Wherein a word or phrase can be the start of something fun and wonderful.
Some are simply stand-alone ficlets or drabbles. Some link up with published stories. Some end up previews for things yet to come.
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He woke with an odd ache in his chest, and the feeling that something was going to happen in the course of the day that he wouldn't enjoy, not by a long shot. He hoped it would just be the typical things that made him mutter darkly under his breath: his partner abandoning him to do all the processing and paperwork, a surprise departmental review, or all the chocolate once again being gone from the vending machine closest to his desk.
Somehow, as he blearily rolled from under the sheet to sit on the side of the bed and rub sleep from his eyes, he knew he wouldn't be that lucky. The day had not started out right, though in every aspect he could pinpoint, except this surety of feeling, this morning was the same as any other.
His gran, had he called her instead of spending an extra few minutes in the shower with the water scalding his skin, would have told him he was putting too much faith in what probably was remnants of a dream. She'd've told him to brush it off and face the day ready to take on whatever the world decided to throw at him.
Shoulda called her after lunch after he'd dropped that blob of mustard on his pants, another stain to hope to hide in the darkness of the material, and another sobering domestic call came through. Some days just weren't good days - she would've assured him, with the gentle sound of her porch wind-chimes tinkling in the background - and then she would've asked him once more when he planned on bringing a girl around for her to coo over. When he met one worthwhile, would've been his answer.
But he hadn't called her. Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he'd do better than call her, even, and go over and see her. They'd sit and talk, and all the while he'd revel in her surety that the world wasn't as bleak as he saw it to be. She was a wonder of a woman, that way, and could talk him out of nearly every funk.
If he had been driving rather than David, who had scored a whole ten points lower in defensive driving but whose turn it was because it was the third Friday of the month, maybe then they wouldn't have watched with increasing concern as the car they were tailing picked up speed, darting through the residential areas with mounting recklessness. Maybe the chase wouldn't have resulted. They wouldn't have ended up in a pursuit that took them careening back into the city and calling for backup.
He wouldn't have watched, tight lipped, as David attempted to end the chase by clipping the back corner of the beige car. They wouldn't have watched it lose control and spin wildly across the lanes of oncoming traffic, skidding to a stop in the lot of a petrol station.
With backup on the way they could have parked and held a safe distance, but a single glance at one another cemented their course of action, and his day. One moment they were in their vehicle, the next they were out - shouting directions to onlookers who had yet to react and orders for the four in the beige car to follow, in an attempt to deescalate the situation.
Because of the day, because once things start going wrong they keep going wrong, the four in the sedan don't do the smart thing and listen. They start shooting, which is when the crowd begins to listen and disperse, seeking shelter wherever they can find it.
A flash of a blue uniform catches his eye, someone in the petrol station shepherding people towards the back of the store. No gawking at the windows. A fellow first responder? Not armed, clearly, but he'll take all the help he can get at the moment. He can't tell his heartbeat from the sirens, so no telling how close their backup is.
That's when David jerks and goes down, hard. There's no way to reach his partner without abandoning the firefight and diving through the interior of their car, and that's not an option he's desperate enough to consider. Yet. He just has to hang on till backup arrives on the scene. Just has to keep those four contained.
But. Wait. There's one... Something whizzes past his ear. Quickly. Count them faster. Two. Three. Where's the —
He's tagged hard enough to spin him 180 degrees before he falls. In his rush to find the fourth man he'd presented himself as a target, an opportunity they hadn't missed. On his back and reeling, his lungs scream for air but his body refuses to obey. He'd failed. Failed David, himself, the public, his gran... That hurts the worst. The thought that she's going to have to clean out his place, and suffer through another funeral, though this time without him there to support her.
He lets out a groan along with the last bit of breath his lungs had to offer, surprising himself with the automatic inhalation of air that occurs right after. It's not comfortable by any means, but he's not dead. Not dead, just hit. Hit and damned miserable about it.
Of course the longer he lays like this on the ground the greater the odds that he'll wind up the former.
Right about the time he's talked himself into reaching a tentative hand up to explore the expanse of his vest he hears someone approach, talking fast in jargon he recognizes. A paramedic. That flash of blue he'd seen in the interior of the petrol station, guiding people towards safety and away from the hot zone.
She's off duty, rattling off the status of the scene and the injuries she can see with a practiced air.
Somehow knows his name?
On his vest. Right.
Damn, he blinks his eyes open and swallows a silent prayer. Damn he's glad she's here.
