"I seed the city, once, when I was 'ittle" Test said, face scrunched up as he looked at his memory, not noticing the smiles the adults hid. "People built *that*?"

"Yes, and it was filled with them, more than all the Tribes we know added together," Shaman answered. "And it was only one city among many, not even that big." Test eyed him skeptically, but knew better than to challenge a shaman who used that flat, knowing tone of voice. Though an adult might have seen the merriment in Shaman's expression when he went on, Test missed it. "Almost every Shelter has at least one book that has photographs of cities. You should ask to see one when your tribe reaches Shelter again."

An offer of proof, along with the very solemn people around the fire nodding their agreement, convinced Test that he wasn't being teased or fooled. "Kay, I will." He thought a minute, then asked uncertainly, "But they was *people*, right, like us, but staying all in one spot?"

"If you mean, did they have a head, two legs, two arms, a heart, a soul, yes, they were just people," Sentinel put in, juggling his light burden a bit to make them a both a bit more comfortable.

"But?" Test squirmed, patting the big man's face, as if to encourage him.

"But they did things very, very differently than we do. For instance," Sentinel grinned as if vastly amused, "They didn't have sentinels and guides.

That was too much for the youngster's credulity, and he looked over at Shaman, mouth in a little 'o' of surprise. Shaman nodded. "People who *could* have been sentinels often didn't live very long because nobody understood what was happening to them. Or they would turn inward, searching for the feel of their guide, not even knowing that was why they spirit walked."

"HUH! How'd *we* get one, then!" Tested turned wide, wondering eyes back to Sentinel, as if he thought the man would vanish in front of him.

"We were lucky, Test. Very, very lucky," Shaman said.

Future Tense

One foot after the other, don't think, just one foot after the other, let moving be everything - Jimmy Ellison didn't consciously think this. Working on instinct, desperate to shut out the sounds of his parents, his father, he was trying to hide in the feel of running. Harder and harder he pushed himself, not caring where he went, only caring how fast he got there.

Soon, too soon, his young body reached its limits, and he felt the shaking begin in his legs and stomach. Stubbornly, he ran anyway, admitting defeat only when the feeling in his middle threatened to make him puke. Heedless of where he was, he threw himself onto the ground, face down, hoping the pain in his body would fill his ears.

It didn't help. No matter how far or fast he ran, how hard he pushed himself, he could still hear them, hear the vicious words, hear the sound of flesh hitting flesh. Bringing a fist to his mouth, he bit, hard, but the pain there was nothing. Rolling to his back, he looked around wildly, hoping to find something else to listen to.

The small patch of forest he had stumbled into at the edge of the neighborhood was a surprise of green, life, and naturalness, and after a moment the cool of it touched him. Quieting breath by breath, he watched the swirl of leaves and shadows and lost everything in that movement, including the hideous sounds he had ran from.

When the loss of daylight brought him back to the private spot he had stumbled into, he began to cry, hating himself as he did. Lying there like a big baby wasn't helping any body, wasn't making things better. He fisted his eyes, wanting to deny his tears, but nothing stopped the flow.

Eventually, too tired from his run and the battle with tears to do more, he curled on his side, and let himself drift, unthinking. Despair was a poison seeping through him, destroying him, and he had no strength left to fight.

A sound, a new one, slid into him. It was the oddness of it that caught at him, teasing past the edges of the hurt inside. More because it was something outside than because he cared, he focused on the new sound. A woman? Crying, but not unhappy crying, weird as that seemed, and under that, the sound of a baby. A very small baby, he thought, vague memories of Stephen at that age surfacing for comparison.

Not moving, he looked for the source of the sound, looking past the small stand of trees. Exhaustion slowed his thoughts: it didn't seem odd to him that he could see into a building past the walls. It was a hospital, he thought, and the young woman was in one of the beds, tears running down her face. Another woman, dressed in white, was handing her a small bundle. It wiggled, and Jimmy realized it was the baby he had heard earlier.

