This episode is the first in series history to be rated "TV-G," ensuring that the season finale of Roswell is suitable to be maligned, ridiculed, and drowned out by the deafening roar of numerous continents raising their one collective eyebrow -- by parents and children of all ages. By the way.
Fade in on a dusty old sign affixed to a chain link fence reading, "Eagle Rock Military Base, Medical Research Facility." We join what appears to be the entire population of the desert southwest right smack in the middle of an already-in-progress dramatic chase scene, offering the feeling that we have been watching a sporting event that ran long and we've just cut in on some really generic action movie three minutes from the end we had no vested intention of sticking with anyway. Michael kicks off the brilliant verbal theatrics we've come to expect with his insistence that "we gotta get Max outta here," reiterating this essential piece of knowledge singularly for the benefit of Howie Dorough's new-to-the-show parents, who in turn express their gratitude by briefly coming up for air from the gigantic piles of their son's cash they've been swimming through, Scrooge McDuck-style, for the better part of the past two years. A suddenly omnipresent Porno, shifting again from always unquestionably bad to vaguely maybe good and right on back to unquestionably bad again, yells over the mayhem that there's a safe place he can take them all to, provided this place is filled with a name bursting with Native-American mystique, and I'm only able to blindly smash my palm flat down on the keyboard in hopes that I will come up with the correct spelling of said mystique-filled locale, finally settling on a phonetic representation and wishing that I had actually learned what exactly the "Key Caps" feature in my control panels does, as I know it would come in infinitely handy at this moment, though I'm not exactly sure how: gah-LEE-nus. Anyway, Porno volunteers the hideout of an old silver mine in gah-LEE-nus, off Horseshoe Road, where they can hide out for a while. Isabel and Liz load a dazed Max "Pecs-tra, pecs-tra, read all about it" Evans into the suddenly-under-new-ownership Jetta, and Isabel provides the valuable public service of handing Max his recovered clothes. Oh, Isabel, you bright shining beacon in a red-backlit world, you. Don't sign any contracts in the off-season without the express written permission of MBTV and its concerned-for-the-Gerard-Depardieu-free-evolution-of-your-career members, okay? Fabulous, then. Michael regards Porno warily before peeking in the window of the Jetta and expressing the too-telling sentiment, "I don't know about this." Max breathily responds, "I trust him," but all subsequent lines of dialogue are soon to be drowned out by the spontaneous appearance of a blazingly bright concert stage which appears out of seeming nowhere and contains Gloria Estefan, who performs her salsa-influenced eighties classic "1, 2, 3, 4Shadow" to a stunned audience that the "writers" seem to perceive is too obtuse to get it otherwise. Yes, Porno is of questionable morality. Put down the megaphone. Waiter, I'll have a tall of glass of subtlety to wash down the bitter pill of being a completely insulted audience member. And I'll take the check with that, too. Whenever you're ready. Thanks.
Cut to inside the Jetta, where a mercifully dressed Max means just the wrong damn thing (he means his hours and hours of bondage at the hands of The Initiative, rather than meaning this episode, their relationship, her life) when he tells Liz, "It's over." She puts her hand comfortingly on his shoulder in a gesture containing about the same amount of hefty emotional resonance as picking up a phone. But just as Max begins break-up attempt #314 with his it's-not-you-it's-me simper, "Look, Liz, if we ever get out of this," shots ring out behind them, and Liz just plum freaks. So much for wanting them alive. Shoot to kill, boys. SHOOT TO KILL! Government brutality has never looked so appealing as when it's enacted on Liz Parker. The back window blown out, Liz maroons the Jetta and the two leap from the flaming wreckage. Cue intensely inappropriate John Williams-esque high-drama-while-being-chased-through-the-grassy-marshes music, dangerous men in suits following closely behind. Skulking back to the highway, Max and Liz become trapped between military vans pulling up on either side. Cornered! Or are they? The always intrepid wonder twins approach the railing of the highway, steal a rather long and always unnecessary kiss while the sharp-shooting government ops are, I guess, manually loading the Civil War muskets they apparently brought along for this particular portion of the alien hunt, and leap in slo-mo into the darkened abyss below. A relatively long commercial break follows, necessitated by a lengthy meeting between the legal team from The Fugitive and the general arbiters of Non-Clichéd Good Taste Throughout the Universe, who begin compiling evidence for their extremely tenable joint lawsuit against the previous four minutes of my now four-minutes-shorter life.