I am soooo sorry. I have no excuse for the enormous delay. None. At all. But hopefully you guys like it. It's kinda short I know but I'm setting the stage for y'all. Also, I get out of school in two weeks, so it's finals. Hence-I won't be posting anything quite soon, but I will be trying to work on things.

In case you haven't noticed I don't manage time well so my rule for myself is to alternate between here and The Fall. So the next cheater I post will be for that,then for this, then that, then this...you get the point.

Do I wanna know- Artic Monkeys

Halstead's P.O.V

It began on an ordinary Tuesday (I honestly couldn't tell you the date, I'm the kind of person who forgets their own birthday) one much like I'm sure you've experienced. The kind that's just completely stereotypical for your life. Think the most ordinary day you could possibly have. Get up. Shower. Get dressed. Food. Coffee. Work. Home. Dinner. Bed. Rinse and repeat.

That's how my day SHOULD have gone. Because that's how it started.

I crawled out of bed at 04:00, grumbling at myself for getting up so early as I search for my running sneakers. Just like I do every morning when I search my carpet with my hands because I literally can't open my eyes. Then I hit my head on the side of my bed while reaching for the shoes underneath it. Just like I do every morning. I seriously have permanent bruise there.

Throwing my shoes into the living room, I'm awake enough to do the basics, open the eyes, turn on the phone, find some clothes. You see there's a reason why all my running clothes are black, grey or blue. That way, no matter what I choose, I match. Which is good because my decision making skills are not up to par this early in the day.

I plug some head phones into my cell, set it to vibrate, then unplug it from the charger, slipping it inside a plastic case with a Velcro back. I then, stick the phone to the opposite Velcro on one of those running bands that's already wrapped around my arm. I slip on my shoes, grab my keys and exit my apartment, jogging down the stairs out into the cold Chicago morning. Shaking my hands to rid them of the cold, I turn my music to shuffle and set off on my daily 7 to 10 mile run.

The cool air nips my exposed skin, numbing my face as the strong base from Arctic Monkey's "Do I Wanna Know" flows through my earbuds, pulsing in my head.

This was the only part of my day that wasn't monotone. I thought about the first time I listened to this song on a run. I wasn't alone, but I remember I wanted to be. I was with my team. Not intelligence. I was with my team that I went into Afghanistan with. There were eight of us on that run. We came out of the desert with seven.

A sharp pang of guilt and grief (A friend of mine calls it the Devils combo) pulls at my heart, making my foot steps falter. Shaking my head to clear it, I expel the memories and push forward, getting lost to the music.

The sun is just rising over Lake Michigan when I make to the pier that signals the end of my run. I slow to a walk, my hands rise above my head, helping my chest expand. I spare a glance at my watch, checking my pace.

7:02

Not bad. My literal average pace every time I do a ten miler is a second or two away from seven flat. The irony is not lost to me.*

My phone vibrates on my arm, rudely jerking me out of my revere. It's my alarm, which I set to remind myself to get home. I give a wry smile to my situation, knowing I'll be scrambling with to complete my morning routine and get to work on time. I turn away from the now risen sun, and dart across the deserted city street, enjoying a relaxed run back to my apartment building, which is only about a half mile from the water.

I enjoy my normal cycle of urgency, frustration and panic that always has me showing up to work on time, hair still wet for my shower, forgetting something important, like breakfast.

By the way, food after a 7 mile run first thing in the morning, is very important. Or any long run for that matter. One time I decided to run ten at a 6:30 pace and didn't eat anything afterwards. I almost passed out on Lindsay going up the stairs to the bullpen. Yeah, that was a fun day.

Anyway, I managed to remember everything except my coffee, which is ok because as I drop my jacket onto my chair Ruzek walks by and shoves a medium styrofoam cup into my open hand as he walks by.

"Hope you like mocha!" He calls as he continues over to Al and hands him a another cup. My shoulders shrug at the flavor. I could care less as long as its caffeine. Tipping my head back, I chug what tastes more like chocolate milk with some coffee mixed in. Half way through, though, I'm interrupted by Erin walking in and taking the cup right out of my hands.

