It's five thirty in the morning and Katie's slumped over the breakfast bar in our new, shared apartment, watching as I nervously smooth a non-existent wrinkle from the front of my uniform shirt. Today is the dawn of what Katie likes to call "The New Chloe". It's also my first day working as an EMT and Katie, bless her heart, insisted on getting up to see me off. I really don't know what I'd do without her. "Are you excited?" she asks sleepily, stifling a jaw-cracking yawn with her hand. I shrug. "Yeah, I guess." Honestly? I'm scared shitless and my voice wobbles as I clip my ID badge to my belt. For a second, I'm scared that I'm going to burst into tears because holy shit, this is real. Eleven weeks ago I was sitting in a classroom listening to a lecture on airway management and now I'm just minutes away from being the difference between life and death for whoever is unlucky enough to need emergency medical assistance. "You'll be great," Katie whispers, sliding round the counter to hug me tightly. "I'm so proud of you, Chlo-Chlo." She drops me off at the base in Koapaka Street 30 minutes before the start of my 12-hour shift. "Go get 'em, Girl," are her last words of advice before she peels out of the parking lot with the promise of a celebratory dinner at the restaurant of my choice that evening. As I stand gazing up at the Department of Emergency Services sign above the doorway, the little voice in my head has me questioning whether this is such a good idea after all. But behind the whispered taunts, there's another voice drowning it out and urging me on. I've come too far to fall at the last hurdle so I take a deep breath, reach for the door handle and push my way into the brightly lit foyer of the building that will be my home base for the next two years. "Hi," I say to the young man sat behind the desk in reception. "I'm supposed to be starting today? My name's Chloe Sweeting." He points at the door to my left, not even bothering to look up from the game he's playing on his phone. "Through there," he grunts at me. "At the end of the hall." Okay then… "You'll have to excuse Andy," a new voice chirps from behind me. "He appears to have forgotten his manners." Startled, I spin round, grabbing hold of my bag as the strap slips down over my shoulder. The voice belongs to an older woman with cropped dark hair and a soft Jersey drawl. She smiles warmly as she beckons for me to follow her. "My name's Heather," she says, directing me towards one of the tables in the empty break room as she pours steaming hot coffee into two brightly colored mugs. "I'm your new partner. Cookie?" She pushes an open packet of Double-Stuffed Oreos across the table with smile and a wink. Mmmm, I like her already. I sip at my coffee as we go through the usual first-day paperwork and then Heather checks that my CPR certification and shots are all up to date before leading me through to the garage where our assigned vehicle is waiting for us in one of the numbered bays out back. The first job of the day for every team is prepping the rigs for the day ahead, so I get to work hosing off the outside of our bus while my new partner scrubs down the surfaces inside and replaces any soiled linen. We take turns checking the Defibrillator and monitoring equipment on board and then move onto our final job - restocking our go-bags with everything from alcohol wipes to IV cannulas and intubation kits. I try to take note of what goes where as Heather ticks each item off against an official checklist Prep work almost complete, I feel a tingle of excitement when Heather motions for me to flip on the siren and emergency lights so she can check they're working before we head out. Childishly, I clap my hands with glee when the garage is flooded with bright blue light. I've always wanted to do that. Finally, the checks are complete and I slide in behind the wheel, and turn the key in the ignition as my partner climbs into the passenger seat beside me. Heather has almost 1800 hours of training under her belt as an EMT-Paramedic so it's her job to monitor the patient during transport to the nearest hospital. It's up to me to get them there. As we pull out of the depot gates, Heather logs us into the automated dispatch system interface that's linked to the call-handling unit in the building behind us, letting dispatch know that we're available for jobs. Almost as soon as we're confirmed as being available, a job flashes up on the screen. "Eighty-six year old female with a suspected broken hip after falling out of bed," Heather reads out as she accepts the job and reaches over to flip on the emergency lights. It's the height of the morning rush hour but the sea of traffic parts when they see the flashing blue lights coming up behind them and thanks to the information being fed to us via the GPS, we make it to the scene in under ten minutes. "Why don't you take the lead on this one, Chloe?" Heather suggests as we pull up to the curb. "The only way you're going to get experience is by actually doing things so we might as well start as we mean to go on." By late-morning, we've been called out to two suspected heart attacks, a minor road traffic collision and a sick toddler, and we're parked up near the beach, waiting for our next job to come through. My first few hours on the job have been