ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY, INCLUDING MY OWN CREATED FANON, CHARACTERS OR OTHER SPECIFIC DETAILS UNIQUE TO MY WORK IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION.

I don't own the poem quoted herein, it's by Walt Whitman. Michigan J. Frog is copyright Warner Brothers cartoons. Chapter contains use of a mildly racist term, no offense intended by its use, as it relates to Johnny's past and the way things were back then.

COURAGE UNDER FIRE

MICHIGAN J. FROG: JOHNNY

It's mass chaos on a nuclear bomb level…there is the sound of gunshots, bloodied bodies lying everywhere, and I stare at the ghastly scene before me with horrified eyes, trying to comprehend what I see, then I spring into action, my training and instincts automatically kicking in. I rush frantically from body to body, searching for someone that has survived this, someone that still has a chance at life, someone that can be saved, but…

There's no one to save.

They're all dead.

Every single one of them.

Dead.

But like the saying goes, hope springs eternal, and so I continue to rush about, looking for survivors as more and more bodies pile up around me, seemingly with every blink of my eyes…is there someone alive?…is there anyone alive?…

Is there no one alive?

No.

We…no, I…am too late. I stand in the middle of the street, the air thick with the stink of blood and cordite and dust and death, surrounded by bloodied corpses that glare and stare accusingly at me with cold dead eyes, their dying breaths mingling into a hurricane whisper, uttering the words I have not heard for oh so long…

Worthless.

Useless.

Good-for-nothing half-breed.

I hear Roy's shout and I spin around, searching frantically for him amidst the pile of corpses, and I spot him near the engine, his back turned to me, a splash of bright blue against grey brains and white bone and red blood and black death. "Roy!" I shout in giddy relief, hurrying over to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. If anyone can solve this mess, it'll be good ol' common-sense Roy DeSoto. "C'mon, man, ya gotta help me!"

And he crumples at my touch, his body falling away from my grasping fingers, a bullet piercing his badge before piercing his heart, leaving pockmarked silver against bright blue, against ominous red…

Against black sorrow.

SO much black sorrow.

For I stare in shock…

Because before me lie men that are oh so familiar to me, I know them, they're…they're…

My brothers.

My friends.

Cap…Mike…Marco…Chet…and Roy.

All of them.

Dead.

Blood seeps and stains their pale canvas coats, their hearts pierced cleanly by bullets, their eyes wide open in horror and shock at what awful fate has befallen them, their mouths hanging slackly open in silent screams that no one will hear…

Except for me.

Oh yes, I can still hear their dying whispers that they uttered with their last breaths echoing around me…

Worthless.

Useless.

Good-for-nothing half-breed.

YOU LET US DIE, DAMN YOU!

With an anguished moan that rips wrenchingly from my throat, I fall to my knees on the pavement, closing my eyes, scrabbling my shaking hands together as I pray…I pray to God, I pray to the Indian deities of my childhood, I pray to anyone who'll listen to me in a singular word that rushes garbled from between my trembling lips…pleasehelpmeohgodplease...

And no one listens.

Not a single goddamned deity, not a single goddamned God.

NO ONE.

And so I open my eyes, staring through a haze of tears as on my hands and knees, I reach forward, gently touching each man lying crumpled before me in the untidy heap of beige canvas and bright blue and flashing silver and crimson blood, their bodies still warm beneath my shaking fingers as I try in vain to close their eyes for them so I don't have to see their accusatory glares that ask me why in the fuck I didn't…couldn't…wouldn't save them from this terrible fate. After all, I owe them this final dignity because of my failure.

"I'm sorry, Cap," I whisper as I press my fingertips lightly to his eyelids, bringing them down over brown eyes that are starting to cloud beneath his craggy brow. A few lines from a poem I had to memorize for school comes back to me in a brief blinding snatch and I find myself reciting them in a shaking murmurous tribute…

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head;

It is some dream that on the deck,

You've fallen cold and dead…

And then I remember that the poem is about Abraham Lincoln's assassination and the irony hits me HARD, for Cap is…was…the spitting image of Abe Lincoln, and the words die in my throat as I look down at the face of the man who is…was…a wise and fair-minded leader, keeping a firm enough hand on the reins to let us know he was in charge, but keeping a gentle enough grip on them to let us know he was just an ordinary man like we were. Cap was the epitome of calm and collectedness during bad calls, whether it be a fire or an accident, keeping his cool even when one of his men was hurt, for what good is a Captain who goes to pieces in times of crisis…there's enough time for that at the hospital where the injured are taken. And Captain Stanley did his share of that, going to pieces at the hospital after one of us was hurt, for beneath that craggy, granite exterior lay a kind and tender heart. He would have gone to Hell and back for his men, no matter what. O Captain, my captain…my voice breaks on those words and I find I cannot continue.

Swallowing the hard lump in my throat, I turn to Mike, gingerly using my fingertips to lower his eyelids over his crystal blue gaze that stares sightlessly up at the sky. The quiet engineer is…was…always an enigma wrapped in a riddle and shrouded in mystery, but I knew one of his secrets, which I kept to myself, for I knew that it would seem at odds with the violence and the danger and the voracious wild excitement that is firefighting, but somehow not at odds with the man that was Mike Stoker.

