Author: muse
Rating: YTEEN for some language
Disclaimer: Nothing of Roswell is owned by me, yada, yada, yada.
Summary: Something a little off the beaten path for me and a little darker along the way. Imagine you have in your hands a thin magazine full of pictures and word balloons, instead of looking at your computer monitor. And then please try to imagine that this doesn’t suck.
A/N: Thanks to my great beta Peachykin for all your help
. And this for ladygloria for being such a wonderful friend. Here is the story I've owed you for a year now, lol. Sorry it took me so long. Hoe you enjoy!
Roswell Issue 1.01
“Origin”
comic book: A book of comic strips or cartoons, often relating a sustained narrative
Date of night before shooting.
panel 1:
Close up of two hands, not quite a man’s but too large for a child, gripping a cup.
He waits for the Parker girl to make her rounds to the tables in her section. The coffee he’s been nursing for the past hour has turned cold, the porcelain cup no longer giving any warmth to his chilled hands. His side aches where the bastard kicked him earlier that night, and he has no money to order anything other than the Crashdown’s coffee.
panel 2 (double size):
The lone teenager sits slouched, dressed in second hand clothes, in the faded booth of an alien themed restaurant, the local greasy spoon with various murals of UFO’s and large bug-eyes extra-terrestrials in the background.
She stops in front of his booth and bites her lip before asking if he needs a refill. He grunts in acquiesce and pushes his mug ahead without meeting her carefully blanked deep brown eyes. He knows it’s not distrust that causes her to hesitate before pouring the hot liquid, but discomfort – he doesn’t fit into her structured world.
panel 3:
Long shot of dark haired girl, hip leaning gently against counter as she watches the teenage boy. Tacky green and silver uniform with bobbing antenna a top her head. She’s slightly built, her eyes dark and serious, with her long tresses pulled back from her brow.
As a child of routine, the Parker girl sees him as an anomaly; this strange, sullen spikey-haired boy does not fit into her safely ordered world of science clubs, late night study sessions and Wednesday night video rentals with her best friends – the shy and slightly timid Whitman kid and the bright, loudmouthed Deluca girl.
He knows her rituals, her and her family. He’s memorized the dates when her parents leave for their conventions and every exit of the building is etched into his brain. He wouldn’t dare to set foot into the café otherwise. Max and Isabel would shake their heads and go on about his paranoid behaviour, but he knows things they don’t. Michael understands better than most about the dark that exists within the light. Not all familial bonds are driven by love and compassion. Money too, can keep people bound to one another.
Sometimes you need an escape route.
This among other things makes him frequent the Crashdown. The cheap food and the short skirts of the waitress uniforms appeal to him on his basic, more human side. The late hours of operation appeal to his alien nature, his inner drive for survival. If he stays there long enough, sipping on the stale coffee, maybe Hank will be passed out by the time he returns to the trailer and maybe tonight he’ll leave him alone.
His bruised ribs tell him otherwise.
panels 4-6 (overlapping each side, frameless center picture):
Close up of girl’s face, with the boy watching her in the background. This time it’s the boy who stares at the girl, unexplained longing on his face. She’s bussing empty tables placing dishes into a gray rubber tub.
He ponders Max’s obsession with the Parker girl again. She’s not hard to look at, he acknowledges as she bends over the booth in front to him. She’s small, but shapely enough. Delicate almost.
She’s quiet too, a trait that Hank tells him to look for in a woman, on his better days. “Don’t bother with girls whose mouths never stop flapping, Mikey. There’s only one thing a woman’s mouth is good for, and it ain’t telling you about her day.”
Michael’s face breaks out into a sneer as the sound of his trailer trash foster father’s laugh fills his head. Liz notices and her face flushes; obviously she thinks that the look was meant for her.
For a brief second, he regrets causing the red on her cheeks, but then his trademark smirk appears. He likes making her uncomfortable. Petty enough reasoning behind it; he’s in a foul mood and his ribs fucking kill.
He leans back into the vinyl plastic of the booth, careful of his bruises. He sips the coffee and wonders what little Lizzie Parker, with her serious eyes and nervous habit of biting her lip is thinking right now.
panel 7:
The girl stands in forefront of the picture, head tilted slightly to the side, as if she can feel his eyes on her.
