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Street coughs harshly, his stomach churning uneasily as his surroundings slowly fade into view. His brain tries to make sense of, well, everything. White hot pain flares in his side, his attention immediately diverting to the source. He blinks rapidly, trying to figure out what he is looking at. His back is pressed against the tall wall, debris surrounding him. The air is thick with dust, coating his throat uncomfortably.
He coughs again, clearing his throat. His eyes itch, burning slightly in the darkness. Something warm is trickling down the side of his face, dripping onto his chest. He glances around the space, confusion muddling his ability to discern his location. A sound interrupts his musings.
“Street, if you can hear this, please respond or click your panic button.” Panic button? He searches his memories for why he would have a panic button. Wait, where did the voice come from? He shifts and immediately regrets it, the sheer pain exploding through his side forcing the air from his lungs.
He slows down, only moving his left hand, fumbling through the debris next to him. His fingers find something small and plastic, a weird silicone covering the corners of it. He manages to grasp it, pulling it up from the destroyed ceiling beams.
It's small. A dark grey puck shaped… thing. Three blue lights are lit in the center. He waits a beat, focusing his vision until he stops seeing two of them. His thumb finds the small circle under the blue dots, pressing down on instinct. A loud beep echoes in his ears. He finds his voice, his tongue thick and unwilling to cooperate.
“Um, Hi?” He releases the button, assuming that is what he is supposed to do. Why is someone talking to a street ? As far as he knows, no one else is with him. He scans the dim space around him, other than various piles of absolute architectural destruction, what appears to be brick walls, and maybe a shattered wood door, nothing else is with him.
“Street? Are you okay?” He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts.
“I mean, I don’t know what street you are looking for, but uh, no, I’m not okay.” He waits for the reply, a slow throb in the base of his skull getting slightly louder with every breath he takes.
“This is Hondo, I have Fire Capt. Henderson with me. He has a few questions for you.” Ah, maybe someone who knows what is going on and how he got to wherever he is right now.
“Hey man, what’s your name?” Oh, that is a smart question to ask, he presses the button, mouth open to say his name - and nothing comes out.
He stutters, searching every corner of his mind for the answer that isn’t there. That’s terrifying, he feels panic claw its way into his rib cage but tries to keep his voice steady.
“That, that is a great question. I was hoping you might know that.” He holds his breath, waiting for the reply.
“Given the fact that the last person with the radio you are using to communicate with was James Street, I am thinking that is you. Do you have a head injury?” Oh. He is Street. Huh, Street is a cool name. He reaches up to the warmth still covering the side of his head, his fingers coming away bright red. That’s not good.
“Now that you mention it, yes, I do believe I have a head injury.”
“Alright Street, we are working on getting you out of there. Can you tell me the last thing you remember?” Street, tries to recall anything before now. His mind is frustratingly blank.
“Sorry sir, I don’t remember anything. All I know is I woke up here. Um, where am I?”
“You are or should be close to the back of the performing arts building, you were evacuating the building after finding an explosive. It went off and it seems that you were thrown into one of the classrooms on the far side.”
Street considers his surroundings and his current predicament.
“That sounds about right Sir.” His voice is weak, he tries to ignore the cold seeping into his bones.
“Sir, how long has it been since the explosion?” Maybe this just happened and he will regain his memory soon.
“Around twenty minutes. You don’t have to call me sir. Where else are you injured?” The man's voice grates on his nerves.
Street sighs to no one but himself. He takes a deep breath and starts with his toes. His left ankle is sore, maybe sprained with the way it is angrily throbbing. His boots feel tight around the hot joint.
His shins are bruised but otherwise intact. His knees are sore but again, no lasting damage. His thighs tingle, small pieces of sharp metal embedded into the surface of his skin, probably shrapnel from the explosion.
He goes further up to his hips and gasps. The first thing he notices is the warmth, then the fact that his pant leg is soaked, and finally the fact that something is protruding from his right side, right above his hip. He gathers his courage, looking down and squinting to see what it is.
Oh shit.