He liked poetry.

I found that out when I spotted him at poetry reading I was dragged to by a girl I was dating. Mike never saw me in the crowd, for we sat in the back of the coffeehouse, but I could see him, seated off to the side, held rapt by the occasionally crappy recitations in uneven iambic pentameter. It really didn't surprise me that Mike liked poetry, for anyone who loves the clean and sharply crisp lines of Big Red would find similar comfort in the clean and sharply crisp lines of words in rhythmic motion. And once during a shift when he was working on what I thought was engineering formulas in his spiral notebook, I caught a glimpse of what he was really writing and found it was a poem instead. I'd only seen the title and the first couple of lines or so before Mike shut the cover, but that he wrote poetry also didn't surprise me, for the unassuming engineer who was so often silent found his voice in the power of the pen, dancing with as fluid of grace there as he does…did…while manning the engine during a fire.

I look to Marco next, the man who can…could…tell us dirty jokes in Spanish, who made the best Irish stew and beef enchiladas, who got along with everyone with genial good humor, who adored his Mama and his large family, who could be counted on to back you up when you needed it. He was always willing to lend a hand, and he would bring in goodies that his Mama had fixed for us to eat, considering us an extension of her beloved son. I close his lids over his dark eyes, whispering, "Adiós, mi amigo, reste en paz"…goodbye, my friend, rest in peace.

My hand wavers over Chet, the man who is…was…my nemesis, my bane, my albatross, my cross to bear, the proverbial pain in my ass…

My friend.

The Phantom did have a heart, after all, for that was evident the time we came back from the run where the young boy died after eating ant poison and Chet kept me from opening up the cupboard door where 'The Phantom' had rigged one of his water bombs. Most of his pranks were meant in good spirits and not intended to be truly malicious, and I think Chet pranked me because he and I were so much alike; he felt the need to separate us, to draw that line in the sand and then dare me to cross it. Truth be known, I always knew when he was setting me up for something, he got all smirky-twitchy and his eyes would take on a mischievous glint, and instead of calling him out on his tricks or truly getting really pissed at him, I squawked and fussed and took it like a man, because it was expected of me and because I wanted to let Chet have his moments of gloating triumph. Every station has a prankster and every station has a fool, and I was willing to play that gullible fool role because really, had the roles been reversed in another stationhouse, Chet would have been my pigeon and Iwould have been the Phantom. And no matter how aggravating or annoying Chet could be, he was always there in a heartbeat whenever and wherever he was needed, no questions asked, you could COUNT on that. I gently close his eyelids over Irish blue eyes that will twinkle no more with merry deviltry or Phantom schemes, and I'm heartbroken to see such a good nemesis-slash-friend gone like this.

There is one man left…Roy…my best friend, my brother…I will NOT think of him in the past tense, I simply will NOT…and I find I cannot meet his dead-eyed gaze, for it's a death-knell reality that I'm not ready to face just yet, if EVER. I turn away, hot tears spilling from my eyes and racing down my cheeks like acid raindrops as I crash angry fists into my thighs, hatred welling up black and evil and vicious in my soul and I let it come, let myself taste the sharp bitter acridness of it on my tongue, feel it stinging in my eyes, hear it roaring in my ears, for next to apathy, hatred is one of the easiest emotions to produce. I let myself hate and hate and hate and it feels goddamned fucking GOOD as I turn that black hatred on the gun-wielding madman who has caused all of this horror for whatever sick and twisted reason; turn it on the innocent citizens lying dead around me who were stupid enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time; turn it on my fellow crewmates and brothers for having the audacity to get themselves shot and killed; turn it on God for being so cruel and callous to the human suffering before Him; turn it on…on…

Me.

For being as worthless, shifty, and lazy as THEY said I was, useless to the core.

For being unable to save anyone out here, patently failing like THEY predicted I would.

For…

For being left alive.

And I realize then in the now-eerie silence that I am alone…all alone…and choking sobs well up and break violently free from my chest, escaping from my throat and flying free like startled birds, and I cannot remember a time in my life when I've ever wept harder…not in my childhood when I was ridiculed by THEM for being a half-breed, not when the first girl I ever thought I loved broke my heart into a million little pieces, not when my beloved Grandfather died…not…ever. "I'm so sorry," I whisper brokenly to the dead surrounding me, clasping my hands between my knees and rocking back and forth, trying to comfort myself like a child would. "I'm so, so sorry."

A shadow falls over me and startled, I twist around to see a man dressed all in black, a black mask covering his face, a rifle clutched in his gloved fingers. I can smell cordite and evil and death rolling off of him like a noxious cloud, and the eyes that are visible from beneath the mask are cold chips of blank obsidian as he stares at me. "You're nothing but a worthless, useless, good-for-nothing half-breed, John Gage," he mocks cruelly as he points the rifle at me.

I narrow my eyes in defiance, tears still winking on my lashes as I stare down Death, because by God, I'll be DAMNED if I let him see that I'm afraid. "Who the hell are you?" I demand menacingly, belying my fear, belying the chills racing up and down my spine.