The nurse opened the blankets, and the infant inside kicked, and turned to look directly into Jimmy's eyes. Innocence, peace, and pure joy poured from that tiny person, and he gathered it into himself with greedy, clutching force. Its miniature face started to screw up to cry, and Jim released the flow with a guilty start.

Despite all he had heard from his father, taking without giving something back was wrong; he knew that. He wanted what this helpless baby had; he needed it. But he had to give something back. Sobs tightened his throat. What did *he* have that this perfect tiny person could use? What he saw on the mother's face told him that the baby was in good hands. It would have what it needed.

Choking, he began to turn away from the new family, but the nurse moved, and stumbled. The baby rolled, slipping from the nurse's hand. Screaming a denial, Jimmy mindlessly lurched forward, hands outstretched. The mother yanked up, and by some miracle, caught the edge of the blanket, pulling it up to cause the baby to reverse its roll, sending it back into the nurse's arms.

With a gasp, he settled back onto the soil of the forest. Somebody should have been there to help, he thought, furiously. Someone should be protecting them.

As if hearing him, the baby turned its face back toward him, and the flow began again. Yes, that was it; something a new life needed. Protection. I can't do much now, he thought, but I'll be able to someday. I'll grow, get big, learn how to fight good. Then I'll watch over you and anybody who needs me, I swear. I won't let anybody hurt you, baby. I'll be yours to my last breath, I promise.

The baby gave a sleepy yawn, and the tiny, blue-veined eyelids began to bob up and down over the blue eyes. A sweet frisson of feeling chased over Jimmy. He didn't know the name of the pleasure he felt; it didn't matter. His own eyes began to droop, and he lost his focus on the child. That was all right; he could still hear the rapid beat of its heart and the murmur of its breath. A million years from now, he'd still know that baby. He'd find him and keep his word.

He drifted into sleep, hoping he would remember this neat dream. He hadta, so he could find it again. Jimmy tucked his fist under his chin, rolled to his side, and fell deeply asleep.

***

Flex, straighten and extend, eyes front, never wavering, flex, straighten, toes together, buttocks tight, don't think, don't think, don't think, just flex, straighten - new Recruit James Ellison tuned out the drone from the drill sergeant, not wasting even the mental energy to cuss at the sadistic monster. Ignore the abusive words, ignore the belittling voice, ignore the pain.

The pushups went on and on, but Ellison did his best at each one, refusing to let the sergeant get him. It amused him that the man actually thought he could break him, that he could make him tougher. Ha! His old man could eat the drill for lunch.

"Something funny, here, *soldier*?! I don't see anything to smile about. Maybe you like eating dirt, maybe these are too sissy for a big, strong man like yourself, sonny?" The drill's impersonal tone took on a hint of real anger.

Aww, shit. How many times had he screwed himself this way - letting his face show his feelings? Too late he scrubbed away any trace of anything except neutral, I am alive, lines. He put his attention back on the feel of the pushups, but the drill, incensed by what he considered lack of respect, sat on Ellison's back. "Twenty more, now!"

Flex, extend and straighten - the muscles quivered, and rage began to nibble in the pit of his gut. Back aching, he forced out another pushup, forced down the feeling working its way up to his throat. The sergeant bounced, and Ellison almost lost his balance. Locking his elbows, he caught himself, and the non-com slapped between his shoulders. "Move!"

Abruptly the rage surged forward, and colored his vision red. Stone still, he fought it, trying to see past it, shoving it away with all his will. There was a spin of dizziness, then his sight focused again, strangely, on a playground populated with a sprinkle of children. One was familiar, in a way he couldn't understand.

It was a small boy, crowned with a riot of auburn curls, running with a bubble mix and wand in his hand. Giggles and laughter danced with the bubbles, swirling around the slight body, almost obscuring him from Jim's sight. As he watched, an older boy raced over, scattering the bubbles, deliberately knocking the bottle of liquid from the child's hand.

