AUTHOR'S NOTE. First off, hi! It's been about five years since I wrote stories on this site, and I've since written a couple original novels. But in between writing books, I do miss the creative outlet of writing about some of my favourite TV characters. Lately I've been rewatching 24 (okay, I do that almost every year) and I just couldn't resist the urge to delve into this world. I know, 24 is a bit old now, and I have no idea if anybody out there is looking for this kind of story. But if you love 24 as much as I do, it never gets old! Specifically, if you like Tony Almeida and always felt like he got jipped on the show, or was never as fully explored as he could have been, here is some backstory at last. Just some character study and tribute to one of 24's great heroes who never caught a break. Thanks for reading! It's good to be back on this site.

My 24 canon: Season 6 does not exist, neither does Legacy. Season 7 was brilliant, but I don't like having Tony bad. I would have liked to see him redeemed. Even better, I would have liked for him and Michelle to have a peaceful life together and start a family. :P

Anyway, this story begins during Season 3, when Tony goes to the mall to intercept Kyle Singer. Please review! Would love to know if anybody wants to read more of this. And sadly, I do not own 24 or its characters.

Chapter One

The Bullet, The Projects, and the Hat

"Kyle?" Tony Almeida walked carefully, casually up to the frightened teenage boy. The boy turned to him, nervous, cowering under the pressures of a world he once thought he could sustain.

"Who are you?" he questioned, poised to run.

Tony knew the look. He remembered when his own flight response kicked in at the sight of cops. Everything depended on his ability to calmly defuse the boy's fear and bring him safely in. "My name's Tony Almeida," he said, certain he could connect with this kid. A simple, pressure-free chat. "I'm a federal agent, but I'm here to help you."

Kyle looked around as if for other cops, no more placated than if Tony had said he was under arrest.

Get to the point. "What your father told you about you being sick is true."

Kyle shook his head, the image of shredded nerves in helpless youth. "I don't believe you."

Tony knew all too well how the kid felt, but all that mattered was the mission. "Come with me, I'll prove it to you."

Kyle looked unconvinced, but his features softened. He started to move toward the agent.

Suddenly his eyes widened at some menace over Tony's shoulder. Tony turned, just as —

BANG! — so loud, so close!

Like a burning knife in his neck

Then blood

Then the floor, heavy against his face

He couldn't stop the wound with his hand, couldn't find his way back up, couldn't see where Kyle had gone or even which direction he'd been standing in. Only dripping, hot pain.

He knew gunshots, remembered them from long ago, felt their punch before.

No... I've got to stay present...

He convulsed in pain, rolled onto his back, looked for a familiar face.

Michelle...

He tried to hold on, tried to think about his wife, but the present grew dizzy, the gunshot rang into the past.

Jack's cold hands on his face and his shouts for a medic became faraway sensations. The virus, the Salazars, the whole urgent plot faded like a dream.

He was sixteen, or seventeen, like Kyle Singer. The memories pulsed, rushed his screaming veins. He couldn't wake now even if he tried, could not return to the matters at hand.

So he stopped fighting it and allowed himself to drift back into the life he'd all but forgotten.

— — —

Springtime in Chicago brought the lure of baseball, the start of a first job, a new turf war in the projects, and a new round of the war at home.

Tony Almeida considered each of these trials as he woke up before his older half-brother, climbed down from the top bunk in near darkness, and dressed in beat-up clothes stolen from school's lost-and-found bin. While Miguel snored, Tony stuffed a scuffed catcher's mitt and a broad paintbrush into his bag with his school books. He shivered, hunched against the bitter wind creeping through the cracked window. Each delicate crack in the glass trickled away from the encircled ripples where a bullet once broke through. He couldn't remember the exact night it happened. Bullets were too common here.

Bag loaded, Tony hauled one strap over his sore shoulder and silently pushed open the door. He heard his stepfather moaning in his sleep through the door around the corner. Tony didn't dare breathe. A child's whimper rose above the snores — Richard, the little brat who slept in his parents' room.

Richard's parents. Not Tony's.

