A/N: I am not a professional writer and have never claimed to be. All standard disclaimers apply. Constructive criticism is welcome, flames are not. No likee no readee.

All vitriolic guest reviews will be deleted before anyone other than myself is subjected to them. All vitriolic member reviews will also be tended to appropriately. Given these works are put out there for fun, I don't intend to let anyone rain on someone else's parade. If you should decide you don't like what you see, feel free to close this story and go find something else more to your taste.

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Thanks for reading.

~ rittenden (AKA 'the special snowflake')

It's the children, he decides.

Not the smoke or the heat or even the possibility of burning to death. That's just part of the job. The cumbersome air tanks that only give so much life-sustaining oxygen; the heavy turnout gear that's meant to protect from the flame while simultaneously cooking you alive, sapping the energy and fluids out of your body; the thick gloves that shield from hot surfaces and sharp edges while forming a barrier between your skin and the things you need to feel... Those are all part of the job.

Panic-stricken adults, logic and reason having fled in the face of real, immediate danger - they pose an almost expected threat. Like with the fire, the important things are observation, prediction and control. Any adult will react to danger in one of only a handful of ways: fight, flight, freeze or comply. All it takes is knowing the signs of which way they'll go and then you know what you need to do next. Maintaining your professionalism despite the circumstance is a walk in the park. Plan and execute. Simple.

The children, on the other hand...

He looks down at the small being clinging to his side, searching his face for the promise of a miracle. They're tangible things when you're that small, miracles. Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows are a realistic expectation.

Along with superheroes.

He sighs, ruffling the tangled curls and giving what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "Not to worry," he says in a comforting tone. "We'll get you out of here soon, okay?" And the little face returns the smile readily, her head bobbing in agreement.

It's been a long time since he's seen or heard from the rest of 'we'. He assumes - no, he knows that on the other side of the pile of rock and dirt they're leaning against is an entire battalion of men working to dig them out. That they've probably been moving heaven and earth - pardon the pun - to get him and the little bundle of hope and sparkle out since the mouth of this old mine caved in hours ago.

Another sigh escapes as he thinks of the folly that led to their present situation. Despite the warning of adults - logical, reasonable adults - to stay away from the construction site near their subdivision, the children were overcome with curiosity and ventured over. And despite - or perhaps because of - the boards fastened haphazardly over the mine entrance, the children were enchanted with the idea of finding a secret hideaway, or buried treasure, or-

"So why did you come in here, anyway?" he asks suddenly.

"Jessie made me."

Children.

He shifts, attempting to ease the pressure of several bruised ribs and one very broken leg. The ribs quiet down for a while but not so the leg. Unsurprising, given the large wooden beam that pins it in place.

And then there's the fact that when the call goes out for a child in distress, the anxiety level in all adults present ratchets up several notches. Whether they have kids of their own or not. Whether they even like children or not.

Especially younger ones, like this one. The ones that proceed with the naïveté and innocence of a world that is safe and friendly. A world that has never harmed them or caused them a moment of real fear. The urgency is not so much to rescue them as it is to protect them - protect that innocence.

He likes to think he's a logical, reasonable adult. The consummate professional in his line of work, keeping his head on straight regardless of the situation. Surely he's proven this time and again over the years in his line of work. Level-headed, rock-steady...

Except for the children.

That isn't to say he goes off half-cocked whenever a child is in danger. He knows that isn't true. He's been at this too long to jump in with both feet like some sort of boot. Still... He thinks back over the minutes before the cave-in, wondering what he missed. Where he went wrong.

He probably should've double-checked to ensure the shoring timbers this far down the shaft were just as solid as those near the mouth of the cave. Those exposed to the dry California air were firm but down here, resting against moist earth for God knows how many years, the wood had become damp and unstable. It was probably the vibration of his extra weight - although his crewmates would laugh at that, considering how often he's been teased about barely passing the department minimum - coupled with the small tremors that have been coursing through the area over the past couple of days that unseated the rotten beams.