Wordlessly he puts his fingers to the mask and slowly peels it off and I gasp in shock, for it's…it's…

With a violent shudder, I draw myself out of my reverie of recalling last night's dream, forcing myself back into the present time, which is much more hellish and nightmarish than the dream was, for…

It's fucking real.

Next to me, Roy gives me a concerned look, brows drawing together in a frown. "You okay?" he asks.

"Just peachy," I lie through my goddamned teeth and he doesn't press, for he knows the truth…neither of us is okay and it will take us a long time to ever get back to being okay…if EVER. I fidget restlessly, glancing down at my watch, but not really needing to see how long we've been trapped in this…this HELL, 'cuz seconds, minutes, hours, it doesn't matter, we've been stuck here for-fucking-ever, the stink of cordite and blood and death thick in the dusty air around us. Oh yeah, the cops have arrived on scene and taken quick control, dispatching other squad cars to shut down the traffic in the area, leaving Adamson Avenue the Great Divide between us and them, between safe haven and sheer black terror, and I've been keeping them carefully apprised of our situation via the HT, the only link bridging the gap between there and here, in our own little No Man's Land.

No Man's Land…

My mouth twists in bitter irony as I suddenly think of Snoopy in the Sopwith Camel, the World War One flying ace doing battle with the Red Baron, his beloved doghouse-slash-airplane occasionally getting shot down over No Man's Land. And every time, Snoopy's lucky…

He gets to crawl to safety.

Because no one DIES in a goddamned comic strip.

But people are dying out here…in the park, in the street…in front of US, and we can't do a goddamned fucking thing about it, we're just as pinned in as they are by the sniper on the rooftop of the new Granite Court office building…an office building we just did the final safety inspection on last week, I might add. And the park across from us is new too, a lush gemstone of beauty that is designed to be the complementing focal point of the newly developed Granite Court area, the land carefully landscaped and manicured into blooming green loveliness, complete with playground equipment for the kiddies to entertain themselves on, while their parents or nannies sit on nearby picnic tables, lulled into complacency by the prettiness and the bubbling fountain near the park entrance. The park is separated from the street by a grey stone wall, and I don't need a comic book hero's X-ray vision to know that beyond that wall lies many frightened people…many wounded, many dead…the innocent victims of the sniper's self-proclaimed war, for in every war there are innocent victims, collateral damage in the quest for victory. We don't hear the gunshots as the sniper fires, he has a silencer on his rifle, but we hear the people in the park screaming for help, screaming in pain, screaming in fear…

And there's not a goddamned fucking thing we can DO about it. Roy and I have sat here helpless, unable to do anything but watch and listen as those around us are gunned down, as those around us die. And a painful reminder of that inability to help, to save someone…anyone…lies a few yards away from us, her body crumpled in an untidy heap of floral print and red blood and dead accusing eyes…eyes that seem to say, "Worthless, useless, good-for-nothing half-breed."

And I hate it, I fucking HATE not being able to help, it goes against my grain, it goes against my training, it goes against my ethics, it goes against my sense of humanity.

Gritting my teeth, I drag my gaze away from the woman's dead body and I tip my head back against the wheel well of the squad for what feels like the thousandth time, staring up at the bright blue sky overhead that is dotted with white cotton clots of clouds that play harmlessly with the sun. The wind lifts lightly, caressing my sweat-dampened face, and I raise a gritty palm to swipe at my forehead, remembering for the thousandth time why I don't leave my head rested against the metal rim of the wheel well…it's too damned hot and makes my scalp itch. I frisk fingers through my hair, displacing the damp unruly strands with an easy ruffle, squirming against the trickle of sweat that rolls down my back between my shoulder blades. I cast a dark scowl up the street where the newly-minted command post is being set up, as if my glare can get the cops to work faster at getting us out of here.

"Stop fidgeting," Roy says. "The cops are working as fast as they can, Junior."

"Well, they need to work faster," I grouse sourly. "My ass is asleep." I shift my weight from butt cheek to butt cheek, trying to wake my numb posterior up.

"So's mine," he sighs pragmatically. "But whaddaya gonna do?"

My eyes fall on a little brown ant that is wandering aimlessly along one of the cracks in the sidewalk, searching here, searching there, hunting for something with a determined ant-purpose. I gesture to it. "I'm just a little worried…I mean, what if while my ass is asleep, an ant crawls up there and decides to build a city inside of my butt? I mean, surely that would NOT be good, right?"

"You know, only YOU would even think of something like that," he says a bit disdainfully, rolling his eyes dramatically.

"But theoretically it COULD happen, right?" I press.

"Well, if it does happen, I'm sure Dr. Brackett would be more than happy to remove the ant from your ass and add it to the ever-growing list of 'weird things that have happened to John Gage'," he says. "And who knows, he might decide to write up a paper about it and submit it to the New England Journal Of Medicine. Then your ass would become famous, at least in medical circles, and maybe around here, too, who knows. People like reading about quirky crap like that."

"I'm not sure I appreciate you calling my ass 'quirky'," I remark.

"Would you rather I call it something more appropriate, like 'stinky'?" he asks.