"Thanks for the coffee Halstead." She says, smirking at my shocked face. Ruzek shouts indignantly from my left.

"Thank you Ruzek!" She says loudly. Adam harrumphs from behind his computer.

"Can I have my coffee back?" I whine imploringly. She grins and takes a sip.

"I didn't know you liked mocha." I narrow my eyes at her.

"It's coffee. I don't really care. Now can I have it back?" A Cheshire grin spreads across her face and she pointedly drops into her chair and takes another slow drink. My shoulders drop in defeat but before I can go to the break room to grab a mug Voight and Antonio walk in, the latter handing out files of our newest case. And so commences the description of your A-Typical case:

The crime: murder

The victims: Couple of hookers

The scene: a plain apartment in a dirty brick building that resides in the middle of gang territory

The motive: No idea

The suspects: None whatsoever.

The last part changed pretty quickly once we found the owner of the apartment has multiple priors including aggravated assault, possession of illegal substances and-you guessed it-murder. So our number one priority became tracking him down. And let me tell you, is not the best at hiding. In fact, he probably wrote the book on how to be found.

I mean, C'mon dude. If you want a drink, at least wash the blood of your latest victims off your hands before walking into a bar. Bartenders tend to notice these things. The problem is we don't quiet have a warrant for his arrest, seeing as Antonio pointed out, what looks like blood could have just been red dye. There's no evidence of him on the girls and everyone we interviewed said they hadn't seen him in a few days.

So that's why Intelligence is posted outside 'Mannys Margaritaville' at ten in the morning and also why I'm sitting in the passenger seat of my grey Buick, which I never get to drive.

Ever.

Finally after about two hours of sitting on our asses, Sir Chekov exits the bar on the phone with someone having a very heated conversation. Ruzek gets out of his car and does a casual little walk-by, informing us that he's said something about 'wanting to do it' and that he's 'not afraid of them'. I'm about to to suggest that we may be blown when he takes the initiative and pulls out a semi auto-magic hand gun. Chucking the phone away he opens fire on our car, putting large holes in our windshield. Lindsay and I duck down as quickly as possible, but that doesn't stop one of the bullets from grazing her arm. Yelping she tries to shrink further, without much success.

"A little backup please!" Erin yells into her radio. Right as she says that my head is whipped to the side by a piece of hot lead. There a small pause where she stares at me as I touch the small scrape it left, coating my fingers in blood. Lunging forward she unbuckles my seat belt and pulls me closer to the floor.

The bullets stop, but we don't dare raise our heads. It's not until we here a car door slam, followed by tires screeching that we dare peek above the dash board. A blue Chevy nova blows a red light at the end of the the street, the black escalade that contains the rest intelligence speeding after them. Erin slides back into her seat and slams the gas, our vehicle peeling away from the curb. The momentum presses me back into my seat with an "Oof!"

"Get up Halstead, we're driving." I glare at Erin while fumbling back into my glass-covered seat.

"You mean you're driving." I mutter. A sharp turn sends me flying into my door then into dashboard then back into my seat as she hits the gas again. Eventually I work up the courage to look at the road...right as we blow a red light.

"Holy shit Erin, try not to kill...other people." I say as I watch two cars crash while trying to avoid us. We're about a block behind Voight when Antonio's voice comes over the radio, alerting all patrols of the make and model of our Russian friends.

"You lost him?!" I yell into the open air.

"We-"

I don't get to hear the rest of his response. I don't hear anything. I just glance out my window in time to see a blue Chevy barreling towards us and-

...

I only blackout for a second or two. Just for when who I assume to be our perp to hit the back end of our car, lopsidedly T-boning us. I am for when our car flips and we land upside down. In all honesty I can't figure out how our car flipped. I pretty sure we broke the laws of physics.