Of course, it might not have been the uprights that gave way but one of the ceiling beams. He looks up at that thought, squinting through the dim light of his flashlight in an attempt to find one. It's there, unbelievably, still stuck fast in the surrounding dirt. The support column lies in his lap. "Here," he says to the small being clinging to his arm. "Squeeze in close to me, okay?"

She does without question, her innocence firmly in place. He looks up again, gauging the distances and angles, satisfied for the moment that if the beam should come loose, she'll be out of harm's way. He, however, won't. Logic and reason have fled...

"I'm hungry."

Stiffly, he checks the pockets of his turnout coat hoping to find one of the cookies he'd stashed when they were called out, missing their supper - again. They're empty. "Sorry, sweetie," he says, stifling a harsh and undoubtedly painful cough. "I don't have anything to give you."

Consternation flickers over the small face. Perhaps he isn't magical after all. "Okay," she whispers.

Shock and blood loss are addling his brain. He stops himself just before he asks why she came in here. He knows he's done this already but can't remember her reply. He stares at the beam dolefully, wishing he could move the damn thing...

A small voice in the back of his head advises against this - reminds him that the beam is probably controlling blood loss and to move it would mean certain death. He wipes at the sweat trickling in his eyes, wondering how someone so cold could sweat so damn much.

There were four of them altogether. Three boys and a girl. Only they didn't know this when they pulled up, piling out of squad and engine to begin their rescue. The construction foreman had only seen three when he came out this sunny Saturday to check his equipment. Being the weekend, there's no one around to keep an eye on things. He wonders if any of it could fit way down here.

"Why were you all the way down here?" he asks suddenly. "Your friends were a lot closer to the entrance." And they were. Far enough away to have gotten a little lost but not this far. They'd found them quickly and brought them out. Scared, but none the worse for wear.

The little face crumpled, a precursor to tears. "They're not my friends," she answers with a pout. "Jessie made me."

He knows he's heard that before but the reasoning escapes him. Children. "So who's Jessie if he's not your friend?"

"My brother."

And of course to a five-year-old, that would make all the difference. He can imagine how it played out: Jessie, sick of a tag-along little sister, daring her to go further down the shaft to get her away from him and amuse his friends.

"Bet he said if you didn't you had to go home," he replied wisely, allowing himself a small cough - not as wise. "Bet he called you a chicken, too."

Small eyes gone round with wonder. How did he know? Maybe he was magic...?

"You don't have to do what he says, you know," he tells her now. "Not about stuff like this. It's not being chicken to say 'no' to things that feel wrong."

"He scared me. They were gonna leave me alone."

He nods. This, at least, was predictable. "He didn't mean it," he says. "He's scared now too."

"I hate him." With all the vehemence of five years behind it. "He's mean."

Drawing her in closer, mindful of the dust trickling from overhead. "You don't hate him," he soothes. "You're just mad at him. I would be."

The little head comes up. "You would?"

He nods slowly. "Sure would. Mad as a wet hen."

"What's a wet hen?"

His mind is wandering. He hasn't heard anything from the other side of the dirt pile. He figures he should've by now. A yawn escapes his lips - not a good sign. "A hen is a chicken that lays eggs," he says finally. "They don't like to get wet."

Silence falls while she mulls this over. He can almost see the wheels turning in her head. That reminds him... "Here," he says, taking off his helmet. "You can wear this for a while."

She beams a smile at him as he cinches the strap, not realizing that he's actually protecting her head from another cave-in. He smiles back.

"Don't you hafta wear it?" she asks.

Children. "I don't hafta..." Sorry, Cap. "It makes my head itch, anyway." He shifts again, noting idly that it doesn't hurt his leg anymore when he does it. Another not-good sign.

"Can I keep it?"

"Ah..." The trickle has grown to a pour. "For now," he says. "My captain will make me take it back when we get out."

All wide-eyed wonder now. "What's a captain?"

The flashlight beam is almost non-existent at this point. He sets it aside as a distant rumble reaches his ears. "A captain is kinda like a boss," he replies, picking up the air mask. "He's the guy who's in charge of us firemen."

"Did he tell you to come get me?" A new hero to worship.