Some sort of round beam or rebar shaped metal thing is sticking straight out of him. He swallows hard, the pain overwhelming him. He forces himself to take deep breaths, inhaling air through his gritted teeth.
That’s really not good. He blinks rapidly, some part of him managing to focus on his mission.
He has a few small cuts on his stomach, jagged tears in his black shirt.
His ribs are probably broken, every breath burning as if he is inhaling glass.
His left shoulder is at an angle, painfully disconnected from him.
His neck is fine, though coated in slick blood from the wound he feels piercing lightning across the side of his head. He thinks it's a graze given the amount of blood and how the pain travels from the back of head to the front.
His vision is fine, his nose and mouth seemingly unaffected. A small cut on the side if his cheek stings but compared to everything else he barely notices. His fingers grasp the radio, steadying himself before pressing the talk button.
“Do you want the report from worst to best or alphabetized?” He quirks a grin, attempting to distract himself from the dread settling in his stomach like a boulder.
The radio glows white, Capt. Henderson chuckling slightly as he replies,
“How about from top to bottom?” He can work with that.
“Okay, I have a graze on the side of my head, it’s bleeding pretty decently. I believe I hit the back of my head on the wall. I have a small cut on my cheek. My left shoulder is dislocated. My ribs are either cracked or broken or bruised within an inch of their lives. My- Agh-”
Blinding pain in his head stops him mid-sentence. He gasps, the spike of agony unrelenting. His vision fades on the edges, his breaths coming fast and shallow. He swallows the acrid bile rising in his throat.
It stops as suddenly as it started, the roaring in his ears lessening until he hears the voice on the radio, laced with concern,
“Street? What happened Street?” He finds his voice, still struggling for air,
“Sorry-, uh, really bad pain in my head. Felt like someone was stabbing the base of my skull.”
“It’s okay, probably the concussion. Can you continue?” He frowns, trying to remember what he was doing before.
“Sorry, what was I saying?” The voice is calm and patient,
“You were listing your injuries, you had just described your ribs.” Oh, right.
“Yes, my ribs are bad, not really enjoying breathing right now. I have several cuts on my stomach. And then, uh, I have a piece of rebar in my side, above my right hip.” He pauses, awaiting the questions he knows they will have.
“You said a piece of rebar? Can you give a description of it?” He huffs, not wanting to think any more about it than necessary.
“Well, it’s all the way through me, I feel a puddle of blood under me. It’s about four feet long. Probably ¾ of an inch thick. It has weird ridges in it. Um, it looks to be a dark grey. Maybe charcoal. I really don’t know what else to say other than it fucking hurts.” He catches his breath.
“Alright Street, we will come back to that, continue.” He rolls his eyes, the calmness in the other man's voice somewhat unbelievable.
“Shrapnel wounds in my legs but it's not too bad. My left ankle hurts, might just be sprained. I think that is it.” One second he is holding the radio, the next it has landed in his lap. He stares in surprise. When did he drop it?
“Good job Street, that was a very good report. Obviously our major concerns are blood loss and your head injury. Can you estimate how much blood you have lost?” Street squints, how the hell is he supposed to measure the amount of blood soaking his clothes or pooling on the ground? Eh, he will do his best.
“Given how much is currently surrounding me and soaking my clothes, I would estimate around 300 milliliters? That is what you use to measure blood loss right?” He detects a slight note of scrutiny in the man's tone,
“I mean, yes, that is what we use, but are you sure?”
Street laughs to himself, his answer light on his tongue, butterflies buzzing around his head. Wait, do butterflies buzz? He doesn't care enough to explore that. A lopsided grin paints his face,
“Hehe, nope! I don’t even remember what you asked if I am being honest.”
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Sgt. Hondo frowns as he looks at Capt. Henderson,
“He is getting delirious already? Either his head injury is more severe or he has lost more blood than he thinks.” Capt. Henderson nods seriously,
“Agreed, we need to either get him out or someone in there with him. I have one of my men prepping now. He will try to enter through this space-” He gestures to the blueprints set up on the staging table, “-and stabilize him until we can get the equipment in there to cut the rebar.”