"Um…no," I say. I draw in a breath, blowing it out in a sigh that lifts my damp bangs from my forehead. I draw my knees up to my chest, placing my helmet atop them, and I begin to drum my fingers on the helmet, tapping out the beat to 'Wipe Out' as I hum the Safaris tune underneath my breath, trying to keep myself from thinking of last night's nightmare and how it came true. The breeze shifts and brings with it the smell of sour vomit and I wrinkle my nose in mild disgust. "No offense, Roy, but I kinda wish you'd thrown up just a little bit farther away from here, 'cuz when the wind shifts, you can smell it."

"Would you rather I'd thrown up on you?" he asks darkly. "'Cuz I very well coulda, ya know."

"Oh yeah, I know, and believe me, I'm really grateful you aimed the other way," I assure him quickly. "I just wish you'd been just a bit further away, that's all." I don't tell him how seeing him get sick like that has shaken me, not because I'm squeamish, but because Roy DeSoto RARELY throws up at a scene, possessing a cast-iron stomach that refuses to rebel at even the goriest of accidents or fires. Of course, I know why he threw up…the situation has likely tripped off some nasty-ass flashbacks to his service as a combat medic in Vietnam, plus I made the mistake of innocently asking if Joanne would bring Chris and Jenny to this particular park, a remark that I feel incredibly guilty for even uttering because...well, it made my best friend puke, and it's not nice to make one's friends throw up like that.

"I'm sorry, okay?" he says a bit sarcastically. "If I hafta barf again, I'll make sure to run out in the street, putting myself in the sniper's line of fire and risking getting shot, just so I don't offend your dainty sensibilities."

"My dainty sensibilities aren't offended," I tell him with an easy shrug. "I've been around puke and been puked on before, remember? Just last week we had that ten-year-old kid with a hot appy that threw up pizza on me, and it was pretty gross, all chunky and…"

"Johnny, please!" he says hastily, squinching his eyes shut and turning another lovely shade of green. "Can we NOT talk about throwing up anymore?"

"Um, yeah, sure," I tell him quickly, nodding.

He draws in ragged breaths through his nose, his nostrils flaring with each intake…which I watch with abject fascination. He catches me staring at him. "Now what?" he scowls.

"Didja know that your nostrils flare when you breathe like that?" I helpfully point out.

"Yeah, so?" he challenges with narrowed eyes.

I shrug. "It looks like two tiny little train tunnels. I half-expect to see either the Rice-A-Roni trolley or Mr. Roger's trolley to the land of Make-Believe come shooting out of them."

He frowns a little, puzzled. "Mr. Rog…oh yeah, Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood."

"Well, yeah, duh, Roy," I tell him with a snort. "Do you know anyone else that has a trolley that goes to the land of Make-Believe?"

"Well, I'm beginning to believe your brain goes to the land of Make-Believe," he scoffs.

"Of course it does," I tell him with a sly grin. "Where else can I find myself on a tropical beach somewhere, surrounded by several nubile young bathing beauties, all clamoring for me to put suntan lotion on them…"

"And they're all named Frank, Steve, Jerry, Dave…" he begins with an evil grin of his own.

"Hah, I hope the trolley to Make-Believe gets stuck in your fat little nostrils and Dr. Brackett has to take your nose off to remove it," I grouse. "Then he could write THAT up for the New England Journal Of Medicine." I lean forward a bit, using my fingers to pluck the sweat-soaked back of my uniform shirt and cotton t-shirt away from me, flapping the fabric a little to create a breeze. It helps briefly, but the second I release the material, it goes right back to sticking to me, the shade offered by the squad only minimally cooler than the sundrenched pavement across the way from us. I pick up the HT and fiddle with the antenna, running my fingers down the smooth metal that has been warmed by the sun before plucking at the leather strap, digging into it with my nails, leaving pale crescent marks of scars on it like little branding marks. Frowning in concentration, my tongue poking out of the corner of my mouth, I carefully gouge out my initials in the leather…J.R.G.

"Whaddaya doin'?" Roy asks curiously.

"Puttin' my mark on the HT," I tell him.

He shrugs wearily. "Better that than you peeing on it, I guess."

"Mmm…yeah, don't think Cap would be too happy if I did that," I mumble as I hold the strap out, gazing at my handiwork. The letters look lopsided and uneven, the 'J' looking like a backwards 'L', while the 'R' looks like a squared off 'K'. The 'G' is the only slightly normal looking letter, and I study them for a second before rubbing my thumb across them, scuffing the marks back into the leather, leaving only faint traces of them behind.

A monarch butterfly flutters before us, catching my eye, and I watch it dancing drunkenly in front of the grey stone wall that separates the park from the street, a bright splash of orange and black color swaying and swooping in intricate, if dizzy, arcs that probably make sense to the insect, but make little sense to me. I nudge Roy, pointing to it, and the two of us study the butterfly in awed silence, our eyes following it as it traces delicate patterns in its flight, lighting for a moment on one of the stones jutting out from the wall, the stained glass patterned wings folding and unfolding slowly, almost as if the insect is fanning itself. It rests there for a minute, then it takes off, lifting gracefully off of the stone and headed towards Roy and I. It weaves unsteadily in front of us, swooping low as if scoping us out, likely drawn by the bright blue of our uniform shirts or the red color of the rig. Hanging hesitantly in the air as if trying to decide to land on one of us, it flutters uncertainly for a moment before landing on my arm.

