Chapter 3: Weekend Preparation
POV: Kole Martinez
Saturday morning in Brooklyn arrived with the kind of crisp October air that promised change and delivered uncertainty. Kole stood at his apartment window, watching joggers navigate the sidewalk cracks while his reflection stared back—still wrong, still foreign, still wearing Martinez's face like an ill-fitting mask.
Three days. Seventy-two hours to transform from a confused transmigrator into a convincing detective ready to work alongside characters who'd been fictional yesterday and were breathing, thinking people today.
Time to figure out what these powers actually do.
He'd tested the photographic memory obsessively since Tuesday, pushing its limits like a scientist studying a new species. The ability felt boundless—every detail absorbed with mechanical precision, perfectly preserved for instant recall. But the combat adaptation remained largely theoretical, glimpsed only in that single moment when his body had moved with Martinez's inherited muscle memory.
Need to know what I'm capable of before I walk into the Nine-Nine.
The Prospect Heights Community Center squatted between a bodega and a dry cleaner, its brick facade promising basic amenities without pretense. The gym occupied the basement, fluorescent lights buzzing over mismatched equipment and motivational posters that had seen better decades.
Kole paid the day rate and found a corner where he could observe without drawing attention. The Saturday morning crowd was eclectic—college students burning off hangovers, middle-aged professionals maintaining denial about their mortality, serious athletes who belonged in better facilities but couldn't afford them.
In the far corner, two men sparred with the fluid grace of trained fighters. Not the flashy movie choreography that looked impressive but felt hollow, but the practical efficiency of people who understood violence as tool rather than spectacle.
Kole's photographic memory absorbed every detail as the smaller fighter—wiry, maybe one-sixty soaking wet—launched into a combination that flowed like water. Jab, cross, slip, hook, uppercut. His feet danced through footwork patterns that spoke of years spent learning to hit without being hit.
Beautiful.
The larger fighter responded with a different philosophy—economical movements, brutal precision, every technique designed to end fights rather than win points. A block that doubled as a strike, a slip that set up a takedown, the kind of fighting that cops learned when pretty wasn't as important as going home alive.
Kole watched for twenty minutes, his memory cataloging every technique, every transition, every subtle shift of weight that telegraphed the next move. The knowledge settled into his mind like sediment, waiting for application.
The sparring session ended with respectful bumps of gloves and shared water bottles. Kole waited until they moved to different areas before approaching the heavy bag they'd vacated.
Let's see what happens.
He wrapped his hands carefully, muscle memory guiding motions Martinez's body had performed thousands of times. The bag hung heavy and patient, scarred leather speaking of countless frustrated hours and small victories.
Kole closed his eyes and let his body remember what it had observed.
The jab came automatically—not his movement, but a perfect replication of the wiry fighter's technique. Snap, retract, balance maintained. His body understood the mechanics without conscious instruction, every detail flowing from observation to execution like downloading software.
Holy shit.
He tried the combination he'd watched—jab, cross, slip, hook, uppercut. His body moved through the sequence with fluid precision, each technique building on the last, footwork adjusting automatically to maintain proper distance and leverage.
"Nice form."
Kole spun, heart hammering. A woman in her thirties stood nearby, towel draped around her neck, observing him with the professional interest of someone who understood what she'd just witnessed.
"Thanks," he managed, trying to keep his voice casual while his mind raced with implications. She saw me copy those techniques perfectly.
"You train somewhere else? That's Marcus Chen's signature combination. You hit it like you've been drilling it for years."
Marcus Chen. The wiry fighter.
"Family training," Kole said, the lie sliding out with practiced ease. "My uncle taught me some basics."
The woman nodded, already losing interest. "Good fundamentals. Keep it up."
She moved away, leaving Kole alone with the weight of what had just happened. He'd perfectly replicated a fighting combination after observing it once, executed it with the muscle memory of years of practice he'd never undergone.
Combat adaptation. It's real.
