Chapter 1: DEAD MAN WALKING
The ceiling was wrong.
I stared at it for a full ten seconds before my brain caught up to what my eyes were seeing. Popcorn texture. Water stain in the corner shaped vaguely like Florida. Definitely not the smooth white of my apartment in—
Where was my apartment?
My hands shot up. Not my hands. Too calloused. Wrong scar pattern. I scrambled upright and nearly fell off the twin bed—definitely not my king-size—and my foot hit something cold on the hardwood floor.
A badge.
NYPD Detective Shield. The name on the credentials read MARCUS COLE, and the face in the photo was the one I'd just caught a glimpse of in the cracked mirror on the dresser. Square jaw. Hazel eyes. Hair that needed a cut.
"Morning, Host. We've got work to do."
I did fall off the bed then. The voice was in my head—gravelly, world-weary, like a narrator from a 1940s detective movie who'd seen too many bodies and drunk too much whiskey.
"What the—"
"Easy there. Deep breaths. You're going to want to sit down for this, but you're already on the floor, so we're ahead of schedule."
I pressed my palms against my eyes. Counted to five. Opened them.
Still wrong ceiling. Still wrong hands. Still a sarcastic voice treating my skull like a recording booth.
"Here's the short version: You died. The old you, wherever you were. Now you're Marcus Cole, and this is your life. Questions?"
"I died?"
The voice paused. When it came back, something almost like sympathy threaded through the gravel.
"Car accident. Quick. Painless. Nothing you could have done. But that story's over, Host. This one's just starting."
I sat on the cold floor of a stranger's apartment, wearing a stranger's body, listening to a stranger's voice tell me my entire existence had ended.
And then I laughed.
Because on the nightstand, right next to where the badge had fallen, sat a battered copy of the Brooklyn Nine-Nine complete series DVD box set.
"Ah. You recognize it."
"I'm in a TV show."
"Points for quick uptake. Yes. The 99th Precinct. Brooklyn. September 2013. Captain McGintley's still in charge, which means Raymond Holt arrives in approximately—"
The voice paused.
"—four hours. You're going to want to shower first. And eat. Your body hasn't been fed in twelve hours because the previous occupant didn't exist until now."
I dragged myself upright. The apartment was tiny—studio, barely furnished, exactly what a transfer detective on an NYPD salary would have. Everything felt real. The stubble on my jaw. The ache in my lower back. The rumble of traffic outside.
"The System—that's me—will explain more as we go. For now: you have abilities. Anomaly Detection lets you see when something's wrong in a scene. Lie Detection does what it says. Social Perception Meter reads how people feel about you. All three are weak right now. Level one. We grow together."
"We?"
"Did I stutter? Now get moving. Your first day at the Nine-Nine starts in ninety minutes, and you look like death warmed over."
He wasn't wrong.
[99th Precinct — 8:47 AM]
The elevator doors opened, and I stepped into my own personal fever dream.
The bullpen spread out exactly like I remembered from eight seasons of binge-watching. The terrible fluorescent lighting. The filing cabinets against the wall. The holding cell in the corner. Terry Jeffords doing bicep curls at his desk while reviewing case files.
Jake Peralta spinning in his chair while Amy Santiago tried to ignore him.
Charles Boyle eating something that looked distressingly biological.
Gina Linetti not looking up from her phone.
And in the back, two shapes that could only be Hitchcock and Scully, doing absolutely nothing productive.
"Welcome to the show, Host. Try not to stare."
Too late. Amy Santiago glanced up from her paperwork, and our eyes met.
"You must be Detective Cole." She stood, extended a hand. Firm shake. Professional smile. "Detective Amy Santiago. Captain McGintley said you'd be starting today."
"That's me. Transfer from Queens."
"She appreciates punctuality. You arrived three minutes early. Current reading: +20 (Professional Respect)."
The number floated in my peripheral vision, attached to Amy like a gamer tag. I blinked hard, and it faded—still there if I focused, but not distracting.