Liz Parker tries to keep to her duties; washing the countertops, putting out silverware and brewing fresh coffee, though her mind is elsewhere. Something about the Guerin boy unnerves her, whether it’s his intense stare she can feel burning into her back or the way he sits so still. Most people can fade into the background of the restaurant, but not him. She can sense his presence behind her as she cleans the remains of the previous diners. She knows without turning her head that he’s watching her with those whiskey eyes of his, so like the dark amber bottle her father keeps stashed away, even though Liz has never been tempted to sip from its contents. But something tonight, has her insides out of sorts, something about the Guerin boy has her on edge. She feels restless and yearns for something else, something brighter to come to this stale town.
She knows that there are things burning inside Michael Guerin, things that would make her best friends question her sanity if she tried to discover them. But that’s the problem with her science based mind, give her a puzzle and she has to figure out the answer. And Michael is an enigma all to himself.
Liz has seen him at school, on the days he bothers to show up for class. He speaks to no one except Max and Isabel Evans. He sees everything though. Liz watches him sometimes, when she’s sure that no one else us notices. But Michael knows she sees him. He always knows.
What he doesn’t know is what she’s thinking of when she studies him, or how he makes her pulse pound and face flush when he presses too close as he walks by her standing timidly at her locker, watching his ever present smirk plastered on his face through her lash-veiled lower cast eyes.
Or how she wants for one moment for him to really look at her and see beyond the studious school girl or the waitress uniform and see what’s locked inside her essence.
Or maybe she’s scared he already has.
panels 8-9 (small rectangle shot overtop of larger panel):
Close up of the boy’s eyes; dark, intense and brooding. Behind this shot is larger one of the girl biting her lip. She appears hesitant for some reason.
Michael’s been the only customer for the last hour. Liz is tired, her feet are sore and she has a chemistry quiz to study for. She’d love to close the diner for the night, but she’s fearful of having to tell Michael Guerin to leave. Not only because that would mean her having a conversation with him that requires her to speak actual words instead of “Can I get you a refill?” but also because she feels something is off with him tonight. He’s been favouring one side of his body, hunched defensively in the booth all evening.
Liz frowns as she watches him check the wall clock again and fiddle with the used sugar packets that litter the table. Something is wrong, and she can’t help but wonder about Michael and what his life is like. Most of the female population of Roswell High wonders the same thing about the mysterious Michael Guerin; the rebellious loner from the wrong side of the tracks.
Gathering her courage she approaches his table, coffee pot in hand and tries to talk without stumbling over her nervous tongue, which seems to grow twice its natural size when she comes into close proximity with Michael.
“Can I get you anything else?” Her voice sounds flat and falsely cheerful and she inwardly winces at the sound of it.
He just shakes his head and goes back to ignoring her.
“Can I bring you the bill than?” This time he reacts. He glances up quickly and Liz sees a flash of something foreign, alien in his eyes. For a moment she could’ve sworn that he was scared. Then it’s gone and he’s back to being his wildly arrogant self.
“What, gotta hot date with your math book Parker?” At her blush his smirk widens. “Need to close up shop so you can perfect the art of being the most boring teenager in Roswell?”
She tries to think of a comeback as the pink deepens across her face. Before she gets the chance to fire off her best insult he goes on.
“No wait, I’ve got it. You’re off to meet Valenti aren’t you? Did the Sheriff’s son manage to break through that frigid exterior you give all the boys?”
He leans in to her shocked face and his eyes mock her cruelly. “Tell me Parker, how good was your first time? Name all the dirty details.” He then blanks his face and feigns yawning. “On second thought, maybe a recap of your cherry popping isn’t what I really give a fuck about. Why don’t you go call Maria and bore her to death and just leave the coffee pot on the table?” Confident that his words have driven her off he faces the clock again and mentally wishes for the time to speed up. Just another hour and maybe I can go and sleep in peace, he thinks, never admitting how much his thoughts sound like a prayer.
“You bastard.”
panel 10:
The girl’s pretty features are contorted in anger. Surprise is evident on the boys.
The words come out low and menacing; she all but hisses at him.
Startled he twists his head around and stares at her. Liz’s face is still red, this time from anger. Her doe like eyes have hardened and the chocolate irises are frozen and glaring at him. His ears are still ringing from her choice of vocabulary. He’s never known the Parker girl to speak like that.
Before he gets a chance to comment on it, she comes at him from all sides.
“How dare you come in here and treat me this way!” Liz’s shoulders are shaking and she’s scared that the violence, that the fury she has at this boy will spill out from her.