The next hour passed in careful experimentation. He watched other gym members—a woman practicing yoga flows, a teenager working through calisthenics routines, an older man whose stretching sequence spoke of physical therapy and stubborn determination. Each observation became instant capability, his body downloading techniques like a computer absorbing data.
But every replication felt hollow, borrowed. He was copying movements without understanding their context, their history, the thousands of hours of practice that had refined them into art.
I'm stealing.
The thought sat uncomfortably in his chest as he left the gym, walking through Brooklyn neighborhoods that felt familiar from countless episodes while remaining fundamentally foreign. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows between buildings, painting the sidewalks in shades of gold and regret.
He was two blocks from his apartment when the mugging happened.
The alley between 7th and 8th Streets was narrow, barely wide enough for a delivery truck, the kind of urban crevice where bad decisions fermented in shadow. Kole heard the commotion before he saw it—harsh voices, a woman's protest, the distinctive sound of someone being pushed against brick.
Walk away. You're not a cop yet. You don't know how to be a cop.
But his feet carried him forward anyway, drawn by an instinct that might have been Martinez's or might have been his own. At the alley mouth, he could see them clearly—two men cornering a woman against the far wall, their body language radiating predatory confidence.
"Just give us the purse, lady. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."
The woman clutched a bag against her chest like armor, fear and defiance warring in her posture. Mid-fifties, well-dressed, the kind of person who'd never expected to become a victim until the moment it happened.
"Please," she said. "I don't have much cash."
"We'll be the judge of that."
The larger mugger stepped closer, invading her personal space with casual cruelty. His partner flanked left, cutting off potential escape routes with practiced efficiency.
Two on one. Cornered victim. They've done this before.
Kole's police instincts—Martinez's instincts—catalogued the tactical situation while his conscience wrestled with practical considerations. He wasn't armed, wasn't officially on duty, wasn't even technically a cop until Monday morning. Getting involved could expose abilities he couldn't explain or result in injuries he couldn't afford.
But I can't just watch.
"NYPD!" he called out, voice carrying authority his badge couldn't yet back up. "Step away from the woman."
Both muggers turned, their confidence wavering as they processed this unexpected variable. The larger one—maybe six-two, heavy through the shoulders, wearing the kind of jacket that suggested familiarity with violence—sized Kole up with professional interest.
"You don't look like NYPD."
"Off duty," Kole said, moving into the alley with careful steps. "But that doesn't make me any less interested in seeing you two walk away."
What the hell am I doing?
"There's two of us and one of you," the second mugger pointed out reasonably. Smaller than his partner but carrying himself with wiry confidence, the kind of man who'd learned to be dangerous through necessity rather than choice.
"Math was never my strong suit," Kole replied, his body settling into a stance he'd observed an hour ago.
The larger mugger made his decision with a frustrated snarl, lunging forward with the heavy aggression of someone accustomed to intimidation working better than violence. His right hand swung in a looping haymaker that telegraphed its arrival like a train schedule.
Kole's body moved without conscious decision.
Marcus Chen's slip technique flowed through his muscles, taking him inside the punch's arc while his right hand found the mugger's solar plexus with surgical precision. The larger man folded around the impact, breath exploding out in a rush of surprise and pain.
The second mugger was already moving, producing a knife from somewhere with the smooth efficiency of professional criminal. The blade caught alley light as it swept toward Kole's ribs in a thrust that promised serious injury.
Too fast. Can't dodge.
But his body remembered the larger fighter from the gym, the one who'd treated violence like a engineering problem. The block came automatically—left hand intercepting the knife arm, redirecting its momentum while his right elbow found the mugger's temple with mathematical precision.
The knife clattered against brick. Both attackers hit the ground within seconds of each other, the larger one still trying to remember how to breathe while his partner explored the relationship between consciousness and equilibrium.
"Oh my God," the woman gasped. "Are you really police?"