Jim felt the anger begin to boil again, but the boy looked up from the spill at his feet and into Jim's eyes. Expecting to see tears of hurt and frustration, Jim was astounded when the blue eyes looking into his own showed only puzzlement. //He doesn't understand,// Jim thought, //why anyone would do that. Ahh, baby, I wish you never had to learn. I wish I could shelter you from people who hurt for the fun of it.//

As if reading his mind, the child smiled, and Jim felt the smile like a touch, one he had dreamed of and forgotten. The little boy sat down next to the puddle of bubble mix, and with a curious finger stirred the mess. Within minutes he was using it as paint, creating designs in the dirt, laughing again.

Not too dense to see the point, Jim thought, //Thanks, kid. I'll pay back the favor, sometime.// Distantly, he felt blows to his back, but he continued to watch the playground until one particularly painful hit broke his balance and caused his arms to collapse. Catching the drill off guard, they both hit the dirt, but Ellison rolled, brought himself back into push up position, and waited.

In his head, he saw the laughing child one more time, then banished the image, bringing all his attention to the calisthenics. Beside him, the drill glared at his impassive face, then barked 'dismissed.' Hiding the shaking of his body, he slowly stood, determined to make the barracks before he passed out.

***

Keep the head down, let the shoulders slump, shuffle the feet. You're a homeless man, helpless, harmless, instant prey for the vermin who look for such. There's no wire, no backup listening in, no gun safely hidden in an ankle harness. Be empty, be nothing.

Officer James Ellison turned the corner of the building, leaning into the cold wind, weaving as if drunk. He didn't really think that the animals that had been setting winos on fire for fun would be out on a sonovabitchin night like tonight. But, since the last incident had happened practically on the front steps of the court house, it wasn't likely the captain was going to listen to *him.*

He staggered a few more steps, then managed to trip on his undone shoelaces and stumble into the glass of a storefront. Eye to eye with his own reflection, Jim hid a shudder at what he saw. Unshaven, unwashed, he looked older and tireder than Moses. He looked like he felt, and he pushed the thought away, not wanting to face the futility that had been eating him alive since what felt like forever.

Not needing to act now, he stumbled away from the too truthful mirror, falling, getting to his knees, and crawling. In the distance he heard the quick, skipping steps of people coming his way, and he huddled into a doorway, peering up the street at the oncoming group.

"Heads up," he whispered for the wire, and did a quick check to make sure the doorway was out of the way enough to tempt the perps, but not so isolated he couldn't get away if needed. Seeing that it was a group of college-aged kids, he tensed up inside, still maintaining the image of a drunk.

Curling in on himself, as if feeling the cold to the quick, he waited until the group was near then put out a hand, whining realistically. "Change, man? Spare change? A few dollars to get a cold man into a warm place? Spare change?"

The gang of kids swept past him, apparently not even hearing, except for one at the edge, straggling last. He was so bundled against the cold, Jim couldn't even give a description, except for smoky blue eyes and dark curls. From the clothes the kid was wearing, he didn't think this one would have money for himself, let alone for a wino.

Wary, letting his hand drift to his gun, Jim watched as the kid looked back at him, slowed, then stopped, staring. Not wanting to break his cover by returning that stare too boldly, Jim lowered his lashes and peered through them at his suspect. Sure enough, the young man slowly walked back, unwinding one of the scarves from his neck.

Stopping a few feet away, the youngster held out the scarf to Jim. "Sorry, man, I haven't got any cash. This is real wool, and clean. Maybe it'll help keep you warm."

Shame heated Jim. It didn't matter he'd busted a thousand creeps that looked as innocent as this person did; it didn't matter suspicion was life saving. He had assumed the worst of someone who was offering the best of being human.

"It's ok," the kid went on, "I won't hurt you." He inched closer, and Jim automatically drew away. "Shh, sh - it's all right."

"Looks like you need it wors'n me, " Jim mumbled. "Don't feel the cold much, yaknow?"

"Doesn't mean it isn't cold. I know where a shelter is, not far from here. Need help to get there?" The kid was next to him, kneeling on the doorstep.

Training warred with instincts. Getting him moving and into a dark ally could be the prelude to a making a nice toasty people fire, said the cop. But instinct insisted that this was a good person, just trying to help. Shoving his conditioning aside, Jim dropped his pose for a split second, and looked straight into the eyes of the student.