“I’ve never done anything to give you any reason to talk to me like this. And what business is it of yours, what I do?” She’s close to yelling and she knows that if she doesn’t control her voice, she may alert her father, in the back room doing the books and waiting for any orders that may need to be cooked. And then she’ll never get her chance to wipe that irritating smirk of his face. “You’ve never given me the time of day before, what makes today any different? As far as you’re concerned, I don’t even register in your selfish little sphere. I’ve never been good enough for you.”
Michael opens his mouth to respond and she cuts him off before he can say anything else that will cut her deep. “The coffee is on the house. I don’t want or need your money. Get out when your done.” She slams the pot down on the table sending hot liquid everywhere. Michael jumps back instantly. The look of satisfaction on her face turns to confusion, then to fear.
panels 11-13 (large center square anchored by two rectangles in each lower corner):
Large shot of boy grasping his sides, his face full of pain. Girl hovers in lower panel, anxious and scared. Final is close up of girls hands reaching out to touch him.
Michael’s face has gone completely white as he tries not to black out from the pain. His quick movement to evade the burning coffee has jarred his side and his bruised ribs scream out their agony. Black spots dance before his eyes and he lets out a groan. He curls up as close as he can in the booth and tries to steady his breathing. The long shallow gasps are murder on his injuries.
“Michael?” she asks him softly, the way you would to a wounded animal, and slowly kneels beside the booth. “What’s wrong? Did I burn you?”
He’s still hurting to much to answer. But the sound of her voice calms him, and slowly his vision clears and his pain begins to lessen.
Liz watches him carefully, her eyes guarded. He still holds his side and she reaches for him, slow and steady. Her hands touch his and she gently pulls them away. Her eyes ask permission to lift up his shirt and examine whatever is causing him so much pain.
Michael is so tired suddenly. Tired of always hiding and always watching over his shoulder. Tired of living with a man that uses him for a monthly pittance, and as a personal punching bag. Tired of his friend’s refusal to see that their time here is just a visit, a vacation from where ever their real home exists.
He is exhausted on so many levels of his emotional and physical being that he can’t begin to see where any good can be in his life.
But for a moment, as he smells her hair and feels her shy touch on his body, he wants to confide in someone, to have anyone look after him, just for once in his miserable life.
Then Liz’s hands grasp the weathered t-shirt, thin from so many washings. As she starts to raise it up, Michael pushes her away roughly and she falls on her back, unhurt though startled. He stands and glares down at her.
panel 14:
The girl lays stunned on the floor of the diner as the boy towers above.
Liz tries to sit up but the soles of her tennis shoes slide ineffectually across the slippery floor. Michael’s face is stony and his mouth set in a hard line. His eyes travel down the length of her body and settle on her legs. Then the smirk appears.
“Nice panties, Liz. Black and lacy definitely look good on you.”
Her eyes fill with a sadness that unnerves him. Bending over, he runs his hand up her thigh and pulls away as she squirms back skittishly. She feels him laughing at her without the sound of it falling from his mouth.
“Mind your own fucking business.” And with the toss of some coins on the tabletop and the slam of a door, he’s gone.
panel 15-17:
The girl stands and begins cleaning the booth. She goes about closing the restaurant for the night and tries not to cry.
Liz stands up and smoothes the skirt of her uniform down. She gathers the empty coffee mug and used sugar packets and empty creamer cups and throws them in the garbage. Her father’s voice calls out asking if she’s okay; the sound of the door slamming has him concerned.
“It’s okay, Dad.” She calls back as tears cloud her eyes. “I’m locking up for the night.” Her voice wavers on the last syllable and she sits in down, covering her face in her hands while she begins weeping silently.
The boy watches her outside, one hand pressed against the glass. His face is a blank mask and his eyes hooded. Briefly, something like regret passes over his features. Then just as quickly, it vanishes and he walks off down the darkened street.
Liz finishes her crying and rubs at her face. The weariness from the evening’s events has set in and she longs for her bed. But first she needs to clean up and finish her duties.
When she’s done, she heads over to the entrance and locks the door. She turns over the sign to Closed and stares off into the night. Then her hands fumble for the switch and restaurant is dark.
last 2 panels:
The handprint the boy left on the glass seems to burn silver in the night. Then, like the boy, it disappears and the panel fades to black
~ the end
