Warnings: For now, just my rusty English skills. Oh, and I've never been to Canada, and know nothing of real police work and such stuff. A bit of swearing, some violence, not too grim I think.

Disclaimer: Everything you recognize from Flashpoint is NOT mine.

AN: Here it is, chapter seven. I hope that you my dear readers don't mind that it's a bit short. It is one of those chapters that have to be written to move the story forward and I had real trouble with it. Also, from this chapter and forward there might be spoilers for those of you that haven't yet seen the whole series, though I'll try to work in-between the episodes.

I'll also ask for a favor of you, I'd like to know what you think about my main character, do you like her, hate her? If you were to describe her personality with three words, what would you say? Whatever you think and feel about her, I want to know. The reason for this is that, as you know, I make everything up as I go and sometimes it feels like I'm losing grip of my character.

And chapter eight is in the making and will hopefully be up for you soon.

Once again, thank you so much for your support! Please enjoy.

Firefly – Chapter seven

I stare in horror at the cloud of dust and debris that rises behind police cars and emergency vehicles as people stand frozen, speechless and frightened.

Around me the panicked crowd has gone completely silent, civilians and uniforms alike. There's nothing. Nothing but the explosion echoing in our heads, nothing but the dread, and but the painful knowledge that someone just died, one of us. Erased. I turn to pull the now compliant civilian away from the building, nothing but procedure in case there's another bomb. We were told there's not. I leave the woman in the waiting hands of my colleges; she's not struggling, computer and "important" papers forgotten.

And that's when I hear it, faint and distant, torn from an empty chest. I've never heard anything so raw; the sound seems to twist around my chest like a contracting cord, forcing the air from my lungs. Someone is screaming in the distance. Howling and wailing, voice breaking, shattering along with both heart and soul, it's broken and helpless because what else can be done than to tear yourself apart from inside out.

It's that sound that keeps me awake that night, echoing in my memory, twisting and turning at the back of my mind at work the next day. It's that sound that drives me back out on the streets for the first time in months and I tear through the night with the vengeance of a starving lion. Hitting, kicking and tearing my way through whatever opponent stupid enough to accept my challenge until I stumble back home with the first light of dawn. I'm perched at the edge of my bathtub, carefully dotting hydrogen peroxide over my abused and raw knuckles when the phone rings. The surprise not only makes me splash a considerate amount of the disinfecting liquid over my hands, I also lose my balance and fall into the tub hitting my already pounding head against the edge. I feel like crying, lying crumbled at the bottom of my cold tub, hands stinging, body aching and pretty little silvery spots pirouetting before my eyes. There's no adrenaline left in my system to numb the pain and I hiss and spit my way out of the tub, cursing wildly over my wasted bottle of peroxide, kicking at my bloody and pretty much ruined clothes to locate my phone. When I finally find it the damned thing is silent.

Caller unknown.

Just as well, don't want to be charged with attempted murder over phone now do we.

With a shrug of sore shoulders I toss my phone back on the pile of clothes before turning back to the bathroom sink. Soap and hot water will have to do. Almost an hour later I've finally managed to patch myself up and is ready to go; knife west secure over bound ribs, bike gloves over bandaged hands and band aids over a stitched brow. And lots of makeup over lots of bruises. I'm eyeing myself in the cracked bathroom mirror, carefully assessing cheeks and jawbone, grateful my eyes are not swollen and nose not broken. The split lip will have to do. All things considered, I look good.

I'm halfway home from work when I get the call. Some high-up-the-food-chain suit, whose name I can't remember, informing me that I've been placed in SRU Team one in place of the deceased Officer Lewis Young with immediate effect. An image of dust and debris flickers in front of my eyes with the echo of the hollow scream. I force myself to shake off the feeling of dread as the man on the other end continues to tell me the specifics of my admission. This is what I wanted to hear, the call I've been waiting for months for. But God, couldn't someone just had retired or something!

Oi, guilty consciousness, you're not listening.

"Do you understand Miss Terrano?"

Do I understand what?

"Yes…Sir."

I understand someone died and I'll be taking his place in his team and I'm fucked, that's what I understand.

"Good. Have a nice day Miss Terrano. Good luck."

I walk the last block in a daze, terror fighting excitement and joy as I climb the creaky old stairs to my apartment. Collapsing onto my bed I wonder what happened to the promised evaluations and tryouts, pondering on if it's normal to start the very next day after the admission phone call? Do you even call it admission phone call? Am I supposed to look for traps when I just got the job I worked so hard for, the job I've wanted for almost a year? Almost a year since that day at the bridge. Have I changed?

My ribs throb as I reach for the blanket next to the bed, telling me that, no, you have not. Idiot.

Thought so…