"Cool cool cool cool cool." Jake Peralta appeared at my elbow, all manic energy and boyish grin. "New guy! I'm Jake. Welcome to the Nine-Nine. Quick question: desk chair races—yes or no?"
"Is that an official precinct activity?"
"It is now." He grabbed my arm. "Come on, your desk is next to mine. We're racing to the break room."
"He's testing you. Jake Peralta respects confidence, competition, and Die Hard references. Current reading: +15 (Curious). He wants to see if you're fun."
I let him drag me to a desk chair. The wheels squeaked.
"On three?" I asked.
Jake's grin widened. "I like you already. One, two—"
He cheated. Obviously. Pushed off at "two" and careened across the bullpen, nearly clipping Terry's desk.
I launched after him, took the corner too tight, crashed into a filing cabinet.
The cabinet didn't tip, but the noise was impressive.
"Terry thinks the new guy might be a liability!" Terry called out, not even looking up from his paperwork.
Jake hit the break room doorframe a half-second before I did.
"Victory!" He pumped his fist. "That's one-nothing, new guy."
"Best of three?"
"Oh, we're definitely doing best of three."
"Relationship update: Jake +22. He likes your competitive spirit."
Amy appeared behind us, arms crossed. "Are you two done?"
"Never," Jake said. "But temporarily paused. What's up, Santiago?"
"You and Cole have a case. Bodega robbery on Fifth."
My stomach dropped. First case. Real case. Not a TV episode I could fast-forward through—actual criminals, actual evidence, actual consequences if I screwed up.
"Breathe, Host. This is what the System is for."
"Detective Cole?"
I blinked. Amy was holding out a case file.
"Right. Sorry. Lost in thought." I took the folder. Thin. Not much to go on. "Robbery?"
"Owner says someone hit the register during his morning shift. Took around two thousand in cash."
Jake was already grabbing his jacket. "Come on, new guy. You drive, I need to finish my breakfast burrito."
He tossed me the keys. I caught them on instinct—Marcus Cole's reflexes, apparently, were better than mine had ever been.
The break room coffee was terrible.
I drank it anyway, waiting for Jake to finish his burrito. The liquid was bitter, weak, and possibly sentient. My hands shook around the styrofoam cup.
At least coffee existed here. At least physics worked. At least I wasn't trapped in some hell dimension where everything was slightly wrong.
Just a dimension where fictional characters were real and I had a sarcastic noir narrator living in my brain.
"You're spiraling. Stop spiraling. We have work to do."
I took another sip. The coffee burned my tongue.
"That's better. Pain means you're alive. Now focus."
Charles Boyle materialized at my elbow, holding a small container.
"Detective Cole! I brought you a welcome gift." He thrust the container at me. "It's a very rare aged Limburger from a small farm in Wisconsin. The smell is—"
The smell was aggressive.
"—unique," Charles finished, beaming. "I think you'll find it pairs beautifully with despair."
"Thank you, Charles." I accepted the container because refusing would crush him. "I'll save it for a special occasion."
"Charles Boyle: +35 (Instant Friend Energy). He decided you were good people before you walked in the door. Don't disappoint him."
"Ready, new guy?" Jake appeared, burrito vanquished. "Let's go catch some bad guys."
I set down the terrible coffee. Tucked the terrifying cheese into my desk drawer. Followed Jake Peralta toward the elevator.
[TUTORIAL MISSION: Solve the Bodega Robbery] [Reward: 50 EXP, Basic Function Unlock]
The notification hung in my vision, crisp and undeniable.
This was actually happening.
Jake pressed the elevator button. "So, Cole—you ever solved a robbery before?"
"A few." Lies came easier in this body. "Nothing special."
"Well, this one's probably nothing special either. Quick in-and-out. Then I can get back to my actual case, which is way more interesting and involves a possible drug-smuggling parrot."
The elevator dinged.
I stepped inside and wondered if Brooklyn Nine-Nine detectives had good life insurance.
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