready to run out onstage, steal Quinn’s guitar, and engage in some wild guitar-playing shenanigans. Ray would’ve felt bad for Jamia, who’d shown up half an hour before the show and was now getting more or less ignored, but she seemed pretty into it, too. She didn’t do the whole full-body thrashing thing like Frank, but she had a good rhythm going, bouncing up and down on her heels and nodding her head in time to the music.

Gerard and Mikey were staring at the band as if they’d never seen anything more fascinating in their lives. Gerard in particular was studying Bert like he was the epitome of everything Gerard wanted or wanted to be in life. It wasn’t just obvious to Ray; when the set was over, Bert practically skipped offstage and slung an arm around Gerard’s shoulder.

“So,” he said, “how much ass did we kick? Come on, now, be honest.”

“You were awesome,” Gerard said earnestly, not seeming to care at all that Bert was wiping his sweaty hands—hell, his sweaty self—on Gerard’s tee-shirt. “I mean, you sounded, like, I don’t know, totally badass, but it was more than that, it was like….” He flapped a hand inarticulately, and Jepha laughed.

“No, no,” Bert said, “Keep saying nice things about me.”

“Fuck you, dude,” said Quinn, poking Bert in the shoulder. “He’s saying them about all of us, right?”

Gerard turned as red as Ray had ever seen him and mumbled something completely inaudible.

“Dude,” said Dan, “leave the guy alone and let’s get some drinks. I’d fucking kill someone for a Gatorade, you know?”

“There’s a cooler over there,” said Bob, jerking a thumb towards the open, grassy space behind the stage. Bert made an excited noise and detached himself from Gerard, leaving behind dark sweaty streaks over one side of his shirt and along his shoulders.

“Wanna come with?” said Jepha to Mikey, Frank, and Jamia.

“Mm, that’s okay,” said Jamia. “I kind of want to see the next band. But thanks anyway. You guys were great.”

The way Frank was looking at Jamia, Ray sort of thought there should have been little birds flitting around his head and harp music playing, or something. Just friends, his ass. “Oh, yeah, I’m gonna stick around here,” Frank said, and then to Bob and Ray, “Do you guys have to do anything now? You need any help?”

Bob shrugged. “Eh. Teardown’s not that hard, but if you wanna carry shit, I’m not gonna say no.”

“Well, we’re out, then,” said Quinn. “Let’s hook up later, though.” He pointed finger-guns in Mikey’s direction. “I call a rematch—you, me, Ray’s old N64.”

Mikey shrugged. “Whatever. I don’t mind beating you again.”

Quinn hooted out a laugh, and the band vanished into the dark.

Teardown and the subsequent set-up went smoothly. Ray hadn’t gotten the chance to get to know MSI’s techs that well, but he got the impression that they were used to all kinds of crazy shit, so simply moving one band’s stuff off and getting their own stuff set up was no big deal. Ray could relate.

He kind of thought the kids would get a kick out of the MSI show—he’d only ever seen them live on Youtube and during soundcheck, but that was enough to convince him that they had a fun live show. He hadn’t expected, however, that when they went out on stage and started playing, Gerard’s jaw would drop and his eyes would get so big they seemed to be taking over his whole face. He didn’t get it, and he nudged Gerard’s shoulder and whispered, “Hey, what’s up?”

“That’s the girl from--” He turned his head to glare at Mikey, who was looking incredibly smug. “You knew!”

“Shh,” said Mikey with a smirk. “I’m watching the show.”

Ray followed Gerard’s gaze; he seemed to be looking at Lyn-Z, who at the moment was exhibiting some fantastic flexibility, bending back so far she was practically playing her bass upside down. Gerard looked utterly enthralled. Once again, Ray was forced to imagine Bob in a red wig, chiding him about manure or something. Oh, who was he kidding? Bob was probably the Jonathan in this scenario. He sure wore enough flannel.

Mindless Self Indulgence actually made it really hard to spend the whole set recasting Smallville in his head, so Ray made a mental note to himself to ask Gerard and Mikey how dating worked among the aliens and settled down to watch the show.

When it was done, Lyn-Z practically skipped over, grinning hugely. “Hey,” she said to Gerard.

Gerard made some inarticulate sputtering noises.

“Ha! Sorry to keep psyching you out like this,” she said with a less manic, more genuinely sweet smile. “You should see your face right now, though.”

“So when you said you had to work tonight….” He nodded. “I got it, I got it.”

“Gentlemen,” said Jimmy, who had strolled leisurely over with Steve and Kitty. He had some fairly intense hair, even by Ray’s standards. “I’ve outdone myself—I believe I managed to rock my own socks.”

“Consider my socks rocked,” said Kitty.