adrenaline-fueled but as much as I'm enjoying being challenged, I have to admit it's a relief to have a few minutes respite in between callouts. "I hope you like shrimp," Heather grins as she passes a heaped cardboard container and bottle of cold water in through the open window. She slides into the passenger seat and tucks into her meal with gusto. "Eat up, kiddo," she instructs in between mouthfuls of garlic scampi. "We might not get another chance to stop today so we need to take advantage while it's quiet." My lunch smells amazing but I don't get a chance to enjoy it; my fork is halfway to my mouth when a new job flashes up on the screen in front of us and I hurriedly shove the piece of shrimp into my mouth, quickly following it with a second piece and then a third. According to the information coming through from dispatch, we're being sent to one of the industrial areas in Kalihi-Palama to treat two males, one of whom has a head injury. "Jinx…" I slip out of my seat to decant our half-finished meals into the nearest trashcan. Heather just laughs and reaches for her safety belt. "Get used to it," she grins. The industrial estate is swarming with cops when we pull up to the scene and we immediately head round to start pulling equipment from the storage lockers inside our rig. As I pull on a pair of latex gloves, Heather discreetly points out a tall, dark-haired man. I stop for a moment, watching him bark orders at various people, seemingly oblivious to the impressive amount of blood that's caked down the side of his face. He looks vaguely familiar. "That's Commander McGarrett," Heather says quietly, hefting her go-bag up onto her shoulder. "He can be kinda difficult if you don't know how to handle him so I think it would be better if I took point on this one, just until we find out what's happening." Ah… I knew I recognized him from somewhere. I spent a lot of time studying for my Anatomy class with the TV on low in the background and Commander McGarrett happens to be a regular on the local news stations, what with him being the head of the Governor's Five-0 task force. And then there's all the rumors about the guy's penchant for blowing things up; I heard he once used a hand grenade to open a locked door. I mean, what the hell, right? Heather must see the panic flit across my face because she smiles and pats my shoulder comfortingly. "Don't you worry, honey. He's just a big pussycat, really. C'mon, grab that kit bag and let's go see what kind of trouble he's gotten himself into this time." Obediently, I grab the kit bag and the oxygen tank, and follow Heather across the lot to where McGarrett is in the middle of what looks to be a full-blown argument with a smartly-dressed blond man who's only an inch or so taller than I am. Heather stops a good 20 feet away from the two men and leans back against an HPD cruiser to wait out the argument. The blond man isn't exactly keeping his voice down and I cringe when I hear some of the barbed insults that are being thrown in the commander's direction. "That's Detective Williams," Heather says before I can ask. "He's McGarrett's parter." "Is this normal?" I whisper back, glancing over at the detective's rapidly reddening face. He's right up in the commander's personal space, jabbing his index finger into the taller man's sternum. Heather chuckles. "Pretty much. They're always arguing like an old married couple. It's best to just wait it out when they're like this." And she's right. It only takes a few minutes for the detective to notice us hovering on the sidelines. "Hey," he calls, beckoning us closer. "Would one of you do me a favor and tell this Neanderthal here that it's not a good idea to run around after getting your head bashed in by a piece of two-by-four?" Ouch… I wince at the image Detective Williams' words create in my mind. They certainly help to explain the large amount of blood on McGarrett's face; the jagged wound at the commander's temple is bleeding freely and the collar of his light blue t-shirt is stained red where the trail has worked its way down the side of his neck. For some reason, it reminds me of that scene in Stephen King's Carrie – you know, the one where she gets drenched with the bucket of pig blood before going on a murderous rampage. "Did he lose consciousness at all?" Heather, thankfully, is fully focussed on the task at hand. She directs the question at Detective Williams as she pulls her penlight from her shirt pocket and reaches out to hold the commander's head still. "He says he didn't," the blond replies, fixing his partner with what can only be described as a withering look. "But you know as well as I do that he can't be trusted." McGarrett scowls at this, and opens his mouth to retaliate but I seize my chance and jump in before the two men can descend into another heated argument. "We were told there are two casualties." I glance over at Heather as I bump my kit bag further up onto my shoulder. "Do you want me to go find out where the second one is at?" For some unknown reason, Williams finds my question amusing; He smirks and glances over at the commander before opening his mouth to reply. "One of the morons we just arrested tried to resist so Steven here went all Super Seal on his ass and busted the guy's wrist. I don't think I've ever heard anyone scream so