I stare at it in amazement, drinking in the beauty of the dainty orange and black wings..the thicker black band around the edges of the wing, along with the brighter orange tones tell me it's a female monarch. The white spots on her make her look as someone carefully polka-dotted her with a tiny little paintbrush, and her long slender insect body is a strip of black velvet. I hold my breath as she slowly begins to walk across my forearm, her wings folding and unfolding gently, her legs feather-light against my skin, her feelers stretching out with lazy indolence as if to tickle me, but I know she's likely just testing to see how sturdy of footing she has. She then flutters up, dancing lightly between the two of us before crossing over to Roy, settling onto his badge and resting there, her wings moving almost hypnotically as her feet delicately probe the sharply defined ridges of the metal badge.

"Don't move," I breathe quietly, fearful of scaring the butterfly off, the only beautiful thing among so much horror.

"I'm not," he responds back in an amazed whisper. thoroughly enchanted, we watch the monarch as she clings there to his badge, then she lifts off gracefully, dancing and flittering away in a woozy pattern of butterfly joy as if thoroughly pleased to have made our acquaintance. She heads back to the grey stone fence, wobbling in front of it for a second, then she swoops upward and over it in a firm little arc, disappearing from our sight. Roy looks over at me. "Whaddaya suppose that meant?" he asks, gesturing in the direction the butterfly disappeared to.

I rub fingers where the she rested on my forearm, my skin still remembering her light touch. "I dunno," I shrug.

"Isn't there any kind of Indian myths about monarchs?" he asks.

"What do I look like, a walking encyclopedia of information about Indians?" I snort a bit sarcastically.

"No, I just wondered if maybe you'd heard of any, that's all," he shrugs. "No need to get testy, Johnny, I meant no offense."

I think for a moment, feeling slightly guilty for sounding so snappish. "I'm sure there's others, but the only one I can think of offhand is an Aztec legend," I say. "They believe that the souls of their deceased warriors were reincarnated into monarch butterflies."

"Oh, that's…" he begins, but then the morbid meaning of what I just said dawns on both of us and we exchange a goggle-eyed look, for we both know that beyond that stone wall and in the street in front of our truck lies the dead, and the butterfly landing on both of us seems like a cruelly obscene coincidence. Roy cuts his eyes away from mine, going pale once more. "That's pretty goddamned weird," he says grimly. "Not to mention fucking ironic, given our current circumstances."

"She meant no harm, I'm sure," I say softly, feeling the need to apologize for the butterfly and her actions.

"She?"

"The butterfly," I say, nodding in the direction of the stone fence. "She was likely attracted to the bright color of our shirts or the rescue rig, or the shine of your badge, that's all. She just came over to check us out."

"How'd you know it was a female?" he asks, a glimmer of curiosity flickering in his eyes.

"Tonto wise man," I intone solemnly in a fake Indian-style accent, holding my hand up in the rote Hollywood gesture of Indian greeting. "Know big heap about insects." When Roy snorts and shakes his head in mild amusement, I continue. "The black band around the edges of her wings were darker and thicker, that's how I could tell. The male monarch has a thinner and lighter band of black."

"Huh, interesting," he says, falling silent for a moment. Then he clears his throat with a cough and speaks again. "You buy into that myth?" he asks quietly. "I mean, about the butterfly being the souls of deceased Aztec warriors?"

I lift my shoulders in a soggy shrug, swiping a gritty palm across my sweaty forehead once more. "Maybe," I allow. "And sometimes a butterfly is just a butterfly, too."

"Yeah, but…" He pauses, chewing on his lower lip for a moment, then he gestures to the area around us with an open palm, his blue eyes worried. "I mean…this…it's just weird, ya know?"

"Yeah, I know," I say softly. "It's like the dream I had last night."

He looks over at me with a frown. "What dream?"

"It was…um…nothing," I backtrack hastily, realizing I've said too much.

"Johnny, WHAT dream?" he presses.

"Um…well, it's really kind of stupid…" My voice trails off as I pick nervously at a small hole in the knee of my uniform pants, digging a fingernail into the edges of frayed fabric, torn between wanting to tell Roy about the nightmare and unburden myself, versus keeping it to myself for fear of looking ridiculous. But I know that Roy will keep at me until I spill, so drawing in a deep breath, I begin, the words tumbling out of me in a rush. "I had a nightmare last night that I was in a situation just like this, with a sniper gunning people down. There were bodies everywhere. I ran from body to body, trying to find someone still alive, but everyone was dead. And then I spotted you and ran over to you, but the sniper shot you in the heart just as I reached you. And on the ground in front of you were the bodies of Cap, Marco, Mike and Chet…they were all dead, too. I was the only one left alive and I felt so fucking helpless and guilty that I couldn't save anyone, not even my friends. As I was kneeling over you guys, trying to close your eyes for you, a shadow fell over me and it was the sniper. He was wearing a mask and he pointed the rifle at me, saying something I haven't heard since…" I pause, licking a sandpaper tongue across dry lips. "Well, for quite awhile, anyway."