Anthony Almeida Sr. would never have made his son grow up in this slum. A former marine and police officer in north-central Chicago, Mr. Almeida taught his boy about valuing family, how to stand up for what was right, and how to pitch a wicked fast ball.

Tony couldn't think about him now, for fear of letting the anger take hold again. It was an easy path to go down. Too easy.

Dad shouldn't have died. Didn't his family mean more to him than some strangers he just had to defend from armed robbers?

Now Tony couldn't stop the cascading thoughts, the parade of regrets.

Mom shouldn't have moved to the inner city in search of her former lover, the father of her first son. Did she really think they'd be better off surrounded by gangs and junkies and guns, having their meager pantry raided by rats and their frigid beds by roaches? And did she really need Max the welder to take care of her?

That lazy man shouldn't have forced her to work two jobs and gotten rough when she didn't please him. He had no business laying a hand on any of them. Miguel quickly took the stance of avoiding his father and everyone else around him, so Tony had no ally in the fight.

Tony took it upon himself to interfere. As soon as the shouting began, he ran to his mother's aid and raised his fists to challenge the man who would never replace his father. In return, he got knocked into the thin wall, held down against the dirty linoleum, and then pounded with a fist half the size of his head. The more he fought back, the harder the beating. Mom screamed until the man stopped, but she never got in the way. Miguel was nowhere to be found, probably out smoking with his friends. Tony waited until he was alone before dragging himself off the floor and packing bags of frozen peas over his face and ribs. He would go to bed with them, and later wake up to find the warm, wet bags barely covering his throbbing bruises.

Worst of all, Mom shouldn't have left.

Tony wished he could erase that morning when he staggered into the main room of the apartment, hoping to find food this time, and came across his mother zipping shut a bulging duffel bag.

"Mom? Where are you going?"

She turned to face him, startled.

He saw the swollen purple shadow around her eye and wondered if his own looked as bad.

She placed a cold hand on his shoulder. "Tony, don't be upset. I'm going to live with my sister. She only has room for me, but I'll work until I can get us a place, and then you and Miguel will come live with me. Until then..."

"No." Tony shook his head. "You can't leave us here."

"I'll be back for you." She kissed his forehead, eyes streaming. "I promise."

He tried to hold onto her. Part of him wanted her to escape this madness, but mostly he remembered losing his dad, the hardest thing he ever had to face. Every day, Dad promised to return. Then one day, he came back wrapped in a flag. What good were promises?

Promises were not enough. Tony had to take a stand. But even though he clung to Mom's hand and pleaded with her, she pulled away and hurried down those dark, brutal steps. And where was Miguel? Getting high with his friends.

When Mom slipped out that morning, Tony knew he was on his own. He curled up on the kitchen floor and cried, balling a dishrag to his face, wanting to run after her, wondering why he didn't. He skipped school most of that week, getting into trouble with both friends and enemies, and Max blamed him exclusively for letting his mom leave. The beatings became almost daily.

Tony took several deep breaths before opening the front door. He didn't want to think about any of this. He just wanted to leave it all. Why did he come back every night to face this hell?

He didn't know why. Maybe he still hoped Mom would return, and he had to be here for her. Maybe he wanted to be friends with Miguel, but his brother cut him out.

Before leaving, Tony fitted a stained, thready blue cap over his short black curls. Only the red C on the front remained clean. Every day, he wore Daddy's Cubs hat, and it gave him strength. It reminded him who he was, and who taught him to be a man and stand up for those in need. Those such as Richard, the snotty, whiny, utterly helpless five-year-old who entered Tony's life without warning.

One day Max brought Tina home from a bar, and she brought her drug habit and her toddler into the home. The family was unrecognizable now to Tony, but it was the family he had. Max would never be his father, nor Tina his mother, but he was stuck with them, and with Miguel, and Richard. What could he do but make the most of it and try to protect that clueless child from the torturous world Tony found himself thrust into?

He shut and locked the door behind him, determined not to be confined by the hopelessness. He would escape now, because there was more to his life. But he would be back, because his wasn't the only life that mattered.