I hate what he made me.

I hate how everything makes sense now.

I should have known. Sure, who would have known *this*, but on some subconscious level I should have known something was not right. I should have known there was an actual, tangible reason why I did not belong in the circle, why I was pushed away at moments of crises and let in only when Roswell became the boring, dusty little town that the rest of the world sees it as.

I hate this town.

I hate the people in it.

I hate how they look at me.

I hate how they refuse to look at me.

I hate how they barely noticed I was gone.

I hate how they barely noticed I was back.

There was no "Welcome Back, Alex" banner at the Crashdown, like that day a couple of summers ago when I had arrived home from computer camp. Liz had thrown me a party and invited the entire school. Sure, it was only me, Liz, Maria, and some guy from my lit class that actually showed up, but it was a good party nonetheless.

Now all Liz threw me was a glance and a "Hey." As if I had spent a month around the corner and not across the ocean in Sweden.

Sweden. What a perfectly random place. I should have known.

My father told me over Thanksgiving that the two of us would be heading to Sweden together for the holidays. My father was working on some top-secret, very important project over there. My father had an extra ticket. My father wanted me to come.

I said sure. I had nowhere else to go. My mom was gone. She had left without telling me a little over a month ago. The night I discovered her things were missing was the night my father told me that they were getting a divorce. That's all he told me. They were getting a divorce. Nothing else.

I hate divorce.

I hate that my mom left.

I hate that my mom left without telling me.

I hate that my mom left without asking me to come with her.

I hate that if I were in her shoes, I would have done the exact same thing.

I hate how I refused to let my friends see anything was wrong.

I hate how my friends didn't see anything to begin with.

Christmas in Sweden. "Sure," I muttered to my father as I poked into the TV dinner. "I have nowhere else to go." It wasn't like my friends were going to miss me. They were too busy saving the world.

Sweden. What a perfectly random place. I should have known.

But I didn't know. I didn't know until my father told me. I didn't know until our car left us in front of some somber, concrete building in the far outskirts of Malmo and not at the entrance of some Swede hotel in the city. I didn't know until a man dressed in gray, an ID card with the name General S. Balin pinned to his breast pocket, walked up to us and addressed us at the gates.

I didn't know until he addressed my father as Kivar.

I didn't know until Nicholas walked up to us and addressed us.

I didn't know until he addressed me as Malyk, a smirk on his face.

I hate Sweden.

I hate Roswell.

I hate how they didn't even notice I was gone.

I hate how they didn't even notice I was back.

They were too busy saving the world.

I hate my father.

I hate how he lied to me.

I hate how he never bothered to tell me before this.

He was too busy destroying the world.

The first day in Sweden, my father placed an apple in front of me and told me to make it disappear.

I told him to get Houdini.

The second day, he put the apple before me again. He repeated his wishes.

I threw the apple out of the window.

The third day, he showed me the apple and asked me again.

I sighed, put my hand over it, closed my eyes, and muttered, "Abracadabra."

When I opened my eyes, I was touching air.

My father was delighted.

I was horrified.

Max can heal. Michael can kill.

I can make things go, "Poof."

A combination of their powers, I suppose. With enough practice, I could probably make bullets and tumors disappear, or make an opponent vanish into thin air. Poof. Just like that.

I spent all of December locked inside that random building in that random country. For a whole month I was developing powers, abilities I didn't even know I had. I was learning about solar systems, about planets and nations I didn't know existed. It's vital that I train, my father says. I am my father's son. I will inherit the throne. One day, I will rule. One day, I will fight my friends as an enemy.

Yadda yadda yadda.

My father throws around the world "destiny" as much as Max, Michael, Isabel, and Tess do.

*God, I hate that word.*

I hate my father.

I hate what he made me.

I hate that he used my mother.

I hate that she left when she find out.

I hate that I can't run away like she did.

One of the training sessions was called "Affirmation." I lovingly dubbed it "Brainwashing."

The session always remained the same. First, my instructor would tell me the history of the home planet, how the Royal Four destroyed it and how Kivar will restore it to its proper condition. Next, he would tell me of the Royal Four's weaknesses and Kivar's strengths.

