Michael awoke with no feeling in his body, it was as if he wasn't really there. He looked at himself, he saw his body in the only state it was always in, existence. But he could tell no difference when he moved. He climbed out of bed, no thoughts were filling his head. He had to carefully watch to make sure he wouldn't stumble and fall.

His legs carried him out of his bedroom, out of his apartment, and onto the deserted streets of present day Roswell. With no thoughts, he had no feelings, he viewed the world with no color in it, only shadows. He was living the life of a demon. Michael sat down on a roadside bench. He felt nothing for the woman who was hit by a car. He took a stroll through the local park, and felt nothing for the little boy who drowned in the river while he watched. He felt nothing for anything that lost it's life in his path. He didn't care.

Suddenly, ahead of him by two blocks, a man gestured to him. He was dressed in black robes, spoke no words to him, and floated strangely two inches off the cracked sidewalks. None of this registered as information in Michael's mind, only as orders. He followed the man down the street. They walked through the lower-class neighborhood, where the houses were crappy and there was no sufficient power supply, and the upper-class, where every mansion-house practically had it's own power source, then soon entering the middle-class. It had nice houses, nice yards, and nice cars, but none in the area was quite awake enough to hear the stray mutts howling mournfully at the full moon, which could not be seen, hidden behind clouds of dust from the desert. If anyone had seen it, they would have stopped it. And he didn't care.

The man stopped and turned abruptly, carelessly invading the property of a local citizen. He walked to the door and tried the doorknob. It opened as if being silently ordered to do so. Michael quietly followed. The man lead the way through a carefully planned out living room and up a set of very nice cedar stairs into the bedroom of a girl his age. Michael had no need to know her name as all the information he needed was put in his head when he needed it and then only removed after it served it's sole purpose.

His leader gestured once again, but this time to the girl sleeping soundlessly in her bed. Then to the closet in the shadowed corner of the room. He turned and left out the window, leaving Michael to carry out the plan alone. A voice spoke in his mind, almost incoherent, but none the less a voice., 'In the closet', it said. Michael headed to the corner where junk was piled beside the closet. He stared at it. 'Box.' it spoke again, 'Shoe box'. More clearly this time. The voice was like a spy that you could not escape. It watched all your moves and heard all your speeches. To most it would seem very disturbing, but not to him, he didn't care.

Michael looked down and sitting neatly on top was a shoe box. He picked it up, instinctively removed the lid, and looked inside. It didn't matter, he already knew what it was anyway. A knife. Dangerous. Yes, only a simple steak knife, but certainly not harmless.

An alarm clock went off. The girl in bed behind him awoke. Michael spun around, ready to complete his mission. The girl, he now knew, was named Maria. She looked up at him pleadingly. He looked back down at her and showed her the knife he now held in his hand. She looked at it. Her small manicured hands slowly moved toward him, palms up. She was asking for it. He placed it in her hands and she nodded gratefully.

Michael briefly had a moment to look into her eyes. They were full of fear, and questions unanswered. But in that brief moment he remembered things that had never happened to him, and a light penetrated into his mind to rid of the voice. He watched as Maria shifted the weapon. She turned it around in her hands until the tip was pointed to the area just above her collar bone. Michael sat down on the carpet and watched, momentarily entertained.

When she started to advance the knife through the atmosphere and finally the tip pierced the first couple layers of her skin, Michael jumped up, startled. He thought about her eyes and the fear they contained a second and decided that no, he would not let her do this on her own.

Maria didn't stop, slowly piercing more layers of her own flesh. She watched as Michael reached out and gripped the knife. He pulled it out of her grip. She let it go, letting it slide past her frail fingers. He drew his arm back and flung it through the open window. She looked up at him, begging to have it back. His eyes narrowed and he spoke one word, "No." And he cared.