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Part 14
So I’ve been thinking. I mean, duh. What else is there to do at 3am if you can’t sleep…and you’re alone.
Anyway…I’ve been thinking about my powers. Actually, I’ve been trying to not think about my powers, but that sort of didn’t work, so I thought I might as well face it.
I still don’t understand how it’s even possible in the first place. Why do I have her power? The healing I understand, Max must have passed it on to me when he saved me. But mind-warping?
And what about all the things I blew up back in Roswell without being able to stop it? That’s Michael’s special ability, along with his amazing lack of control over it, so why do I have it too? Michael and I, we put up with each other, at best. We never socialized, not if we could help it, that is. So why do I have his power? Not to mention his non-ability to control it…never thought Michael Guerin and I would ever have anything in common.
Anyway, after mentally whining and bitching for quite some time, I came to a conclusion: I can blast things, as I proved on countless occasions back in Roswell, which is Michael’s special power. I can heal – pretty damn good too if I may say so myself – which is Max’s ability.
And, as much as I hate to admit it and wished it weren’t true, I can mindwarp. That’s Tess’ power. So does that mean I can dreamwalk too? If I have the powers of those three it would only make sense for me to have Isabel’s power too.
Guess there’s only one way to find out. After all, the proof of the pudding is in the eating.
But who should I try to dreamwalk? I don’t want to risk dreamwalking Kyle, Maria or my parents. I don’t want to alert any of them in any kind of way, and I certainly don’t want to give them any hints as to where I am. God only knows what will happen when I, the Quasimodo of alien powers, run around in someone’s sub consciousness.
Problem is, I don’t have a picture of anyone else, and I doubt I can do it without one like Isabel sometimes can. My record of correct power usage isn’t exactly squeaky clean. So what do I do?
Having an idea, I get up and stumble to the living room. Why couldn’t night vision have been one of my powers? At least I could’ve used that.
I know that Joshua normally paints weird abstract stuff that makes zero sense to a normal person, but he also has a few pictures of people. It’s not a photo, but who knows, maybe it will work anyway. And I saw him working on one of M just yesterday.
Now, M would normally not be my first choice, but I refuse to go down to the basement and look for another painting. The basement at night is just…not an option. And so I settle for M’s picture.
Picking it up, I go back to my room. I lie down on my bed, the picture lying beside me, both of us probably looking pretty stupid. Then I touch the painting and close my eyes. I try to let myself be sucked into it, sort of like it felt when I helped Isabel contact Max in New York. Before I know what’s going on, it already happened.
I look around. I’m in an apartment, a nice, large, clean apartment. A normal apartment. No dump, no building on the brink of collapsing. I can’t still be in Seattle, can I?
Then I see M. She’s standing in the kitchen, watching a guy who’s standing at the stove cooking something. God, it smells good. My stomach growls.
How can my stomach growl?
I’m not even really here. I’m in someone else’s freaking mind. None of this is real.
So why is my god damn stomach growling?
M has this really stupid grin on her face. Christ, she’s freaking me out. I’ve never seen her smile like that. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her with anything but a scowl on her face. Then the guy turns to her, and it all makes sense.
It’s Logan.
He smiles at her too, and she smiles even more, and I feel like I so shouldn’t be here watching this.
Then he abandons his position at the stove to walk around the counter so that he’s standing in front of M. He touches her cheek, and at her startled, slightly terrified look, smiles.
“Don’t worry,” he tells her. “Nothing can happen to me. It’s a dream.” A smile breaks over M’s face again, and for the first time I realize that she’s really pretty when she smiles.
“So, what’s the mission?” M asks coyly.
Huh?
Logan seems as confused as I am. “Mission?” he asks.
“Yeah, the super-urgent, super-important Eyes-Only mission. That’s why you called me, right?” she asks, looking a bit confused herself now.
“Oh, that.” Logan smiles again. “Well, this mission is special. It involves the boss himself. Eyes Only.”
“Logan, you are Eyes Only,” M says.
Wait a firkin’ minute here. Logan is Eyes Only? Logan? Robocop?
Logan smiles. Then he holds up a bottle of chocolate sauce, a serious expression on his face. “This sauce is on the brink of going bad. Since you should not throw away groceries, we have to find a fast way of using it. All of it. Mission objective must be reached within an hour.”
