Chapter 2: The Transfer Request
POV: Kole Martinez
The 74th Precinct smelled like burnt coffee and old paperwork, underscored by something that might have been defeat or disinfectant. Kole pushed through the glass doors at seven-thirty sharp, his new body moving with muscle memory that felt borrowed. Every step echoed with false confidence while his mind scrambled to parse the fragments of Martinez's professional life.
The desk sergeant barely looked up as he passed, but Kole's lie detection caught the flicker of concern beneath the man's studied indifference. Williams had noticed something different about Martinez lately, though he couldn't quite name what.
Because Martinez has been different. Because three days ago, he died and someone else moved in.
The bullpen stretched before him like a minefield. Detectives hunched over computers, phones pressed to ears, the familiar choreography of law enforcement that felt simultaneously foreign and instinctive. His photographic memory absorbed every detail—the arrangement of desks, the faces of colleagues whose names floated in the fractured space where Martinez's complete memories should have been.
Detective Chen looked up as he approached his desk, her expression carefully neutral. "Martinez. You feeling better?"
Better than what?
His lie detection pinged immediately. She wasn't actually concerned about his health—she was fishing for information about whatever had been wrong with Martinez before Kole inherited his life.
"Much better," he said, settling into a chair that felt molded to his body. "Thanks for asking."
The words felt right, but Chen's micro-expression suggested they were the wrong tone. Too formal. Martinez was usually more casual with her, apparently.
I need to be more careful.
Captain Rogers emerged from his office, a thick-set man whose every movement spoke of decades grinding through NYPD bureaucracy. His eyes swept the bullpen before settling on Kole with uncomfortable intensity.
"Martinez. My office. Five minutes."
The tone carried weight that Kole's inherited instincts recognized as trouble. He nodded, using the time to let his photographic memory capture every detail of his desk—case files arranged in neat stacks, photographs of crime scenes he couldn't quite remember investigating, a coffee-stained notepad covered in handwriting that looked like his but felt foreign.
Rogers's office was a shrine to departmental mediocrity. Commendations on the walls, photographs with various brass, the accumulated weight of a career spent managing problems rather than solving them. The captain settled behind his desk with the satisfaction of a man who'd found his level and stopped climbing.
"You requested to see me about a transfer," Rogers said without preamble.
I did?
The knowledge surfaced from Martinez's fragmented memories—a conversation two weeks ago, a form submitted to Personnel, a vague dissatisfaction with the 74th that Kole could taste but not quite identify.
"Yes, sir. I've been thinking about it for a while."
Rogers leaned back, studying Kole with the practiced assessment of a supervisor who'd seen too many detectives burn out. "Your record here is solid, Martinez. Good closure rate, no complaints, you work well with the team. Why leave?"
Because I need to get to the Nine-Nine where the people I actually know how to work with are waiting for me.
"I think I could benefit from a different environment," Kole said instead. "New challenges, new perspectives."
The captain's lie detection would have been redundant—Rogers clearly didn't believe him. But after a moment, something in the older man's expression shifted toward understanding.
"Fresh start," Rogers said quietly. "Sometimes a guy needs that."
What did Martinez need a fresh start from?
The question hung in the air while Rogers pulled up Kole's personnel file on his computer. The screen reflected numbers and evaluations that painted a picture of competent professionalism without context.
"Your commendations are impressive," Rogers continued. "The Morrison case, the warehouse shootout, that domestic situation on Flatbush. You've got a good eye for details, solid instincts."
Kole nodded, hoping his expression conveyed appropriate modesty while his photographic memory frantically tried to find any trace of those cases in Martinez's inherited knowledge. Nothing. Just empty spaces where crucial experiences should have been.
"Where are you thinking of transferring?"
The moment of truth. Kole met Rogers's eyes and committed to the lie that would reshape his entire existence.
"The Nine-Nine."
Rogers's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "Brooklyn? That's Holt's house."
"I've heard good things about their approach to cases."
"You've heard about their approach to everything," Rogers said dryly. "Peralta and his crew have a reputation for... unconventional methods."
If you only knew how unconventional my methods are about to become.
"I think I could learn from that kind of environment."
