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He feels light-headed. Dizzy and disoriented, but his vision seems as clear as day. He holds his gun in his hands; his clammy, shaking and bloodstained hands. Flack sucks in a breath, but it's as if no matter how much he breaths in, he can't get the oxygen to his body. To his brain. To his heart.

The scene wavers slightly infront of him, the abandonned warehouse becoming obscured for a fraction of a second. Police officers and detectives amble on around him, shouting out orders, loading guns and preparing for battle. He goes to move, but it's as if his limbs weigh millions of pounds. His movements are slow and laboured and Flack just can't figure out why. And then when he goes to move in one direction, his feet guide him somewhere else. He is in no control of where he is going and it scares him.

But he knows what is going to happen.

He's been here once before.

And when the order goes out to move in, he's prepared himself. His body moves towards the building, the gun becoming level with his eyesight. Time speeds up slightly while Flack's motions morph into fluid and methodical actions. Stepping in line with the waves of other law enforcement on scene suddenly he coughs. Dark, red blood splatters onto the ground infront of him and drips down his mouth, yet he doesn't move to wipe it away. No one turns their head.

His thoughts can't dabble on this thought long, because a loud and muffled voice booms through a bullhorn somewhere in the distance. The voice echoes within his mind, even as the explosives planted onto the door explode outward into the alley. Everyone begins to run; streaming single file line into the unknown and when it's Flack's turn, he ducks inside smoothly. He takes in his surroundings. Boxes stack high up into the ceiling, with two large 18 wheelers lined up parallel on either side of the warehouse. He can't take in much more because gunfire erupts infront of him and time slows once again.

His gun has lowered slightly, and as he fires he can feel the explosion in the barrel reverberate through his body. The bullet tears through the air eventually finding its new home in one of the targets' chests. Slowly, Flack's body angles more to his right, 2 more explosions ripping through him. He doesn't see where the bullets end up; there's a presence behind him now. He turns too late and a crowbar smashes down on his hand. The metal bar goes back into the air poised for another attack, but his body slams into the attacker's. As he begins to incapacitate the suspect, he wonders why he can't feel the pain in his wrist. The marks are there but it's as if he's become completely numb to everything happening to him.

The attacker's body slams to the floor and Flack swings around to grab his gun. Another booming voice floats in from a distance, although now it seems so much farther away now. The building is cleared. But as everyone holsters their weapons, their bodies begin to fade; they fade until they are nothing more than the air he can't seem to breathe.

When they disappear, his body becomes his again, and as he surveys the scene wondering what happened, the bodies of the dead criminals begin to rise from the floor. Quickly raising his gun, he shoots the one nearest to him, but the bullet passes through him like a ghost and he keeps walking towards him. They encircle Flack, stopping a few feet from him. Their wounds bubble now cold blood, dripping aimlessly to the floor as they all begin to chant.

It's a faint whisper at first, barely audible to him, but it becomes stronger.

All the voices begin to blend into one.

"Flack. Flack. Flack."

The voice is now strained and frantic, and with every slow beat of his heart, it becomes more and more familiar. The warehouse and the bodies now fade into white.

"Flack. Flack! Flack! Come on, please answer me!"

---------------------------------------------------

Flack cracks and eye open. His vision is blurry, but he knows someone is infront of him.

"Flack! Oh my god, Flack. Stay with me, okay? You're going to be alright."

And there was no mistaking that Staten Island accent.

"Messer." His voice is so strangled and full of pain, he can't believe it's his. He also doesn't believe he heard him. It was barely a whisper.

He tries to breathe again, but all he gets is that strange sensation of not being able to get oxygen to his body. When he tries to move into a more comfortable position pain shoots out from everywhere, and he's so weak he can't even turn his head from side to side.

"Hey buddy. Hey, don't move okay? Paramedics should be here soon." Danny's voice is softer and full of worry. He instantly knows something bad has happened.

Flack furiously blinks his eyes and when his vision clears enough he realizes why he can't breathe.

There's the steering wheel of his car pressed up against his chest, the airbag lying haphazardly against his body. As he looks up, he notices something weird. The world seems as if it's lying on it's side. Nothing is making sense anymore and it feels like his brain is about to explode.

