A tunnel from a bad movie, damp cement and a cold breeze. Follow the sirens, follow the shouts.

Where there's trouble, that's where you find them. Every time.

Michael dragging Max, bleeding, staggering. Fisher/Pierce, gun out, aimed.

No time to think. No time to choose. Choice made.

One shout, one shot.

Don't think about the FBI, your life, your son. Shoulder under Max's (shuddering), arm below Michael's (tight, shaking). Carry them out, carry them back to Liz (finally trusting, pleading. 'Help us').

Carry them home.

Your town. Your job. Your responsibility.

Your kids.

No one touches them. Never again.



And now you know what it sounds like in Valenti's head when he's stressed. < g > Scary, isn't it? My first Roswell fic, and only my second successful drabble.