Steve made a face and stared at his own feet. “I don’t know, man,” he said. “I think you’re gonna have to work a little harder to impress these babies. My socks aren’t that easy.”

“That’s not what they said last night,” countered Jimmy.

“That’s not what your mom said last night.”

Jimmy affected a pose of horror. “You scoundrel! Sullying my sainted mother’s name! Pistols at dawn!” Turning his attention back to the others, he said, “I see Lyn-Z’s art groupie enjoyed himself. Did the rest of you?”

“He’s not my art groupie, asshole,” Lyn-Z said, but she was still smiling.

Frank looked as if he could barely contain himself. “That was badass! Like, I can’t decide whether it made me want to dance or get into a fistfight.”

Jamia raised an eyebrow at him, but her smile was fond and familiar. To Jimmy, Kitty, and Steve, she said, “Well, it didn’t make me want to get into a fistfight, but I did really like it.”

“It was cool,” said Mikey simply, looking abundantly satisfied.

“Good enough for me,” said Lyn-Z. She smiled brilliantly at Gerard again.

“Oh!” said Gerard as if he’d forgotten something. “It was awesome, I mean, you were….” He was getting intensely red again. “Oh, uh. These are—these are my uncles, Bob and Ray.” He gestured towards them; Ray and Bob had already met the members of MSI, but Ray nodded anyway, to keep Gerard from getting any more embarrassed than he already was. Bob looked like he’d had just about enough of human company, but he managed a nod. “This is my brother, Mikey,” Gerard went on, “and…my other brother, Frank. And his friend Jamia.”

Frank looked vaguely touched, and he reached to shake Lindsey’s hand with a bright smile. “So you’re the girl from the art gallery.”

“I am indeed,” said Lyn-Z. “Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, God,” said Jamia. “Do you have a piece up at the gallery downtown?” At Lyn-Z’s nod, she said, “I work at the CD store next door. I wondered if that was you—the name looked kind of familiar, but I wasn’t sure. It’s a really cool painting.”

“Oh, wow, thanks.” She looked really pleased.

The four of them seemed to be getting along nicely, so Ray turned his attention to Mikey, who was watching the techs for MSI and Brand New set up for Brand New’s set. He had an intense look on his face. “Hey,” said Ray. “You doing okay?”

Mikey blinked owlishly, as if he were just waking up from something. “Yeah. Hey, um, who does the guitars for Brand New? The tech stuff, I mean.”

Just when Ray had managed to forget his irritation at Kyle from earlier. “Um. The dude who does the lead guitar is Kyle, and Alicia does the bass guitar. Why do you want to know?”

“No reason,” said Mikey with a shrug. But he was still watching the stage.

“Hey,” said a soft voice against the back of Ray’s neck. He turned his head. At some point, Bob had managed to maneuver his way around the little knot of kids to stand behind Ray, his face so close he was practically resting his chin on Ray’s shoulder. Ray let himself lean back into Bob, and they watched Brand New. First show of the tour, and if tonight was anything to go by, it was going to be a good one.

As the cheers for the final encore drifted off into the night and the crowd started to disperse, Bob tilted his head towards Ray’s ear again. “I think we’re more or less done for the night,” he murmured. “And the kids seem pretty occupied. You know what I was thinking?”

Ray had a pretty good guess. Bob didn’t make a habit of propositioning him while they were hanging out backstage, but the past couple of weeks, he’d been as stressed as Ray had ever seen him, and the past few days had afforded pretty much no time for privacy. It wasn’t like anyone was listening, anyway; the kids, who’d stopped their chattering long enough to watch Brand New’s set, were talking again; even Mikey seemed to have been drawn into the conversation.“Were you thinking that the RV’s gonna be empty for a while, giving us the opportunity to have a little…quality time?”

“I was, actually.” Bob grinned and grabbed at Ray’s forearm, squeezing gently, and once again, Ray was forced to take a moment to appreciate just how much his life rocked.

**

“You’ve been directed to the Division for Paranormal and Extraterrestrial Phenomena. Agent Molko speaking, how may I assist you?” Brian was pleased with how it came out—it sounded almost polite.

“Agent Molko, it’s me.”

Fuck, it was Campbell. Again. Brian was fairly sure at this point that the receptionists at the FBI only put his calls through to torture Brian personally. “Mr. Campell,” he said, “what can I do for you?” He hoped he sounded incredibly discouraging; it really was a pity that Brian had, as of yet, found no way to prosecute Campbell and prevent him from calling every other week with some demented theory or other.

“The aliens. The ones I told you about?”

“Which ones?” At this point, Campbell had called him with half a dozen stories of alien invasion, each one less connected to reality than the one before.

“The ones that look just like people, who can control you with their minds.”