"Which was?" Roy prods gently.

I fidget uneasily, my fingernail widening the hole in my pant leg. "He called me a worthless, useless, good-for-nothing half-breed," I say hesitantly. "Like they used to call me on the Rez, like they used to call me when I was training to be a firefighter. And when I demanded to know who he was, he lifted the mask off and it was…and it was…" My voice wanes again as I remember who was behind the mask, who was wielding the gun, who was the cold-blooded murderer of so many innocent victims.

"Go on," he urges softly. "Who was the man in your dream?"

"It was me," I whisper miserably. "I was the one who'd pulled the trigger on all those people, on my friends…it was me, Roy, me."

He falls silent for a moment, digesting what I've told him, then he speaks again. "It was just a dream, Johnny, and nothing more than that."

"Yeah, but look…here we sit, pinned in by a sniper, with the dead and injured all around us, with us unable to help any of them, and I can't help but hear the echoes of that line…I'm a worthless, useless, good-for-nothing half…"

"No, you're NOT," he says sharply, eyes swinging around to glare at me. "You are NOT that, Johnny, you never HAVE been and you never WILL be, so get that out of your goddamned head right now."

"I got so sick of hearing it…from my teachers, from my peers, from my elders, from my fellow firefighters," I say softly, twirling a piece of dark blue thread from my pants between my fingers. "I thought I'd escaped it, I thought I'd quit dreaming it, I thought I'd finally proved to them and myself that I wasn't that at all when I became a firefighter first, then a paramedic. I thought I'd left that epithet in the dust of my past. Yet it returned last night to haunt me." I gesture with a palm to the park and the street beyond. "And now…now the dream has come true…I can't save the people out there that are counting on me to help them…THEY were right…I'm nothing more than a worthless, useless, good-for-nothing…"

"NO, you're NOT," he repeats again sharply, grabbing me by the shoulder and shaking me a little for emphasis. "Johnny, you're NOT what those assholes said you were, you never HAVE been. Christ Almighty, for as long as I've known you, you've never backed down from a challenge, you've never been afraid to face anything that's been thrown at you, you've always been there for those that have needed you. I don't give a shit what those people told you back then, or even what your dream said…you are NOT, and I repeat, you are NOT a worthless, useless, good-for-nothing half-breed, do you understand me? And NONE of us, not even Chet with his occasional Archie Bunker mentality even THINKS that of you, got that?"

"Yes, but…" I begin, but he cuts me off.

"No, there's no 'yes, but' here," he says firmly, eyes flashing defiance at me, daring me to dispute him. "This is a circumstance that is beyond our control…we can't get out there and help those people until we get helped ourselves. The rescuers have to be rescued first, it's as simple as that. Once we get out of here, we can go to work saving people, but until we're pulled out, we're as helpless as those that are in the street or in the park, and believe me, those people out there GET that, too. They understand WHY we're not able to get to them right away."

"Yeah, I know, but it sure as hell doesn't make it any easier to swallow," I say bitterly.

"I know it doesn't, Junior, but them's the cards we're dealt right now, we can only play our hand the best that we can for the time being," Roy says with a grim smile.

I manage to work up a shaky grin of my own as I think of one thing he said just a moment ago. "Huh, Chet may have Archie Bunker's mentality, but he looks like Meathead."

"Yeah, it's the 'stache," Roy tells me, then we both settle back into silence for a few moments before I speak again.

"You think we're gonna get outta here alive?" I ask cautiously.

Unease flickers in his eyes as he considers my question. "Yeah, I think we will."

"You don't sound so sure, though," I probe.

He hesitates, thinking, chewing on his lower lip as he does. "I hafta believe that we'll get out of this alive," he says finally. "I mean, I'm refusing to let myself think otherwise."

"Yeah, but…"

"Johnny, please," he pleads. "Let me have that little shred of hope to cling to, okay? It's all that I have right now, it's the only thing keeping me sane at this point, the thought that I'll get out of here alive and unharmed and I'll be able to go home to Joanne and the kids when this is all over with."

"If it's ever all over with," I add dubiously.

He gives me a sour look. "Do you MIND, little Johnny Sunshine?"

"Sorry," I say. "I'm just making sure to cover all the angles, that's all." I scratch my fingers through my hair once more. "How d'ya think they're gonna get us all outta here?" I ask.

Roy shrugs. "Some kinda armored rig, I suppose."

"You think they'll let us assist in the rescue ops?"

He thinks on it for a second, then shakes his head. "I doubt it, it's too risky. They'll likely utilize the SWAT team to run the rescues while we assist in the triage area." He glances over at me with a small dubious frown. "Why?"

I rub my chin thoughtfully. "Well, ya know, I was thinkin' maybe if they'd let me, I'd put on a bulletproof vest and help 'em out as they run the rescues. I mean, surely they'll need all the help they can get, and I can do quick field assessments…"

"Johnny, they're not gonna let you do that," he says, shaking his head again. "It's too goddamned dangerous."

"Yeah, but that's what we're trained to do, isn't it?" I press. "Going into dangerous situations like that and getting people out, right?"

