I'm The Alien

Fandom: Roswell/Predator

Category/Rated: Gen

Year/Length: 2006/~13499 words

Disclaimer: Michael Guerin and the Predator are not mine, and I make no profit from this.

Summary: Michael Guerin meets the Predator

Author's Notes: The story was written as a gift for digital_opium as a secret santa. She requested a story about Michael meeting a scary alien, and I had to do it.

The desert doesn't change much. Michael Guerin, no stranger to unwanted change, likes that about it.

He's never been good at the social niceties — it's hard to be pleasant when every minute you're expecting the pain to start, and you flinch each time the person you're with raises their hand to scratch their head. Social niceties are a luxury Michael doesn't have time for, though he watches others, watches Isobel and Max like the affection-starved child he is, his nose pressed up against that metaphorical glass barrier through which he's destined ever more to look but not touch. Michael has always wished he could have the kind of easy affection his siblings share, but he knows that it's far too late for him to learn it now.

Today is different, however. Today, Michael's found a temporary relief from the troubles that are his usual lot. Today, life has taken on a new luster, a new direction, for Michael is free at last.

Emancipation.

Emancipation! Sing it, shout it to the wind-torn rocks. Michael Guerin has always been nobody's child, but today he belongs to himself at last, and he can deal with that. That's not a problem for him. Today, he's in control for once, and he likes it.

"Emancipation!"

The sound of his war-whoop drifts unfettered over the sere ground, rattles down the canyon ahead, echoes off the cliffs beside the road. He rides his borrowed motor bike, going nowhere in particular, merely being, and for the moment his wild spirit finds peace, and a warm feeling that's close to contentment.

The still figure beside the road doesn't at first catch his attention; he's far too busy reveling in the sensation of being free, but when the creature steps out into the road, apparently hell-bent on causing an accident that will end in the pair of them lying in fragments across the landscape, Michael swears viciously and brakes, coming to a stop scant inches from the other.

Michael's first inclination, to bellow abuse at the newcomer, is suddenly quelled by the sight of the creature standing in the road, looking at him. The being is gigantic — six foot six if he — and for some reason Michael doesn't doubt that this thing is male — is an inch, and he looks the way something might look, if a lobster and a cockroach got together for one night and had a baby.

"Fuck!" Turning the bike around and hightailing it back the way he's come seems to be the best option Michael can come up with, but something freezes him to the spot, and for a moment he merely gawps up at the creature that's looming over him, his mind a boiling pot of images, mostly imagined, culled from sci-fi comics he's read.

"Tarei hsan," growls the creature, fixing him with a stare that is at once chilling and somehow exciting.

"Yeah, sez you," mutters the young alien, detecting contempt in the creature's utterance and responding to it as only he can. "I'm the alien around here, buddy. You just boldly go back to the star system of your origin. Do not pass go; do not collect two hundred dollars."

There's a pause. Predator eyes prey, and for the Yautja, as always, the rigid code of conduct to which they must adhere means that the Predator may not kill the young of any species. Michael confuses it; he is tall and big-boned, but his appearance is youthful, his skin clear and smooth, his eyes bruised looking, still haunted by the recent struggle with Hank, his efforts to break free from the treatment that has been his lot since he can remember.

The Yautja cocks its head on one side, examining Michael minutely. Despite the alien features, Michael knows what's passing through the creature's mind. This human —he - is young and as yet hasn't reached his full adult capabilities, but knowledge of how formidable an opponent he might become shines from him.

Michael isn't quite sure how he knows when the alien's regard changes from puzzlement to certainty; all he knows is that he suddenly needs to get out of there, put as much space between himself and the thing confronting him as he can.

He doesn't speak, doesn't try to strike up a conversation with it, merely turns his bike around and heads out of there as fast as he can, sending a spattering of gravel up from the tires as he accelerates back the way he came, sudden panic lending him speed.

The Predator watches him go, alien face inscrutable as Michael's bike recedes into the distance. For a while it stands motionless, and then, for no discernable reason, it appears to make up its mind and begins to lope after Michael, tracking him.

Michael roars in past the Roswell city limits, spooked beyond measure by the creature he's seen. Skidding to a halt outside the Crashdown, he races inside, hoping to find Max, and tell him about the weird dude with the face out of his nightmares.

Max is there, mooning over Liz Parker, as usual, and when Michael swoops in to grab a seat beside him, he doesn't really turn; he just leans closer and says, "She's got such shiny hair, Michael. She's perfect, isn't she?"

"Uh, yeah, perfect," mumbles Michael. "Hey, Max, guess what I saw; there's a dude out there in the desert who looks like he's seven feet tall, and he's got a face like your worst nightm…."

He pauses; Max isn't listening. Something tells him that his story is going to be interpreted as some kind of drugged-out celebration of his new independence, and that isn't good.

"Yeah, Maxwell. Shiny hair; that's the important stuff. Hold that thought." He turns before Maria can come and grab hold of his attention. Something about the big dude he's seen is making him nervous, and he doesn't have time right now for all that smooching and stuff.

Heading out into the street outside of the Crashdown, he stands, frowning, and a cold thrill of fear goes through him as he sees the alien approaching.

"Didn't take you long," grouses Michael, walking forward, wondering if he should hum a verse of "Do Not Forsake Me, Oh, My Darling," as he goes. The big dude is scary; menace radiates from it, and Michael is fucked, if he's going to run. He's done running, because today — sing it, brothers — he's independent. Emancipated.

The creature approaches, stands, head cocked on one side, for all the world like a cockroach wanting to watch the Super Bowl. Michael can tell that turning to run will be a bad, bad mistake, so he stands there, feeling at once empowered and supremely vulnerable.

The Yautja apparently comes to a decision. It seems that Michael is a worthy foe, and it levels its shoulder cannon ready to fire the plasma bolt that will reduce the young man to his component atoms. Michael sees the motion, and knows what it means, although he has no idea how he knows it.

"Oh, no, you don't; no butt-ugly, steroid freak is going to ruin my day," he yells, lashing his bad temper up as high as it will go.

As the cannon comes to bear on him, Michael stretches out his hand and hurls every pent-up emotion that's in him at the nightmare that's menacing him. He's learned to explode rocks, for sure, and he just wants to do exactly that, only with… whatever this thing is playing the part of the rock. He knows that it's a long shot, and he thinks maybe he can kiss goodbye to the clean red expanse of the desert, say sayonara to Maria's acid wit and soft curves, and allow his independence to be shorter lived than even he'd dreamed in his most pessimistic moments.

There's a moment when everything seems to stop, freeze frame and cut to the aerial shot. The cannon continues to bear, and Michael, hand still extended, projecting his microcellular message of disruption, knows that he should bend down and kiss his ass goodbye.

The change, when it comes, is slow at first. The creature's mandibles clatter together, and there is a faint scent of something burning, and then the creature simply… explodes — a fine rain of organic material that spatters the area all around, covers Michael in acrid matter and leaves no trace of the alien that had menaced him so recently.

It takes a minute or two for Michael to realize that he's won, but when he does, he throws back his head and crows, for all the world like Peter Pan. He's done it. He's won, and yo! Emancipation rocks, man!

"I told you, sucker: I'm the alien in these parts," he says softly and laughs, somewhat shakily. "Don't mess with me; I'm not a kid any more." With that, he heads back to his new apartment to take a shower and start his new life.

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