Brian sighed. “Ah, yes. Those.”

“Uh-huh! I saw them. They teleported from their mothership to the woods to meet with their agents here—they left spies among us. I think the invasion’s starting—I mean, I know I’ve said that before, but I think it’s really happening this time!”

“Right.” Brian jiggled the mouse on his computer until his game of FreeCell came up. He should have stayed in the UK—sure, their agencies had fewer resources, but they also had fewer cranks calling them. “So, Mr. Campbell, can you describe these, er, invaders for me?”

There was a shifting noise on the other end. “Sure! I wrote it all down, just in case. Their leader was a short guy with spiky hair and a bunch of tattoos. One of their agents called him Brian?”

Brian’s hand stilled. It was probably a coincidence. The world was full of Brians—hell, the Division had another one, Brian Viglione down the hall—and people changed their names all the time, but still, it was worth noting. “All right,” he said calmly, “Short, tattoos, Brian. Can you describe the rest?”

“Yeah, okay. Three of the aliens looked like teenagers. One of them was called Frank, I think, and he was related to the leader, because he called him ‘Uncle Brian.’ And the other two were Mikey and…something with a J. Jared? Gerald?”

This was all sounding very familiar. Brian cast his mind over some of the earliest reports, the ones from before the initial settlement fifteen years ago, and some of the more recent case reports at the Division. “Gerard?” he asked.

“That’s it! That’s it exactly! And the kids were all dressed like Earth kids, but you could tell they weren’t because one of them was trying to tell the future, and the leader told their agents not to let Gerard and Mikey use their telekinesis, to keep their identities secret.”

“Really.” Brian felt a thrill of exhilaration. Perhaps Campbell wasn’t the most reliable of witnesses, but even a stopped clock was right twice a day, and the names…Brian was a common enough name, but a Brian travelling with two teenagers called Gerard and Mikey? Now that was quite a coincidence, indeed. “Where was this, Mr. Campbell?”

“Um….” Brian could hear him mumbling to himself on the other end. “It was. Okay, there’s this forest in Hero County? And, and the mountains are an hour away, and it’s near, um, Molasses Creek? Kinda by Cork Valley?”

The names sounded vaguely familiar—perhaps there’d been some news story to come out of those places, or perhaps someone from the Division had even had a case there. Cocker would know. Of course, it’d be easier to talk to Jarvis if he didn’t have to entertain the crackpot on line two. “Well,” he said. “Thank you very much, Mr. Campell. We’ll be sure to look into it. If there’s nothing else….”

“One of their agents is named Bob, and he lives in an RV,” Campbell said. “Oh, and I think the alien kids play the guitar.”

Brian made a mental note, on the off-chance that knowing that the kids played guitar could somehow prove to be useful, and said, “Thanks so much for your assistance.” God, he was actually getting pretty good at this politeness thing.

He could practically see Campbell nodding frantically on the other end of the phone. “Of course!” he said. “I really think you oughta move on this one pretty quick, ‘cause, like, once they stop abducting us and start trying to infiltrate, that’s like the second stage of the invasion, right?”

“Perhaps,” said Brian coolly. “Thanks again.” He moved to hang up the phone.

“Wait!” Campbell cried. “I just remembered something. One of their spies, Bob. He called the leader Schechter. Um. I think that’s it.”

Brian felt something very like excitement rush through his chest, and he was suddenly very eager to be off the phone, to be out of this office and doing what he did best. “Have a good day, Mr. Campbell,” he said, and hung up before Campbell could change his mind. The man might have been profoundly useful today, but that didn’t mean Brian wanted to spend the rest of his afternoon listening to him go on about anal probes.

He’d scarcely hung the phone up before Jarvis stuck his head around the corner and raised his eyebrows curiously. Jarvis was a bit like the devil that way—even think his name, and he appeared, usually to piss Brian off in one way or another. In this case, however, Brian could forgive his omnipresence.

“That was Campbell,” he said.

“Again?” Jarvis made a disdainful noise in the back of his throat. “Lunatic.” He was a fine one to sneer, Brian thought. Once again, he looked as if he’d pulled his clothes out of a dumpster.

“I think he might be onto something this time,” said Brian. “According to Campbell, a short, spiky-haired man with tattoos called Brian teleported into a forest in Hero County. He had three teenaged boys with him—Mikey, Frank, and Gerard.”

That wiped the sneer off Cocker’s face. His mouth opened slightly and he readjusted his glasses before saying, “I know those names. Those last ones. Didn’t Palmer and Viglione have a case, oh, six years back? Psychic kids?”

“They did.” Leaning back in his chair, Brian smirked up at Jarvis. Oh, how he loved it when he was in the know and Jarvis had to wait to be filled in on details. “You ought to know the first name, too. Brian Schechter? Ring any bells?”