M has a serious expression on her face too. “That could be close. Are you sure it’s even possible?”
Logan nods. “I have faith in you.”
M contemplates it. “I won’t be able to do it alone.”
He smiles at her, the love shining in his eyes so brightly that even a cynic like me is almost touched by it. “I wasn’t planning on leaving you to do this alone. You can count on me.”
M shrugs. “Well, then.”
And they jump each other.
I whirl around, so not wanting to see that. I try to get out of M’s dream, but I have no idea how to do that. Looking around, I see a door. I head towards it, rip it open, and suddenly I’m back in my room, lying on my bed, breathing heavily.
Jesus.
It takes a few moments till I’m calm again. Then I let what I saw pass through my mind once more.
So Logan is Eyes Only.
Hmm.
Interesting.
----------
For the first time in my life my powers actually work the way I want them to and the lock clicks open on the first try. I hold my breath, hoping that I didn’t trip an alarm or something. But then, we’re in Seattle. Hot water is a luxury here. I doubt people actually even know what alarm systems are, let alone have them.
Nothing happens, and so I slip into the apartment and quickly close the door behind me.
Jesus.
This place is iced.
Am I seriously still in Seattle? Even for Roswell standards, this is a pretty nice apartment. Walking further inside, I recognize my surroundings from M’s dream. It looks exactly the way I remember it.
The first thing I do is look into his fridge. I always look into people’s fridges. It tells you everything you need to know about the person.
Hmm, what is there? Some left over pasta, stored in a plastic dish. Wow. It’s even labeled.
Jesus, this guy must be one hell of a neat freak. And I thought I was bad.
There’s also some French mustard, everything you need to make salad, some apples, fat-free yoghurt, orange juice, water, milk and an open bottle of red wine.
I take it out of the fridge. Oh, calm down, I’m not gonna drink it. I just want to see where it’s from. I bet it’s imported. Probably from France. Well, close enough. It’s from Spain. Jesus, this guy must have money to feed cows.
I close the fridge again. As I said, a fridge tells you everything you need to know about a person. Logan’s tells me that he’s levelheaded, serious, neat and organized. He always does the right thing, always makes decisions with his head – he’s your typical nice guy. He probably wouldn’t get a joke if you hit him over the head with it, but he’s a stand-up guy. But despite all this, he doesn’t deny himself the nice things in life either. It’s probably his reward to himself for being so good or something.
How do I know all that you ask? Well, first of all, the guy actually labeled the pasta. He even put the date on the label. Only a maniac would do that. I mean, come on. It’s the only plastic dish in the fridge, and it’s see-through. Ergo, a label is totally not necessary.
But if you’re neat and organized to an extent that comes dangerously close to insanity, you’ll label it anyway. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with being neat and organized. I myself am neat and organized. But seriously, the pasta? You can overdo it, ya know.
Second of all, there’s only healthy stuff in his fridge. No chocolate, no ice cream, even the yoghurt is fat-free.
Which tells me the guy always eats healthy, well-balanced meals. You have to be very, very, very levelheaded to actually do that. I mean, where’s the fun in that?
Which tells me that fun is not high on Logan’s list of priorities. I doubt he even knows how to spell that word. Ergo, he’s serious, he’s smart (otherwise he wouldn’t even know what a well-balanced meal is) and he’s levelheaded.
Some people might call it boring, but I actually sort of like that about him. A guy making decisions with his brain – I mean the one in his head – is normally hard to find, as I have recently discovered.
Since it will probably still take a while till Logan comes back, I take the time to look around. The apartment is huge, lots of space, lots of light. The furniture is modern but it doesn’t make the apartment seem cold. There are weird pictures on the wall, just splashes of colors and strange shapes. They don’t make any sense. What happened to the good old times when painters actually painted things?
After seeing all there is to see, I go back into the living room. Logan’s computer is, like, huge. There are almost half a dozen screens, a few servers and tons of other gadgets I don’t even recognize. I guess he needs it, those cable hacks can’t be easy to pull off.
I plop down on his chair, put my feet on his desk and stretch out to wait for Logan to come home.
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