He knew this man! The life that poured from him was as familiar to him as his own, and for one shocked second, Ellison fought the desire to pull him close. As quickly as the feeling rose, it faded, leaving him confused, but certain the kid wouldn't hurt a bug.

"Hey, man." He reached out and laid a hand on Jim's arm, apparently oblivious to the charge Jim had felt, "This isn't the way it has to be. You can be some place better, and there are people who can help."

Becoming the bum again, Jim snuffled wetly into his sleeve, hiding his face from other man. "You're right," he said clearly, and that seemed to reassure his good Samaritan. The kid wound the scarf around Jim's neck, patted his arm distractedly, and stood, seeming uncertain suddenly.

From behind them a feminine voice called, "You coming or not? It's freezing out here!"

Pulled around by the voice, the young man yelled, "Coming," and by the time he turned again, Jim had melted away. From the cover of the shadows, he watched him look around, shrug, then hustle after his friends.

Pulling himself erect, he nodded to himself in decision. That new captain for Major Crimes, Banks, had asked him to think of transferring. Maybe it was time to make a change, get out of Vice; he wanted to look into a mirror and see someone other people would trust. *He* wanted to trust the person he saw there.

"Ellison, damn it, what are you doing? That was the best bite we've had all week!"

Distraction broken, he shrugged and grumbled into the wire, "Didn't fit the MO we have." Then he slumped back into his wino personality, and headed back out to the street. Until he transferred, there was this job to be done. Even a bum didn't deserve to burn to death.

****

Tired, more tired than he had ever been in his life, Detective Jim Ellison leaned against the frame of the French doors to his balcony, and deliberately opened all his senses. Not bothering to sort or categorize, he let each bit of sensory information wash past him, good as well as bad.

More than once since they had awakened, he had wondered what would happen if he quit fighting them and became part of the flood. Always before, some innate mental sentry told him the very notion was dangerous beyond all reason. Tonight the temptation to do it anyway, just this once, just to see what would happen, was very, very strong. No matter what the result was, it had to be better than dealing with the overwhelming pressure he felt inside.

Each death he was unable to prevent, each time he failed despite the arsenal of abilities he could bring to bear, the pressure increased. Unable to cry, and hardly able to talk about anything more personal than the weather, he had no way to relieve it. He was rapidly getting to the point where it *had* to be eased, and he feared what would happen if he didn't.

Surfing an overload had to be better than waiting to self-destruct, maybe hurting someone - a certain someone - when he did. Inhaling deeply, he stretched with his mind, poised on the edge of a decision, truly not sure which way he would fall.

In an unexpected surge, all his senses came together for a second, creating for him the reality of Blair standing on the balcony in front of him. He had a hand on Jim's shoulder, gripping him tightly, and his voice was calm and coaxing though his scent carried the stink of fear.

Meaning attached itself to the sounds Blair was making. "Listen to my voice, Jim, focus on me, let go and come back now. Listen to my voice...."

Losing the sense of the words again, he zoomed away on the incredible beauty of Blair's eyes. Like every time he had ever looked into them, he was haunted by the feeling of intimacy, of connection. He had never told Blair that sometimes, simply catching his gaze was all it took to stop a zone. This time, though, it wasn't enough.

As if realizing that, Blair stepped closer, putting his hands flat on Jim's chest and giving a small shove. Absorbing the shock easily, the sentinel lifted his own hands and buried them up to the wrists in the riot of curls framing those astounding, remarkable... .

He lost his thought, distracted by the feel of his palms resting on Blair's jaw line. Thumb tip tracing the lines of the shell of his partner's ear, he zeroed in on touch, suddenly wanting to feel everything. Gently he brought the smaller man's face towards him, lowering his head as he did. Tentatively, timidly, Blair came to rest against him, warmth encountering warmth, and he stretched on tiptoe, raising his face up to Jim's.

Jim sipped at Blair's lips, taking the tiniest measure of the best vintage known. A small, surprised "Oh!" darted past, then, from both at once, "Oh, finally!"

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