Some warehouse, Hawai'i [Saturday morning]

[grenadesandohana]

Steve bounced along in the back of a transport truck in full battle garb, surrounded by his SEAL team and glaring at the Irish terrorist Anton Hesse super Irish name, yes, just go with it, captured after five long years. "You're gonna tell us everything," Steve said. "Every terrorist cell you and Victor helped arm, every supplier you worked with, all your trafficking associates, everyone you've ever sold weapons to."

Anton looked bored. "Chasing my brother and I around the world for five years," he drawled, "like a little doggy looking for a bone. You don't think we'd do our homework on you?"

Steve's phone went off and Anton smirked. "You should get that. You don't speak
to your father nearly enough."

Heart pounding, Steve answered the phone. "Dad."

"Hey, champ," his dad's voice replied, sounding shaky. "Who are these people?"

Before Steve could reply, another voice--deeper, Irish--replaced his father's. "Now I know where you get it from," Victor Hesse said. "You got a tough old man here. I'm offering you a trade. Your father for my brother."

Steve waved frantically for a piece of paper, scrawled "SEND HONOLULU PD TO MY FATHER'S HOUSE NOW," and handed in back to the SEAL member next to him, who, God bless him, immediately made the call.

"You know how this works," Steve continued. "We don't negotiate with terrorists. You kill him, you get nothing."

His father's voice came back on the line. "Listen to me, champ."

Steve frowned. His dad never called him "champ." "I'm gonna get you out of there, Dad," he promised, hoping HPD was moving faster than it ever had.

"I love you, son," his dad said. "I didn't say it enough." His voice went hard. "Whatever these people want, don't you give it to them!"

And that's when the transport exploded. "We're under attack," Steve shouted into his radio, tucking his phone into a pocket now that the truck was upside down. "Taking rocket and small arms fire!"
Anton, because he was a son of a bitch, had already escaped from the truck and found a weapon. Steve went racing after him. "Put it down," he yelled as Anton aimed his weapon right at Steve's heart. "Come on!" Steve's training kicked in as he fired, center mass.

"Put my brother on the phone!" Victor yelled from his pocket. Looking down at Anton's body, Steve knew this was going to end in tragedy. He wiped his hands over his face, then picked the phone back up.

"Victor, listen--"

"My brother's dead, isn't he?" Victor hissed. "Then so's your father."

The sound of that bullet was the loudest thing in Steve's life, but then it was followed by more bullets. Heart in his throat, he sunk down to the ground as a third voice came onto the phone. Friendly, American.

"Commander McGarrett?"

"Is my father dead?" Steve gasped.

"No, he's alive, and he's gonna be fine," the voice replied.

Steve took a couple of deep breaths before he could manage words again. "Who am I talking to?" he finally asked.

"This is Detective Danny Williams."

And that was when Steve slowly blinked awake. He was in the corner, alone, in a blindingly white room, the fluorescents up high enough to almost stop shadows forming. Shoving aside whatever that dream had been, he did a quick assessment of his condition as he climbed to his feet: shoeless, gunshot graze on his left arm, injection wounds further down on that arm. His weapon was, unsurprisingly, gone, as was his badge.

He banged on the nearest wall. "Hey! Let me out of here! Hey!"

Whoever had him responded by flipping one of his family home videos--the hell--up onto the back wall, and Steve watched himself as a kindergartner trying to impress his parents with a cool shell he found. The movie clicked off, the lights went back up and gas hissed through the vents. Shit. Steve pulled his shirt off and pressed it over his face in a vain attempt to filter out whatever this new substance was, then passed back out onto the floor as the shirt did absolutely nothing.

Steve, in full dress uniform, strode into HPD headquarters, eyes darting around for someone to talk to. He whirled around at a tap on the elbow to see a blond man in an aloha shirt.

"Excuse me, Commander? I'm Detective Williams, can I help you?"

Steve relaxed slightly. "I'm Commander McGarrett, I think we spoke on the phone." He gave the man a small smile. "Thank you."

Danny smiled. "Mahalo," he said. "We say mahalo around here."

"Mahalo," Steve echoed, amused for some reason he couldn't name. "Could I see my dad?"

Danny nodded. "Sure. Follow me, he's in with the captain."

After a long hug and an introduction to Captain Chin Ho Kelly--Dad had trained him when he was a rookie--Steve found out that Victor Hesse was being kept under guard at the hospital. Danny helpfully offered to drive him over, waxing poetic about his wife, daughter, and their life here on O'ahu (so much better than New Jersey!) as he did so. He got out of the passenger side of Danny's extremely sweet Camaro--

And found himself tied to a chair in some kind of small, dark, room full of cleaning supplies with a woman he'd never seen before standing in front of him. "I'm a cop, you know," he said. "They're going to come looking for me." She shrugged and silently jabbed a needle full of something into the drip tube that had been inserted into his neck while he was passed out. "They're going to come looking--" he repeated as the world went back to black.

[OOC: Establishy!]