He had charts and graphs and everything.

Then, my father would take me aside. He would say to me, "Max, Michael, Isabel, and Tess… they never were your friends, Alex. Whatever loyalty you felt to them was only foolish admiration for their capabilities. But now you know that you are capable of so much more than they. Whatever ties with them you have are false."

The last day of the sessions, I asked him after his little monologue, "And Liz and Maria?"

"Liz is human," he answered simply. "Though you may be partly human, you will never fully belong."

I hate how everything makes sense now. I should have known. Sure, who would have known *this*, but on some subconscious level I should have known something was not right. I should have known there was an actual, tangible reason why I did not belong.

I almost believed him that last day.

Almost.

When I shook it off, I hated him again and wanted to pull a Houdini on him. But I didn't.

Instead, I smiled at him and asked him to call me Malyk.

My father was delighted. He believed that I had crossed over to the dark side.

Cue the Darth Vader theme music here.

Then I asked him, "What about Maria?"

And he told me the truth about Maria.

I hate truth.

I hate deception.

I hate destiny.

I hate all of this.

I could make everything and everyone disappear.

But I can't.

I'm too nice.

I'm Alex Whitman.

I hate Alex Whitman.

On the plane ride home, I asked my father why he waited until now to tell me who I was, who he was. His answer was something about waiting for the proper balance. Then he added something about me achieving the Royal Four's trust and how it would be so easy now to execute the plan from the inside.

I forced what I hoped was a joyous grin at him and looked out my window. I gritted my teeth. I made my own plan.

1.) Work on my "Poof."
2.) Tell my friends I'm a human-alien hybrid.
3.) Tell my friends I'm Kivar's son.
4.) Tell my friends I'm on their side.
5.) Form a strategy to destroy Kivar.
6.) Make my father and all his friends go "Poof."

Somewhere in there, I should probably mention that my parents got divorced.

I looked away from my window and back at my father. He had a tender smile on his face.

"I'm proud of you, son," he said to me. Then he went back to his newspaper.

He's never smiled or said those words to me my entire life.

Crap.

I walked into the Crashdown that afternoon. Liz glanced at me and said, "Hey," as if I had spent a month around the corner and not across the ocean in Sweden. She gave me a brief hug and said she had to go help a customer really quick, that we would talk later.

Michael mumbled a hello from behind the cook's counter.

Max shook my hand and politely asked how my Christmas was.

Isabel and I shared an awkward embrace.

Tess smiled at me and said a simple "Welcome back."

What, did I expect a banner to say that?

I almost believed my father again.

Then I saw Maria.

When she first noticed me, she dropped her tray on a table with a loud clatter and ran over. "Alex! You're home!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around me. "How was Sweden? Roswell was boring, but you should know that. Same old, same old. Well, except for-- well, I'll tell you about that later. Ooh, you will *never* guess what *Michael* got me for Christmas..."

Somewhere in between her chatter, I finally understood why Liz had to tell Maria about Max and all of them a year ago, about him and Isabel and Michael being aliens. It was because Maria is... Maria. She has an amazing talent to make it seem as if she should know everything, as if she belonged to you, as if you belonged to her. She could force her way through anything and anyone.

I wanted to tell her everything.

I wanted to tell her who I am.

I wanted to tell her who my father is.

Most of all, I wanted to tell her who her father is.

General S. Balin.

Shape-shifting bastard.

I hate him.

But I didn't tell her. I didn't tell her who she is, or why she'll never belong with Michael.

Instead, I lied my ass off. I sat with the six of them and pretended to be good ol,' dependable, geeky Alex Whitman. I made up stories about Christmas and threw my god-knows-where-she-is mother into them. I made my stupid jokes, and acted like nothing had changed.

And they believed me.

Everyone believes me.

No one suspects me.

No one should.

They have no reason not to.

I'm not a threat when I don't know what side I'm playing for.

I hate this.

I hate all of this.

I could make everything and everyone disappear.

But I can't.

I'm too nice.