Rogers was quiet for a long moment, fingers drumming against his desk while he weighed considerations Kole could only guess at. Finally, he pulled out a form and began filling it out with the resigned efficiency of a man who'd processed dozens of similar requests.
"I'll approve the transfer," he said without looking up. "But I want you to know—the Nine-Nine isn't the 74th. Holt runs a tight ship, but his people are... different. You sure you're ready for that?"
I've been watching them solve cases for years. I know exactly what I'm ready for.
"Yes, sir."
Rogers signed the form with a flourish that felt like closing a door. "Transfer takes effect Monday. That gives you the rest of the week to finish your current caseload and brief your replacement."
Current caseload?
The panic must have shown on his face because Rogers's expression shifted to concern.
"The Brennan robbery, Martinez. You were supposed to have the report on my desk yesterday."
I have no idea what the Brennan robbery is.
Kole's mind raced while his face maintained what he hoped was appropriate chagrin. "Right. Sorry, sir. I was reviewing some details that didn't quite add up."
Please let that be vague enough to buy me time.
Rogers nodded slowly. "Walk me through what you've got."
The silence stretched like a held breath while Kole's photographic memory desperately searched for any scrap of information about a case he'd never worked. Nothing. Just the borrowed instincts of a detective whose experiences had been erased along with his original consciousness.
Then Detective Brooks knocked on the door, saving him from exposure with perfect timing.
"Captain? You wanted the witness statements from the bodega case?"
Rogers waved him in, and Kole seized the moment to scan the papers Brooks carried. His photographic memory absorbed every visible detail in seconds—names, addresses, case numbers, snippets of testimony. Not enough to reconstruct an entire investigation, but enough to fake knowledge if he was careful.
"The Brennan case shares some similarities with this one," Kole said, taking a calculated risk. "Multiple witnesses, conflicting accounts of the suspect's appearance."
Brooks nodded eagerly. "Yeah, I noticed that too. The timing patterns are almost identical."
Thank God for pattern recognition.
Rogers looked satisfied. "Good catch. Get me that report by end of day, and we'll call it even."
Kole left the captain's office with a transfer form in his hand and a case to solve using nothing but inherited instincts and impossible powers. The morning briefing was already underway, Detective Chen running through the overnight incidents with the detached efficiency of someone who'd delivered similar reports thousands of times.
He found a seat in the back and let his photographic memory record everything—names, case numbers, procedural details that might matter later. The information felt solid and reliable, unlike the fragmentary memories that kept slipping away whenever he tried to examine them closely.
"Martinez," Chen called. "You want to bring us up to speed on the Brennan situation?"
Every eye in the room turned toward him. Twenty-three detectives and support staff, waiting for information he didn't possess about a case he'd never worked. His lie detection screamed warnings about the various forms of skepticism and curiosity aimed in his direction.
Now or never.
He stood, letting his posture convey confidence while his mind assembled fragments of overheard conversation and educated guesses into something that might pass for expertise.
"Victim is Maria Brennan, age sixty-four, retired librarian," he began, pulling details from the bits and pieces he'd absorbed. "Purse snatching on Seventh Avenue Tuesday evening, approximately eight-fifteen PM."
So far so good. Standard street crime.
"Suspect described as male, early twenties, approximately five-eight, dark hoodie. But here's where it gets interesting—" He paused, letting his photographic memory replay the witness statements Brooks had carried. "Three witnesses, three different descriptions of his face. Either he's changing his appearance, or our witnesses aren't as reliable as we'd like."
Chen leaned forward. "Security footage?"
"Bodega camera caught him fleeing, but the angle's wrong for facial identification. I'm thinking we cross-reference with similar cases from the past month, look for pattern matches."
The room nodded collective approval. Detective Brooks actually smiled.
"That's exactly what I was thinking about the bodega case," he said. "Same MO, same witness reliability issues."
Pattern recognition for the win.
The briefing continued around him, but Kole's attention drifted to the implications of his performance. He'd just successfully faked knowledge of a case using nothing but powers he didn't understand and information gathered in real time. If he could do this here, surrounded by colleagues who knew Martinez's usual behavior, what could he accomplish at the Nine-Nine where everyone would be meeting him fresh?