Anyway, so we're just in and upside down car, in the middle of a four way intersection, and we are both somehow still conscious. I say we're 'just in the car' because there's no way to really describe either of our positions. Neither of us had our seatbelts on so theres nothing holding us into our seats. That said neither of us have an easy time getting to the roof of the car. You know the one that's...on the pavement now. Through a lot of painful grunts and swearing we both make it to roof-now-floor of the car, falling rather clumsily onto many little shards of glass. Finally, we are breathing heavy, splayed out next to each other staring at the floor-now-roof that I speak.

"When I said…..don't kill...the other people...I kinda hoped...we... would also fall...into that category...of not being killed." My heaving chest and adrenaline make it hard to talk continuously. Erin apparently finds she has the same problem.

"Shut...up...jackass." She says, her sentence punctuated by gasps of air entering and exiting her lungs. I flash a weak smile and hold up a hand which she high-fives.

"Yaaay, we're alive. And….apparently not injured?" She dares to venture, checking herself over, before adding-

"Well, besides the baby bullet wound." I throw her a smirk which she returns.

"What? It's just a scratch. You don't call a paper cut a laceration. Therefor-Baby bullet wound." Lindsay's eyes roam me, obviously checking for injuries. Upon finding none her eyes flit up to my head. I watch her face twist in something like fear and concern. I grab her hand.

"It's just a baby." I whisper. She clenches her jaw.

"And it was an centimeter away from being lethal." She whispers right back.

"That's kinda what we do isn't it?" My partner makes what I've deemed as her 'scrunchy face', where she frowns, wrinkles her nose and squints all at the same time. She only makes it when I'm right.

"You're right." She huffs. Ha! See? Told yah.

"Let's get out of this thing." I mutter.

"Let's." Suddenly the window to my back shatters. I have this horrible moment where I think the car is collapsing on itself (even though that isn't really possible) before Olinski's head pops into view.

"You okay kid?" Nodding I grab Al's outstretched hand and Ruzek assists his partner in dragging me out of the totaled car. Slowly I stand, aware of how sore I'm gonna be tomorrow.

"Where were you guys?" I look across the car to see Antonio and Voight had helped Erin out in her side.

"Erin, he was shooting at us too." Voight responds to her question.

"How's that? He just stuffed two assault rifles in his coat and no one noticed?!" She retorts.

"DC-9's." I correct, not even realizing what I'm saying until it's said. Everyone kinds stares at me.

"What?" Sarge asks in a unreadable tone.

"The guns he was using. They're Tec DC-9's. Low price, single action, and if you get a 9m, they have shorter barrels which mean you could easily conceal them in say, a coat pocket." I spout out the observation again not realizing what the issue with doing so is until…

"How do you know that?" Adam asks slowly. My eyes widen. How the hell do I respond to that?! Tell them that DC-9's make a distinct-ish sound and that the bullets were two small for anything bigger than a handheld and that I put two and two together? No, because then they'd ask me when I looked at the bullets, and how I know that sound, and am I sure because you really have no proof and who the fuck figures all that out while being shot at?

Tell the truth? Fuck no.

"I'm good like that." I say with a smile.

Smooooooth Halstead. Real smooth.

So to gage the room for reactions: Adam has disbelief written all over his face (which means he actually might let this go) Olinski has the simple 'eyebrow raise' (which means he actually knows how I figured it out and believes it) Antonio's face is just a '?' and while Erin is giving me her 'liar' face (she'll ask me about it later) Voight has his 'no bullshit but I can't prove you wrong' glare and face combo...which hopefully means he accepts that and won't waste time making me explain.

Pretty sucessful lie I think. Around then the fire department 51 and ambo arrive, saving me from any further interrogations. Voight makes me and Erin get checked out by the medics. Aside from a few cuts and bruises, we are "Miraculously unscathed" to quote one of paramedics. They begin to pack up their stuff when casey walks over.

"You guys okay?" He asks.

"Yeah, we're good. What's up?" I say, noticing his concerned expression. He points to a dark brick building on the corner of the intersection. The car that I assumed hit us is sitting with its tail end on the sidewalk outside it.

"One of my guys was doing a quick check of the building for any injured and...Well." Theres a slight pause where he looks at Erin and I like he's not sure he want's us to tell us the rest because of where it would lead us.

"You need to see this."

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