Hondo glances at the still smoking dilapidated building in front of them, barely concealed concern underlying his tone,
“Let us hope he can hold on for that long.” Capt. Henderson notes the grey stormy look in Hondo's deep brown eyes and gives him a distraction.
“Why don’t you talk to him? You might be able to keep him awake.” Hondo knows the tactic and is almost insulted, but he knows that the team is counting on him to bring Street home, he will be damned if he lets Street go through this alone.
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Street hums, he doesn’t know what tune it is but it brings him joy all the same. He wiggles his toes in his shoes, the only part of him that doesn’t hurt. He feels his grasp on reality starting to lessen, the objects surrounding him appearing larger than before.
Nausea rolls through him, whatever is in his stomach rebels against the harsh pain reverberating through him.
He tries over and over again to remember what happened. But he feels as if he would have more luck finding a snake in a puddle of eels. The analogy stops short in his mind, that doesn't even make sense, why would a snake be in a group of eels? Would a group of eels be called a puddle? His thoughts spin into a dizzying cycle, the forceful pounding growing behind his eyes.
Oh, there's someone else with him, wait no, it's coming from his lap. A small grey thing is blinking blue. He should do something with that. He fiddles with it, finding a small indent in the space under the blue lights. He presses it in, curiosity having him talk into it,
“Hello? Anyone out there?”
“Street, are you okay? You didn’t answer me earlier.” Street narrows his eyes, white spots dancing in the corner of his vision.
“What do you mean earlier? Wait who is this?”
“This is Hondo, we were just talking. Street, do you know where you are?” Street waits for his mind to fill in the gaps but nothing happens. Fear wraps itself around his chest, squeezing him until he is hyperventilating.
“Sir, Hondo, I, I don’t remember. I don’t, something is wrong.”
“Hey hey hey, Street, I need you to slow your breathing okay? Breathe in and out with me. In….. and out…….. In………..and out………” Street tries to follow, his chest heaving with effort.
Shivers wrack him, his body trembling violently.
A jarring thought crosses his mind, voicing it before he can stop it.
“I’m not, I’m not making it out of this.” The statement hangs in the air, heavy and final.
“Don’t talk like that Street, we have the best possible people working on getting to you right now. They are almost there but we need you to stay awake to guide them, can you do that for me?”
The man’s voice is steady but despite the gnawing agony wracking him he can tell that the man is keeping something from him. He gulps air, his voice higher than before,
“You’re, you’re not a very good liar Hondo.” His finger twitches, his grip on the small radio growing weaker.
“If you remembered me, you would know I don’t lie. Especially not to you Street.”
Street squints, a prickling itch crawling up his spine. He doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t believe this man, Hondo. But he doesn’t really trust his own judgment right now so what does he have to lose?
“Right, given my pressing situation, I don’t really think I have a leg to stand on. How do we know each other?” He waits for Hondo to respond, ignoring the way his left eye is slowly losing the ability to see the outlines of the room in front of him.
"You are a SWAT officer, you belong to 20 Squad, I run the squad." Oh, that would explain the shredded attire he is wearing.
"That explains a lot. I was being a hero and that's how I got here right?" He says it with an edge of sarcasm unsuspecting the serious reply Hondo gives.
"Yes. You ran back inside against orders to rescue a teacher." Street frowns, wincing as it agitates his facial wounds. If he came back to save a teacher, where are they? He flinches at the realization, his eyes desperately scanning the room.
He finds what he was begging himself not to.
To his right, in the far corner, he makes out a pink sweater, soaked in blood. The entire section decimated under heavy concrete and debris.
He wasn't fast enough
The walls cave inward, bile rising in his throat. He can't stop it, tears streaming down his face as he retches, losing everything in his stomach. His gags violently, dry heaving until his throat is raw.
His ribs scream at him as his abdominal muscles contract painfully, the dull ache now stabbing deep into his core. The rebar shifts, blood rushing around it.
Someone is saying his name.