I can do this. I can actually do this.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of paperwork and phone calls, each task feeling like walking a tightrope between competence and exposure. His photographic memory made the bureaucratic aspects almost trivial—forms filled out perfectly, case numbers recalled without reference, names and dates flowing with mechanical precision.
But every interaction carried the risk of revealing how little he actually knew about Martinez's life.
Chen stopped by his desk around noon, coffee in hand and expression carefully casual.
"You seem different today," she said. "More... focused."
Because I'm not really Martinez and I'm terrified of being discovered.
"Just feeling more like myself lately," he said instead.
Her lie detection would have called that out immediately, but Chen just nodded and moved on. Apparently, whatever changes she'd noticed in Martinez over the past few days, improved focus was a welcome development.
The afternoon brought the real test. The Brennan case file sat on his desk like an accusation, thick with details he was supposed to know but didn't. Kole opened it with the careful attention of a man defusing a bomb.
Photographs. Witness statements. Evidence logs. Maps and timelines and forensic reports that painted a picture of professional police work done by a detective who no longer existed. Martinez had been thorough, methodical, exactly the kind of investigator Kole had always imagined himself becoming if he'd had the chance.
I have the chance now.
His photographic memory absorbed every detail, cross-referencing with the patterns he'd discussed that morning. The witness descriptions really were inconsistent—not just in specifics, but in fundamental characteristics. Eye color, height, facial structure. Either they'd seen different people, or someone was actively trying to confuse the investigation.
Or they're just unreliable witnesses, which is the most common explanation.
But his inherited detective instincts whispered otherwise. Something about this case felt wrong, orchestrated, like someone with knowledge of police procedure was deliberately muddying the waters.
He pulled the bodega case Brooks had mentioned, spreading both files across his desk like pieces of a puzzle. The similarities were even more obvious than he'd expected—same neighborhood, same time frame, same type of witnesses with the same type of inconsistencies.
Connected.
The certainty settled in his gut with the weight of absolute truth. These weren't random street crimes. Someone was working a pattern, possibly testing police response times or witness reliability. The question was whether Martinez had figured this out before his death, and if so, what he'd done about it.
The phone on his desk rang, jolting him back to the present.
"Martinez," he answered automatically.
"Detective, this is Sarah Kim from the DA's office. I've been trying to reach you about the Henderson testimony. We need your notes before the arraignment tomorrow."
Henderson testimony?
Another blank space where Martinez's memory should have been. Kole's mind raced while he stalled for time.
"Right, the Henderson case. Can you give me the case number? I want to make sure I send you the right file."
A pause. "Case number 2013-4471. Martinez, we discussed this two days ago. Is everything okay?"
Two days ago, Martinez was still alive and I was getting hit by a truck in Chicago.
"Everything's fine. I'll have those notes to you within the hour."
He hung up and immediately pulled the case file, his photographic memory working overtime to absorb information about yet another investigation he'd inherited. Henderson, Marcus, age twenty-six, assault with a deadly weapon. Martinez's notes were detailed, precise, exactly what a prosecutor would need to build their case.
At least Martinez was good at his job.
The rest of the afternoon passed in similar fashion—phone calls about cases he'd never worked, meetings about procedures he'd never followed, conversations with colleagues who expected him to remember shared experiences that existed only in the fractured spaces of someone else's life.
By six o'clock, his head throbbed with the effort of maintaining the deception. The transfer form sat on Rogers's desk, approved and processed, his escape route to the Nine-Nine confirmed for Monday morning.
Three more days. I can fake being Martinez for three more days.
He was packing up to leave when his phone buzzed with a text from a number he didn't recognize.
"Drinks at Riley's? Chen wants to celebrate your transfer."
Martinez has a social life. Of course he has a social life.
The thought of spending an evening pretending to remember relationships he'd never formed, sharing stories from a life he'd never lived, felt like more than he could handle. But declining would raise questions he couldn't answer.
Just a few drinks. How hard can it be?
Kole Martinez—because that's who he was now, for better or worse—grabbed his jacket and headed out into the Brooklyn evening, carrying the weight of borrowed memories and impossible powers into a world where every conversation was a potential catastrophe.
Monday can't come soon enough.
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