Kole stared at his hands, which were trembling with adrenaline and something deeper. He'd just fought two men using techniques he'd learned that afternoon, his body moving with borrowed competence that felt both natural and completely alien.
I could have killed them.
The knowledge sat in his gut like swallowed ice. Not through conscious choice, but through perfect replication of movements designed for maximum damage. His combat adaptation didn't distinguish between practice and application—it simply executed what it had observed.
"Yeah," he said finally. "Detective Martinez. Are you hurt?"
She shook her head, still pressed against the alley wall but no longer cowering. "They... they said they'd done this before. To other people."
"We'll make sure they don't do it again."
The next twenty minutes passed in bureaucratic necessity—uniformed officers, witness statements, EMTs checking the muggers for serious injury. Kole gave his statement with careful precision, emphasizing his police training and off-duty status while omitting any mention of impossible abilities.
But as he walked home through Brooklyn streets that felt increasingly surreal, the implications of what had happened began to settle like nuclear fallout.
I can fight. Actually fight. Not just copy movements, but apply them in real situations with real consequences.
The power felt intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure. He could learn any technique, master any fighting style, become a weapon limited only by what he could observe. But every application carried the risk of revealing abilities that belonged in comic books rather than police reports.
Back in his apartment, Kole spread Martinez's personnel file across the kitchen table alongside printed articles about the Nine-Nine squad. Time for the most dangerous preparation of all—learning to lie convincingly about knowledge he shouldn't possess.
"I read about Detective Peralta's unconventional methods in the department briefings."
"Captain Holt's reputation for precise leadership is well-known throughout the NYPD."
"I've heard good things about Sergeant Jeffords' approach to team management."
Each potential explanation felt flimsy under scrutiny, but they were plausible enough to provide cover for surface-level knowledge. The deeper insights—Jake's competitive nature hiding profound loyalty, Amy's perfectionism masking deep insecurity, Rosa's intimidating exterior protecting genuine vulnerability—those would have to remain hidden or be revealed gradually, as if learned through observation rather than inherited from episodes he'd watched obsessively.
"I'm naturally observant. I pick up on patterns quickly."
"Lucky guess."
"Just good instincts, I suppose."
The lies accumulated like debt, each one requiring maintenance and support from additional deceptions. By Sunday evening, he'd constructed an elaborate architecture of half-truths and misdirection, all designed to hide the fundamental impossibility of his existence.
"I don't know. I've always been this way."
That would be the ultimate fallback—claiming ignorance about his own capabilities. Let them draw their own conclusions about a detective with unusually sharp memory, uncanny fighting instincts, and an uncomfortable ability to spot deception. Better to seem like a lucky freak than an impossible one.
Three years.
The number had emerged from his research into typical precinct assignments. Three years was long enough to establish himself, short enough to avoid deep scrutiny of his background. If he could maintain the deception for three years, he might be able to transition to a different assignment or different city, start fresh with a more thoroughly constructed identity.
Or the truth comes out and everything falls apart.
The weight of deception settled over him like a lead blanket as he prepared for bed Sunday night. Tomorrow he would walk into the Nine-Nine and meet people he'd watched grow and change and triumph over dozens of episodes. Jake Peralta, whose childish enthusiasm masked a brilliant detective's mind. Amy Santiago, whose neurotic perfectionism drove her to excel at everything she touched. Rosa Diaz, whose terrifying competence was exceeded only by her loyalty to family.
They would be strangers wearing familiar faces, carrying histories he knew but couldn't reference, nursing wounds he understood but couldn't acknowledge. He would be a lie in a borrowed body, trying to earn the trust of people he'd already learned to love.
Monday arrives with autumn rain and impossible possibilities.
Kole Martinez—because that's who he was now, for better or worse—closed his eyes and tried to sleep, knowing that tomorrow would begin the most elaborate deception of his life. One that would require every power he possessed and every skill he could learn.
Time to meet the family.
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