Jarvis’ eyes grew huge. “You’re not serious.”

“As a car crash, as they say.” He kicked his chair away from his desk and stood up. “What say we pay Amanda and Brian a little visit?”

Brian and Jarvis had never had a terribly cordial relationship with Amanda and the other Brian. They were brash and loud in a way that Brian had come to associate with cowboys and cynical cops in crime procedurals—distinctly American and infuriatingly obnoxious. Not, Brian allowed, that he and Jarvis were any less irritating to them. Perhaps it was simply a case of four personalities that were simply too large to conform to each other’s preferences. God knew Brian woke up every other day and wished he could strangle Jarvis, and Palmer and Viglione had nothing like Brian’s own reason for restraining himself.

In keeping with their rather fractious history, Palmer glared when she saw them in her doorway. “Cocker. Molko. The fuck do you want?”

“Ah, Amanda,” said Brian in his breathiest, highest voice, “always so charming.”

Palmer narrowed her eyes, and it was probably just as well that Cocker said, “One of your cases.”

“You want one of our cases?” Viglione said skeptically, raising an eyebrow.

“Fuck you! No,” said Palmer. “These are our cases, and this isn’t third grade show and tell. We take the cases we’re assigned and you take the leftovers.”

“Got a rather high opinion of yourself, haven’t you?” said Jarvis with another sneer. Brian had to hand it to him, the man did a top-rate sneer. Brian himself might have added a “Considering our solve rate’s nearly ten per cent higher than yours and we cost the agency a fuckload less in legal fees,” but then, there was no need to gild the lily. “We don’t want one of your current cases, anyway,” Jarvis went on. “Some names cropped up in one of our cases from a case you two cocked up six years ago, and we want to check the files.”

“Cocked up?” said Viglione with a scowl. “Fuck you, get the hell out.”

“Do you really want to break Beck Campbell’s heart?” asked Brian, fluttering his eyelashes and pulling his mouth down into an exaggerated pout. “This may be the first time his ramblings ever come to anything—do you really want to deny him that?”

Palmer shook her head with a reminiscing smile. “Man. That guy never gives up, does he?”

“No. He doesn’t. So if you could just send me your files on—on those two boys you were hunting, six years ago, the ones Pete Wentz adopted. Gerard and Mikey? You could even CC it to Cocker, if you were feeling particularly generous.”

Viglione winced. “The Minnellis. Fuck. That case. I swear to God, I’m still filling out paperwork on that one.”

“Hell of a lot of trouble for two brats who turned out to be garden-variety psychics,” said Palmer, stretching her legs out in front of her and drumming her fingers on her desk. “What’d we decide on that one? Trauma-induced ESP from the loss of their parents? Some shit like that.”

“Just how did you reach that conclusion?” asked Brian. They didn’t encounter enough psychics on the job, in Brian’s opinion, to call any of them ‘garden-variety,’ and he didn’t recall any reports from that case that would lead him to a trauma-induced ESP classification.

Palmer scowled. “Jesus fuck, Molko. It was six years ago. I don’t remember the whole goddamn investigation.” There was something troubled about her expression, though. Perhaps there was something about the case she felt she ought to have remembered but couldn’t.

“Give us the files, then,” said Jarvis. “No sense in leaving any stone unturned.” He smiled slightly, his eyes mocking, and added, “Unless of course there’s something in there you don’t want us to see. Property damage you didn’t file a liability waiver for? Perhaps a little unauthorized termination?”

“If we terminated you, no jury in the world would convict us,” said Viglione irritably. “Fine.” He rolled his chair back to his desk and shook his mouse, jolting the computer out of its screensaver. Brian watched carefully while he attached files to an e-mail and sent it to Brian and Jarvis. Turning around to look at them again, Viglione said, “There. You happy? I just sent you the files. Now get lost.”

“Thanks very much,” said Brian with a smile. Yes, he was getting pretty good at the whole ‘politeness’ thing. “Oh, wait, though. Before we leave….” He fixed Palmer and Viglione with a stare, watching while they slumped unconscious in their chairs. The only good they were doing him awake was showing him what Brian had already suspected—Schechter had erased their memories of the Minnelli case, carefully replacing it with the unlikely ESP explanation. With them asleep, Jarvis could erase the e-mail from Viglione’s outbox while Brian wiped their memories of the last five minutes. There was no reason to give them any clues that might lead them to the traitors’ settlement if Brian and Jarvis were successful in tracking them down. Although Brian was grateful to the American government for the use of its resources, some matters were none of its affair. This one in particular was under the jurisdiction of the Emperor—as indeed, in the end, all things were.

Part 3