"Sorta." Vibration now. Not from the direction he was hoping. A tremor. "Put this over your face, okay?" She nods, holding the plastic shield awkwardly under the helmet. He doesn't think there's time to take it off and put the mask on properly. It'll have to do. "No matter what, you keep it there until I say so, alright?" Another nod.

The tremors are growing in magnitude. Suddenly the roof lets go, releasing a mountain of dirt. He covers his head and hers as best he can and prays. He's not a religious man - not even a terribly spiritual one - but... well... Foxholes, and all that.

A moment later a rock the size of his fist repays his agnosticism and he knows no more.

The children...

His eyes open, crusted with dirt and tears. Voices are waxing and waning around him as more dirt passes over his head. One in particular succeeds in grabbing his attention.

"Just hang in there, partner. We're almost out."

And then there's light. Burning his tender retinas. Retinae? After so long in dim surroundings it sears the cornea, stabs into his brain. He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing more moisture onto his mud-caked face. He wants to ask where the girl is but the words won't come.

"Someone set up the O2 and get on the line to Rampart!"

He's lying on the ground now, words buzzing around his head like bees. A kind of comforting, bumbling hum that invokes images of lazy summer afternoons and cloud-gazing...

"BP's dropping - stay with me, partner!"

But of course there are no clouds and this is no lazy summer afternoon. It is, in fact, the middle of the night. At some point they moved in a light unit, its banks of kliegs only giving the impression of daylight. Time flies when you're having fun...

He pushes the mask away weakly. "Girl...?"

"She's fine. She's with her parents now. And her brother." A chuckle. "She gave him what-for when she saw him, though. Something about a wet chicken?"

"Hen..." He hopes she got the message - that she understood his words about her standing her ground when it came to choosing right from wrong. The mask is replaced. He's not sure how he feels about that.

Another voice tickles his awareness. "How's he doing?"

Pushing the mask again. "Sorry, Cap..."

"What are you sorry for?" The voice isn't angry. Soft with confusion and warm with concern. Not angry.

"Gave... my helmet..."

Once more the mask is set in place. "Leave that on, willya?" says one voice. "Don't worry about your helmet, okay? You did what you had to do," says the other.

He's being lifted, swung, set down... and suddenly he's moving head-first at breakneck speed. Or so it seems. Whatever the velocity, his stomach decides it's too much and he starts to heave.

"Roll him over!"

Several agonizing minutes later the cramping stops and he's laying flat again. The inside of his mouth tastes like bile and rock. Not a pleasant combination. Actually nothing is very pleasant right now - least of all the temperature. "Cold."

He feels a blanket across his shoulders. Wonders what happened to his coat. Probably took it off to set the IV... He doesn't remember that part. Something positive at last. He hates needles.

The familiar voice is telling the driver to go easy on the turns, for which he's grateful. Somehow just the idea of suffering through the change in direction when the ambulance backs into the emergency bay was making his stomach boil threateningly.

A moistened cloth smoothes over his crusted eyelids, bringing welcome relief. Although it's cooler than he'd like, the sensation of clear skin feels marvellous. He tries turning his head toward the relief but it won't move.

"Just lie still, okay? You've got a collar on." It's then that he realizes he's strapped to a backboard, sandbags bracing his head. A sigh wells up but he forces it away - no point in complaining when he's so far ahead of the game. Besides... If the constant pain and occasional grinding sensation are any indicators, his previously-bruised ribs are now broken. A deep exhale would be inadvisable.

Thanks to the driver's expertise, the rear doors pop open before he even realizes they're stopped. More familiar voices wash over him as he's being lifted out, the jarring of the gurney's legs snapping into place robbing him of the ability to follow the conversation.

"...Concussion... Left leg... Right arm..." His arm? When did that get broken? "...X-rays... electrolytes..." Damn. More needles.

The barely-controlled frenzy continues. He bears it with mild amusement, knowing that as soon as they start actually working on his broken bones nothing will be funny anymore.

A warm, feminine voice invades his thoughts, coaxing him to open his eyes. The request takes a long time to get to his addled brain but he finally manages to comply. Predictability...

"There you are." Dixie's broad smile swims into view. "What have you done to yourself this time? You look like you've been playing in the mud."

"Children..."