"In fires and accidents, yes," he says. "But this isn't a fire or a multiple MVA, Johnny, this is a madman with a gun that is shooting at anything that moves. We're not trained, nor are we equipped to handle this kind of situation. And while your intentions are noble and all, and I get where you're coming from, I think it's best that we leave the actual rescue operations to the cops and focus on the patients that they bring out."

"You mean to tell me you wouldn't strap on a bulletproof vest and go in there to help those people?" I ask.

"No," he says.

"Why not?" I ask. "I mean, I thought all firefighters were willing to risk their lives to help people, no matter what. It's all part of that 'hero' myth about us."

"I don't need to be a hero, I just need to be alive." He rubs wearily at his forehead. "Look, I put my life on the line as it is with fires and accidents and the other weird, myriad situations we face on a daily basis, risking making my wife a widow and my kids fatherless…so as much as I hate to say it, no, I would not put on a bulletproof vest and wade into that battlefield, just to be some sort of a mythical hero. If I were single and had no kids, then yeah, I'd consider it, but I have a family that is depending on me and so…"

"Say no more," I interrupt, holding up my hand. "I get it, Roy, and I don't blame you. But I'm not married and I have no one depending on me, so maybe if I pour on the Gage charm, I can convince 'em to let me accompany them into the battlefield."

He looks askance at me, clucking his tongue in that mother-henish way he has. "Johnny, they're not gonna let you ride in with them…this is an ongoing crime scene and it falls under the purview of the police, not the fire department. They'll be the ones to handle getting the people outta here, while we'll be the ones dealing with triage. And you might as well resign yourself to that too, that you don't get to be the hero this time out." Folding his arms across his chest, he settles back against the rig with a heavy sigh, falling silent once more.

"I don't wanna be a hero," I mumble. "I just wanna help save lives like I'm trained to do." Edgy and restless again…wanting to be in motion, wanting to DO something, damn it…I pull my legs up to my chest, resting my chin atop them for a moment, then I straighten them back down and run a hand through my hair. Then I cross my ankles, uncrossing them a few moments later and recrossing them the other way. I pick up my helmet, the hard black plastic warmed by the sun, and I run it around in my hands, tapping on it with my fingernails, swinging it from the leather strap.

"Stop fidgeting, you're makin' me nervous," Roy sighs, resting his head back against the metal side of the truck and closing his eyes.

"I gotta do somethin'," I complain. "I'm goin' nuts just sitting here."

"Try counting sheep," he suggests.

"That's to go to sleep, Roy," I scoff. "Do I LOOK like I'm ready to go to sleep?" I poke him in the shoulder. "Hey, wanna play…"

"No," he interrupts with a wave of his hand, his eyes still closed. "I do not."

"Man, you didn't even give me a cha…"

He opens one eye to give me a dark look. "I don't hafta give you a chance, I know you're gonna suggest some stupid game to play while we wait to be rescued. And no offense, Johnny, but I'd kind of like some peace and quiet right now, 'cuz you know that once we get outta here, it's gonna be pandemonium and chaos."

I give him a sour look. "Ya know, maybe I'm wishing that it WAS Chet that I'm trapped here with instead of you. At least Chet…"

"If it were Chet, you'd have strangled him with your stethoscope and he'd have shoved the biophone up your ass by now," Roy remarks dryly.

"Well, at least if I had the biophone shoved up there, the ant that's already up there could talk to Brackett in person, right?" I ask, but Roy ignores my stab at humor. I pluck at the strap of my helmet, running the metal buckle up and down the buttery leather with a soft little 'zzshing' sound. I flip the helmet over, looking at the various scars and dents that mar the thick shiny plastic, the battle scars of the wars I've waged while on the job. Then, in a flash of memory, an old Saturday morning cartoon comes to me and I allow myself a small grin as I think about the cartoon and how it always makes me laugh. I steal a glance over at Roy, whose eyes are still closed, and I clutch the helmet to my chest, drawing in a deep breath and clearing my throat loud enough to make Roy open his eyes and look at me. Deadpan, I throw my hand out, fingers tight on the rim of my helmet as I waggle it in my grip and begin to sing. "Hello mah baby, hello mah honey, hello mah ragtime gal…" I warble in approximate imitation of the singing bullfrog from the Warner Brothers LooneyTune cartoon.

Roy stares at me with a mixture of astonishment and dismay. "What the hell?" he asks warily. "Have you gone NUTS?"

"Not nuts," I reassure him. "Just slightly crazy, that's all." I poke him in the shoulder. "Hey, what was the name of that singing frog anyway?" I ask. "Remember it? The guy that found him learned that he could sing and so he shopped the frog around to talent agencies, thinking it would be the next great thing, but when he'd open the box to show off the frog, all it'd do was sit there and go 'ribbit'. Then the minute he got it out of sight of the talent scouts, it'd start singing again? What was the frog's name...something Frog, wasn't it?"

"I can't remem…" he begins, but there is the sudden sound of panicked screaming coming from the park, indicating that the sniper has opened fire on people again.