loud." "Served him right," McGarrett mutters mutinously as Heather checks his pupils. "The stupid son-of-a-bitch pulled a gun on a little kid and - " He jerks his head back when Heather's penlight moves from his left eye to his right and the color drains from his face. He takes a wobbly half step backwards and my kit bag is quickly abandoned in favor of grabbing hold of Commander McGarrett's arm to help minimize the damage should he pass out and fall. "Oh, for God's sake… Sit down before you fall, moron," Williams barks, twisting a hand in his partner's sleeve. "I will not be held responsible for any additional damage caused by you being a stubborn jackass." The detective's tone is abrupt, almost bordering on rude, but it's not entirely unexpected given the battle of wills I was witness to earlier. If I'm being totally honest, I'm finding his no-bullshit, voice-of-reason attitude kind of refreshing. The commander, on the other hand, is being about as reasonable as a teenage girl the week before her period. "I said I was fine, Danny," McGarrett snaps, having apparently gotten over his sudden bout of dizziness as suddenly as it came on. He's still pale beneath the smears of blood covering his face but despite being concussed, his glare doesn't lack any of the intensity it had before he nearly passed out. I find myself swallowing nervously when he turns his attention to where my hand is still wrapped around his bicep. "What part of 'I'm fine' don't you understand?" he growls, jerking his arm out of my grip with enough force to throw me off balance. Thankfully, Detective Williams is there to steady me before I can fall backwards over my abandoned kit bag. Heather shoots me a look over her shoulder – a combination of sympathy and "I told you so" – before turning back to frown at our rather uncooperative patient. "That's enough," she says sternly. "Sit down, Commander, before I make you sit down." It takes a similar veiled threat from Detective Williams to get McGarrett to back down and Heather winks at me as the commander grudgingly sinks to the floor, chastised. "He's all yours, Chloe," she tells me. With that, she swings her kit bag up onto her shoulder and motions for Williams to direct her towards our injured criminal. "Lead the way, Detective." Wait… She's leaving me alone with this guy? Oh, God... The atmosphere is so tense I could cut it with a knife. I can feel the commander's laser-focused gaze boring into the side of my head as I get to work checking his vitals but I do my best to ignore him. I press my fingers into the underside of his wrist, focusing my gaze on the second hand of the watch that's pinned to my blue uniform shirt and make a note McGarrett's heart rate on the back of my gloved hand before wrapping the pressure cuff around his bicep. Once I'm satisfied with his vitals, I move onto examining the nasty-looking laceration at his hairline. Whoever he is, the commander's attacker has done a stellar job; I can barely see the wound for the amount of blood that's steadily oozing from it. "This is going to need stitches," I say, gently pushing the wound's jagged edges together once I've wiped away the excess blood. Funnily enough, I'm not surprised when the commander doesn't agree with my assessment. "Just put a couple of Steri-strips over it. It'll be fine." The look on his face is daring me to disagree and I hesitate, allowing a hint of doubt to creep into my thoughts. Was I wrong about the head wound needing stitched? I give myself a shake and then take another look to make sure. "Steri-strips aren't going to close this properly. It's too deep and it should really be flushed out in case there's any debris in there." I'm feeling a lot more confident after the little pep talk in my head. "You need to get checked out by a doctor. You took quite a hit and nearly passed out on us earlier so I would recommend - " "I don't need a doctor and I'm not going to the hospital," McGarrett growls, cutting me off mid-sentence. "You know what, just forget it. I have work to do."< Before I can say anything, he's pushing himself to his feet and stomping off across the lot towards the line of squad cars that are parked in the shade at the side of the warehouse. I stare at his retreating back in shock, my feet rooted to the spot until the slamming of a car door somewhere behind me brings me hurtling back to my senses. However, after a few minutes, it's pretty obvious that the commander isn't coming back and I turn my attention to the equipment lying scattered at my feet. "Asshole," I mutter under my breath as I shove my stethoscope and pressure cuff back into my kit bag with a little more force than necessary. Hefting the heavy bag up onto my shoulder, I stalk back across the parking lot towards my rig, cursing loudly when I catch my foot on a crack in the tarmac and stumble. Across the lot, Heather's patient is being helped into the back of the bus by a uniformed officer, who cuffs one of the guy's ankles and his uninjured wrist to the gurney for the fifteen minute ride to Queens Medical. It's a stark reminder that not all of my patients are going to be innocents who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Swinging myself up into the driver's seat, I can't help but wonder once more what exactly it is that I've just gotten myself into.