Every time I feel it, I still get the same rush, the same panic, the same cold fear in the pit of my stomach.

Because I know, when I feel the icy touch of a steel cylinder anywhere on my body, that it could be the last time I ever feel that, feel anything.

That, while I might have escaped every other time, this time may not be the same. That this time may be when they hear no answer and send in an extraction team, only to find me laying in a pool of my own blood, blood no longer spurting from my wound because I no longer have a pulse.

When I was younger, and in a slightly morbid stage of my life, I wondered what it would be like to have a gun pressed to my forehead. What kind of thrill would it send through me? Would I have a lovely tingle at the base of my spine, acutely aware of the danger and not being in control of what happened next?

But it's not like that, it's not exhilaratingly exciting. It's like when your mom catches you doing something you shouldn't be doing, walking up behind you until she's right next to you, and asks what do you think you're doing? And you can just feel your insides jump a mile high as you try to keep calm, but your hands start to shake and it gives you away. That shock you feel when you're caught, the one that makes your heart stop for a split second- that's what having a gun poking between your shoulder blades, or jammed into your temple, feels like.

But you, my imaginary guest, the person in my head listening to me explain all this, might wonder why I go into such detail. Don't you? Well, I'll tell you even if you don't.

It's because it's happening again. The same chill spreading from cold metal into my entire being, the same fear in the pit my stomach, the same nausea that I know comes from fear but makes me wish I hadn't eaten that bacon this morning- I'm feeling it at this very moment.

"Agent Bristow, I knew you'd be here," is the last thing I hear before the slightly deafening sound of a gunshot rings in my ear. And my last thought? No, not of you, my imaginary guest, but the instant before darkness takes me,

'I suppose this time I wasn't so lucky.'

O O O

A/N: I have no idea why I just wrote that. I think it's just a one parter, but if you decide you're going to seriously injure yourself cause you're dying of suspense, get some therapy, leave a review, and I'll try to actually come up with some semblance of a plot to go along with this. Well, leave a review anyway.

Alias is not mine. Bad Robot! But if J.J. wants to give me Sark, I'll be more than happy to take him.