"Sonofabitch!" I hiss as Roy and I trade dismayed looks, and that's IT, I've HAD it with all this goddamned sitting here like mute little monkeys, the power to help these people within our abilities, yet we're pinned in here and rendered helpless by our own human frailties and fears, and wild mindless rage flows white-hot into my veins, pounding in my head like molten lava, boiling black in my gut as the wheels in my mind churn rapidly…I'm fast, hell, they didn't call me the Galloping Greyhound for nothing, plus I've got my lucky green pen, so if I could just make it to the park entrance, I'm sure there's stuff in the park that I could use for cover…and then…

Then blind determination and vicious anger and stubborn willpower drives me to my feet, my fingers grabbing up my helmet and plopping it on my head as I lurch upward, wobbling unsteadily as my legs try to orient themselves with the foreign process of standing up and walking.

And just as quick, Roy is on his feet too, grabbing hold of me and slamming me back against the rig. "What the hell do you think you're DOING?" he screams in my face, his eyes bulging madly. "Are you fucking INSANE or something? You wanna get your damn fool head blown off?"

"But we hafta do SOMETHING!" I shriek back at him in frustration. "Leggo of me, damn it!" I squirm wildly in his grasp, dancing up and down as I try to free myself from his digging fingers. "I'm fast as hell and I've got my lucky green pen, so I think I can…"

And just like that, his hand comes out of nowhere and slaps me…not hard, but hard enough to stun me for a moment, my own hand flying up to my stinging cheek as I stare at him in shock. "Fast or no, you cannot outrun a bullet, you stupid fool!" he growls, gripping me by the shoulders and shaking me, making my teeth rattle in my head. "And that pen…it's nothing more than just a goddamned green pen that you've attached some stupid-ass symbolism to as a good luck charm. It WON'T save you out there, Johnny, TRUST ME!"

I turn then on my partner and best friend in a whipping tornado of fury. "Goddamnit, I'm getting sick and tired of this fucking waiting game, Roy!" I yell at him. "We're paramedics, we're supposed to be out there helping those people, not sitting here on our dead asses, twiddling our thumbs while the goddamned cops poke-ass along, trying to formulate a rescue plan! We're trained to save lives, not watch people die in front of us, damn it!"

"Don't you think I feel the same way?" he snaps at me, his face flushing as red as the squad. "You think I like sitting here on my ass while innocent people are getting shot, and I can't do a goddamned thing to save them? But what good are we to those people if we're dead, huh? We're not gonna be helping anyone if we race headlong into his line of fire and get ourselves killed, you realize that, don't you? A dead paramedic isn't gonna be helping anyone, Johnny."

I flick my gaze away from him, knowing he speaks the cold hard truth but unwilling to admit it, my eyes landing on the dead woman lying a few feet away from us, the blood on her blouse already drying to a dark maroon and I crumple then, sliding down the metal of the squad and sitting down hard on my ass, the adrenaline and the rage rushing from my body as fast as it came on, leaving me hollow and weak and feeling sick.

"You okay?" he asks, kneeling down next to me, concern now replacing the anger on his face.

I don't answer him, my palm rubbing my still-stinging cheek as I stare vacantly at the grey stone fence in front of us.

"Johnny, I'm sorry I slapped you," he says softly, apologetically. "Believe me, I really am." He puts a hand on my shoulder. "But I had no choice…you were ready to rush into certain death and I wasn't gonna let that happen."

Mutely I shrug. "I know, and I'm not mad that you slapped me, Roy," I tell him, my voice sounding oddly echo-y in my mind.

He eyes me with a wary frown. "Yeah, well, you don't look like you're not mad."

I turn haunted eyes on him then. "You know what they're gonna find out there when they get the rescue ops underway, don't you?" I ask softly, gesturing to the park and beyond with a sweep of my hand. He doesn't answer me, he just studies me with a knowing gaze. "There's gonna be a lot of death out there, Roy," I continue quietly. "And how many of those deaths could we have prevented if we'd acted on our instincts and gone in…"

He shakes his head. "No, I'm not gonna let you think that way, Junior, I'm not gonna let you blame either of us for any of those deaths out there in the battlefield today…we both know that there's nothing that can be done right now to help those people. We're stuck waiting to be rescued just as much as they are."

I sigh in weary acquiescence, knowing full well that he's right. "Yeah, but it doesn't make it any easier to take, Roy."

"It's not supposed to, Junior," he says with a grim little smile before settling back in next to me. We lapse into silence once more, each of us thinking our own thoughts, and what his are, I can't say, but I know what mine are. After a couple of minutes, he clears his throat and speaks. "Michigan J. Frog," he says.

I give him a puzzled frown. "Huh?"

"You know…" He picks up his helmet and clutches it to his chest for a moment, drawing in a deep breath before bursting into song. "Hello mah baby, hello mah honey, hello mah ragtime gal," he warbles perfectly. Slapping his helmet onto his head with a silly grin, he nudges me. "The singing frog, remember? He was called Michigan J. Frog."

"Yeah, you're right," I say, nodding, a grin creeping across my face…but it's not because Roy remembered the name of the bullfrog or anything like that.

No.

It's because I have a plan, one I'm determined to implement just as soon as I can, because I need to prove something...

That I'm not a worthless, useless, good-for-nothing half-breed.

Yes, I need to prove that to myself and I WILL...

Come hell or high water.