The lab. The words liquefied Michael's guts. He didn't know exactly what happened to a suspected alien in the lab. But it didn't sound promising. He shoved himself to his feet. Even his bones felt soft and soggy, but he was determined not to let Bachelor Number One and Bachelor Number Two know that he was seriously freaking out. He swaggered over to the door nonchalantly.

The guards made a Michael sandwich-one in front of him, one in back-and marched him across the huge warehouse of a room that contained the cells. The first guard punched a code into the little box next to a massive metal door, careful not to let Michael see the numbers. The doors slid open down the middle, and they walked down a long corridor, their feet pounding out a rhythm on the cement floor.

"You guys know any of those marching chants?" Michael asked to distract himself. "You know, like, 'I don't know, but it's been said, yadda, yadda, yadda.' 'Cause that's what we need right now."

Neither Hubba nor Bubba bothered to answer him. Big surprise.

I don't know, but it's been said, compound guards all wet their bed. The words just popped into his mind, and he gave a snort of laughter. Alex is rubbing off on me, Michael thought. The more tense a situation got, the more stupid Alex's jokes became.

At least the chant kept him from screaming or puking. Still, his heart was practically ricocheting off his ribs with every beat.

I don't know, but I've been told, compound guards all… hmmm… all have breath that smells like mold?

The first guard stopped in front of another metal door and punched in the code. It slid open and the odor of antiseptic, powder, plastic, and something unidentifiable, something chemical, filled Michael's nose. Lab smell. The guards escorted Michael inside. There was a padded examination table in the far corner and a metal tray of instruments on the counter behind it.

Hot bile rose up the back of his throat, and for one moment he was afraid he was going to do the Technicolor yawn right there. He swallowed hard.

"Oh, good. Our guest of honor has arrived." Michael turned toward the door, knowing he would see Sheriff Valenti. He met the sheriff's gaze and held it, willing himself not to blink.

"Should we get started?" a voice Michael didn't recognize asked. The question ended his staring contest with the sheriff. They both turned toward the man in the white lab coat.

"Yes, there's a lot I want to cover this session," Valenti answered.

"Okay, go have a seat at that table," the doctor told Michael.

At least it wasn't the padded examination table. It was just your basic cafeteria kind of table with a bench on either side. Michael walked over and sat down. Valenti slid onto the bench across from him.

Out of his peripheral vision he caught the doctor's hand moving in, and a second later Michael felt something cold and gooey on his forehead. He jerked back his head and found himself staring directly into the doctor's face.

Michael started, then laughed out loud at himself. Man, I am jittery, he thought.

"I'm glad my face amuses you," the doctor said. "I'm Dr. Doyle. Brian Doyle. I should have said that up front."

"Can we get on with it?" Valenti demanded.

The lab rat doesn't need to know names, right, Sheriff? Michael thought.

Dr. Doyle stuck a tiny plastic suction cup over the gel he'd applied. Michael could see a wire running from the cup to a monitor. He wasn't a science head like Max or Liz, but he knew they were going to look at his brain waves. At least he was pretty sure that was the deal.

But who knows what kind of technology these Project Clean Slate guys have? he thought as the doctor attached more suction cups to his head. Maybe the doc and the sheriff are about to fry my brain to make sure I'm being a good little prisoner who would never think of causing any problem-because I can no longer think at all. Sort of like a lobotomy without the mess.

"Done," Dr. Doyle announced. He sat down next to Michael.

"All right, the first thing I want you to show us is how you made yourself look like me," Valenti instructed. "I was told that's how you were able to enter the compound undetected."

I'm not that easy, Michael thought. The less the sheriff knew about him and his powers, the better.

"Here's how it worked. I stopped by the costume shop on North Main and picked up a latex mask. I got the last one of you. The counter guy told me you're one of the most popular Halloween costumes this year. You beat out Frankenstein and most of the cast of Star Trek and-"

"Enough," Valenti snapped. He turned to the guards at the door. "One of you go get Adam." Immediately one of the guards hurried out of the room.

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea," Dr. Doyle said quickly. "We don't know how two-"

"The kid doesn't want to talk. He wants to be a comedian," Valenti interrupted. "So I'll get the info another way."

Michael gathered that he was supposed to be scared of this Adam guy. Who was he? Some kind of torture expert or something?

The big metal door slid open with a soft hiss, and a guy who looked a little younger than Michael entered, followed by the guard.

This was Adam? This was the guy Valenti was hoping could get the truth out of Michael? He looked more like the kind of guy who'd always gotten his lunch money stolen-almost no muscles, I-spend-my-days-hunched-over-a-computer pale, light brown hair cut into dorky bangs, and wide pale green eyes. The kind of guy that might make certain girls go aww, but not much of an intimidator.

Michael shot a glance at Valenti. What was going on here?

"Hello, Adam." Valenti smiled at the kid. "We have a visitor with us today. His name is Michael. I want you to play the game with Michael," Valenti continued.

Adam hurried over to Michael, and before Michael had a chance to react, Adam grabbed his hand. Instantly they were connected. A rush of images flashed through Michael's brain. A younger Dr. Doyle sliding a little boy Adam into a big hollow tube for a CAT scan. A slightly older Adam in a glass cell playing checkers with a uniformed guard. A tray with silver instruments. A vial of blood. A pair of cowboy pajamas. An incubation pod. Adam breaking free of an incubation pod.

Michael jerked his hand away and stared at Adam. He was one of them. No question. Hadn't Ray said there was one pod he hadn't been able to move to the cave? It must have been Adam's. And the Project Clean Slate agents recovered it.

"Michael, what did you see when Adam touched you?" Dr. Doyle asked. He pulled a little pad and a pen out of his lab coat pocket.

"Holding hands with another guy doesn't exactly make me see fireworks, if that's what you mean," Michael muttered.

He was still trying to take this all in. Had Adam spent his whole life here in the compound? Had they actually made a little kid spend year after year underground?

"Adam, what did you see?" Valenti asked, in a demented preschool teacher voice.

All Michael had been thinking about was the images he got from Adam. But if Adam was one of them, that meant he had power, too. So during the connection, Adam had been getting a little peek into Michael's brain.

"I saw a man in a surgical mask," Adam answered, his voice quiet and steady. "I saw a map of the desert. I saw him breaking out of a metal cocoon like mine," Adam continued.

He saw the pod. Now they know for sure I'm an alien, Michael thought. But it's not like there was a whole lot of doubt about that. They didn't exactly buy the Valenti Halloween mask story.

"Anything else?" Valenti asked gently.

"A girl. With long blond hair and blue eyes," Adam said.

"Tell us more about her," Valenti coaxed.

Of course, Michael thought, this game's purpose is to find the other aliens in Roswell.

"She was wearing a short skirt-green and black," Adam answered.