He shifts again, absent-mindly letting out a gasp. Suddenly he feels like going to sleep; wanting to close his eyes, if only for a second. He's so tired right now, he doesn't realize it's because of the blood seeping slowly from the gash in his neck. His eyes flutter and he tries to fight, but nothing is working. Flack has no more energy to continue the battle.

Slowly, the lids of his eyes shut and the chanting starts again. It slowly fades, becoming nothing but noise in the distance.

"Flack. Flack. Flack."

And then, there is nothing.

Flack sighed heavily for what he thought must have been the millionth time that day. The sun had already faded long ago, so there was only the dim moonlight to illuminate the rundown home he currently stood infront of. He could only shake his head sadly and slide into the drivers seat of his black SUV. He then turned and pulled out of the lot, starting his long journey back to the city.

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Flack was rumbling down the unknown highway in his own little world when his cellphone snapped him back to reality. Fumbling around his pocket, he quickly retrieved the device.

"Flack."

"Hey there buddy. How's life treating ya?"

There was no mistaking that Staten Island accent. "About as well as you think."

"Woah. Sounds like someone's having a bad day."

Swerving gently around a pothole, he responded. "Well how good can a day get when you're stuck out in the middle of nowhere."

"What do you mean you're 'in the middle of nowhere?" Was the reply. "I thought we lived in New York. There is no nowhere here!"

Flack chuckled slightly over the phone. It was true; nearly everywhere in the city was somewhere.

"First of all, I'm not in New York. I....really don't know where I am. Anonymous call on a case I'm working dragged me out to some remote place in the outskirts. Turns out the address was phony."

Danny snorted loudly on the other end. He knew how annoying prank calls could be.

"So I suppose you aren't going to back for a while then?"

"Nah, doesn't look like it," Flack answered disappointedly."I'm forced to take some small highway until I get back into the city and it's already, what, one in the morning?"

"At least traffic will be light." Danny says in amusement.

"You're a funny guy, Messer. Wouldn't want anything to happen to that pretty face of yours, would we?" Flack shoots back. He's tired, and all he wants to do is get home, take a shower and go to bed. If only for an hour or two.

"Alright, alright. I give. Too bad you're going to miss the game."

Flack straightens up in the driver's seat. "Game? What game? There isn't one scheduled for today."

"Taped the one from yesterday. The one we both missed. Heard it was a good one too."

"I hate you so much right now."

It was Danny's turn to laugh. "Ah, you love me. Well, maybe there'll be time tomorrow, if the criminals happen to be nice to us for once. Although I highly doubt they will be. No respect for anyone but....Flack?"

There was silence on the other end.

"Hello? Earth to Flack?"

"Hmm, huh? What?"

"Come on now, don't zone out on me. Don't tell some old backroads are more interesting then me." Danny replied, in mock-hurt tone.

"Nah, it's just....It looks like this other car is coming straight at me. I'm not sure if it-HOLY SHIT!"

There was the sound of tires screeching, and the line went dead.

The cemetery was quiet and peaceful; the subject of death silenced by an undisturbed blanket of white snow. Only one set of footprints marked itself on the path, which led to a single man standing infront of a headstone. It was of a simple design with only a couple words chiseled on in black:

Robert Protel

1985-2006

"Not that you deserve much more," the man mumbled almost silently. "But you definitely did not deserve this. You made some mistakes in your life, I know. I should have been looking out for you more. That's what big brothers are for, right?"

He smirked half-heartedly at his statement, but it was gone again within an instant.

"You should have never been in that jail in the first place. Hell if you did anything to piss off the jerks in there. You were always a good kid. And how they got a knife, I will never know. Damn cops in there don't give 2 shits about anyone but themselves."

He paused for a moment and began to rifle through his coat pocket for something. Eventually pulling out a small, white business card, he continued.

"Don't worry, they won't get away with this. You never should have gone away in the first place. I'll find that cop and give him what he deserves for taking away the last thing on this Earth I cared about."

The card read Detective Donald Flack Jr. NYPD.