He fumbles with the slippery radio, holding onto it like a lifeline. His voice cracks, tears blurring the darkness devouring him whole.
"I didn't, I didn't save her. I wasn't,-" A sob catches in the back of his throat, another wave of agony paralyzing him.
His head might as well be a balloon, every second that passes the pressure builds excruciatingly against his skull. His finger slips from the button.
"Street, listen to me and listen to me completely. You didn't fail. You tried, she would have died with or without you but that is not what matters. What matters is that you tried, against orders, against all logic, you tried. That is who you are Street. You try even when all odds are against you." There's a pause, Street hanging onto every word.
"It's what I respect most about you. The world dealt you a near impossible hand and although you made some questionable choices, you never stop trying. From your home life, to foster care, to losing your friend, to losing your job, every single thing that should have brought you down, it never succeeded." Street isn't breathing, Hondo's words striking him deep.
"You are going to make it out alive Street. You are one of the strongest men I know. This is not what defeats you, I believe that with my entire being and I need you to believe it too kid."
Street freezes.
Kid
Images flash in his mind, Hondo in front of him, talking to him through the worst moments of his life. He sees his failures, his growth, his family. He remembers every time Hondo rescued him from himself. Every time he needed someone to talk to. Late night conversations at the Luca's house, the small spaced echoing with laughter Every time Hondo somehow knew exactly what to say. Hondo wrapping strong arms around him as he let himself fall apart. The team dropping by and taking care of him when he was struggling. Warmth blooms in his chest.
He remembers
"Hondo?" His voice falters, thick with emotion.
"There you are, glad to have you back man. You still with me?" Hondo's steady voice envelops him behind a shield of safety.
He wanted to find the right words but he doesn't need to anymore. His voice is low, filled with an emotion he doesn't share often,
"I never really said it but you are-"
Blinding pain bolts down his spine, a scream ripping itself from his ravaged throat.
please god make it stop
His nerves are on fire, lightning streaking across his skin
please, he can't
He curls into himself, desperately trying to escape the unbearable pain eviscerating him.
please stop, he can't
Something is tearing him apart from the inside out.
please make it stop
Overwhelming agony explodes, his head the center of it all.
he can't fail Hondo again
White light flashes through him, the void swallowing him whole.
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Hondo's eyes widen as he hears Street cut off with a scream. He grips the radio tightly, forcing his voice to find itself,
"Street?"
Deafening silence
He tries again,
"Street? If you can hear me, I need to know what is going on."
The small radio grows heavy in his hand. Not a whisper of a reply.
His heart constricts as the seconds stretch into minutes.
He closes his eyes and prays, begging for Street to have just passed out again.
A deep rooted feeling in his gut knows differently.
Capt. Henderson interrupts his spiraling thoughts,
"We got in, two paramedics were able to get to him. They are already calling for a medevac. Chopper is six minutes out. They said you need to contact his family, they should head to the trauma center, now." Hondo's eyes darken, his voice tight with emotion,
"We are his family." He doesn't say anything else, turning sharply, headed to his team waiting behind the caution tape.
"They just got to him. It's bad. Chopper is on its way, they are taking him to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. We are going there now, we will debrief Hicks on the way." He doesn't pay attention to the varying degrees of shock rippling through the four people staring at him. His mind already preparing himself for the worst.
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Two weeks later
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Street blinks awake, warm white light filling the room.
A hand is grasping his gently, the person attached to it slumped in a chair.
He frowns, his muddled thoughts trying to escape a thick haze.
He twitches his fingers, testing his ability to move.
The person beside him jerks awake, brown eyes filled with disbelief staring at him intensely.
"Street?"
He smiles softly, his throat too dry to make a sound. He shakes his head, wincing when it causes the world to spin. Hondo instantly reassures him,
"It's okay, don't try to talk yet. You're safe now kid, everything is going to be okay." Street lets the words wash over him, his body relaxing as they take effect.
He hums, feeling the vibrations rumble through his mind.
Hondo is here, everything is going to be fine.
He is safe
He squeezes the hand still holding his, letting the enticing lull of sleep take him again.