9:30 a.m. – 99th Precinct Bullpen
Ezra Kael walked into the bullpen with two coffees and the distinct awareness that the energy in the room was not normal. It was charged. Slightly chaotic. And weirdly competitive.
Jake was crouched behind Terry's desk with a pair of binoculars. Amy was whisper-shouting into a walkie-talkie. Boyle was taping together two plungers. Rosa was reading a book that may or may not have been hollowed out to hide a taser. Gina was filming it all while eating Greek yogurt like it was popcorn.
Ezra handed one coffee to Terry. "What's going on?"
Terry sighed. "The Jimmy Jab Games."
Ezra blinked. "I'm sorry, the what now?"
Before Terry could answer, Jake popped up from behind the desk like a caffeinated meerkat. "Ezra, my man! Welcome to your first Jimmy Jab Games!"
Ezra tilted his head. "Is this a tactical simulation, or did you all collectively lose your minds before 10 a.m.?"
Jake put a hand on his shoulder. "Both. But mostly the second one."
Terry grunted. "It's a precinct tradition when the Vulture screws up and delays a case drop. It started as a way to kill time. Now it's... this."
Ezra looked around. Scully was tying balloons to a mop handle. Hitchcock was applying glitter to his mustache.
Ezra sipped his coffee. "Well. I'm in."
Jake whooped. "Yes! That's the spirit. We needed someone with rogue charm and possible circus experience."
Boyle nodded. "We're drafting teams this time. You and I? Dream team. You distract, I plunger."
Amy walked by with a clipboard. "Points will be awarded for creativity, execution, and avoiding structural damage."
"Why do I feel like you wrote the official rulebook?" Ezra asked.
"Because I did. Laminated and everything."
10:15 a.m. – The Starting Line
The contestants gathered in the bullpen. Rosa stood in front, arms crossed. "You all know the rules. No cheating. No whining. No lawsuits. Let's keep it marginally professional."
Ezra raised a hand. "Are we... legally allowed to do this?"
Jake answered, "Not even slightly."
The first event: "The Hot Sauce Relay." A horrifying concoction of hot sauces from Scully's desk drawer was lined up on a folding table. Each participant had to chug a mystery shot, run to the evidence locker, and correctly re-file an item from Amy's alphabetical bin.
"Hot sauce and filing," Ezra muttered. "It's like Fear Factor and The Office had a very loud child."
Boyle whispered, "Whatever you do, don't get the one labeled 'Vulture's Tears.'"
Ezra's shot was labeled with a skull emoji and something in Russian.
He squinted at the label, read it aloud with a smirk, "Слёзы безумца? Really? 'Madman's Tears'?"
"Down the hatch," he said dryly—and threw it back.
Three seconds later, he regretted everything. His throat ignited like he'd just swallowed lava, his eyes instantly watering. He doubled over coughing, gripping the table for dear life. "Who makes hot sauce with wasabi and battery acid?" he wheezed.
10:21 a.m. – Evidence Locker Maze
Ezra's eyes watered as he tore around the bullpen, clutching the evidence bag Boyle handed him. His tongue felt like it had been through basic training and then dishonorably discharged. Behind him, Jake was hollering, "RUN, YOU BEAUTIFUL MYSTERY!"
He burst into the evidence locker maze—boxes and shelves turned into a tight obstacle course, peppered with Amy's color-coded dividers and Boyle's inexplicably live guinea pig, Hercules, who had somehow gotten loose and was now a bonus hazard.
"Of course there's a rodent," Ezra muttered, weaving around him with just enough flair to avoid knocking over the rack of breathalyzers.
He located the filing drawer labeled E-F, matched the case number, and tucked the item in.
"Boom," he gasped, panting as he jogged back into the bullpen. "Filed, baby."
Amy gave a grudging nod. "Filed correctly. With flair. Eight points."
Boyle whooped and high-fived him. "You're a natural!"
"Or completely deranged," Ezra replied, wheezing.
10:45 a.m. – The Trivia Gauntlet
Next up: "Perilous Precinct Trivia." Rosa's idea, obviously.
One wrong answer, and a balloon filled with yogurt exploded over your head. One right answer, and you could throw a balloon at someone else.
Ezra stood beside Jake, who was already coated in vanilla and looking far too pleased about it.
"What's Captain McGintley's middle name?" Rosa asked.
"Regret," Ezra said.
Correct.
"What's the serial number of the precinct's first radar gun?"
Ezra didn't even blink. "NYPD-RG01234."
Correct.
"What's Terry's favorite protein bar flavor?"
Ezra grinned. "Peanut Butter Crunch—he eats it exactly at 2:37 p.m. every Tuesday."
Correct.
Jake gaped. "Are you Google?"
Ezra caught a yogurt balloon mid-air. "I just observe." Then hurled it directly at Jake's face.
11:30 a.m. – The Final Round
The final event: "Desk Chair Obstacle Showdown."
Contestants raced around the bullpen in rolling chairs, dodging obstacles including overturned filing cabinets, Gina's beanbag wall, and the flying judgment of Amy.
Ezra teamed up with Boyle again—Boyle steering, Ezra throwing decoy paperwork to throw off their opponents.
They zoomed past Rosa, collided with Jake (who launched into a somersault and kept running), and skidded to a stop inches before Gina's throne-like setup of potted plants and confetti cannons.
Terry blew the whistle. "WINNERS!"
Ezra fell back in the chair, laughing uncontrollably. "This… was unhinged."
Jake threw confetti in the air. "Welcome to the Nine-Nine!"
Boyle hugged him. "You're officially one of us."
Ezra smiled, winded and sparkling with glitter. For once, his thoughts weren't racing ahead or back. Just here. With this strange, chaotic, ridiculous team.
12:00 p.m. – Interrogation Room 2
Ezra sat alone at the metal table, sipping the bland precinct coffee and using a leftover yogurt balloon as an ice pack against his temple. The noise from the bullpen still echoed faintly through the walls—Jake's victory whoop, Amy's clipboard snapping shut with executive satisfaction, and Scully arguing with the vending machine over its betrayal.
Terry walked in with a folder and an arched brow. "Debrief?"
Ezra sighed and nodded. "I assume this is less about actual strategy and more about whether I set anything on fire."
"You almost crashed into Amy's entire alphabetized filing system," Terry said, sitting across from him. "She threatened to reorganize the entire bullpen."
"That's a war crime," Ezra said solemnly.
Terry chuckled. "She settled for passive-aggressive sighing and rewriting the scoreboard."
Ezra smirked. "Let me guess—Jake still insists he won something?"
"He's currently writing 'Moral Victory' next to his name in dry-erase marker."
Ezra leaned back, tossing the yogurt balloon in the air once, catching it with ease. "It was chaos. Ridiculous chaos. And weirdly... comforting."
Terry studied him for a moment. "You had fun."
Ezra arched a brow. "Let's not get carried away."
Terry grinned. "You've been here, what, two months now?"
Ezra hesitated. "Fifty-seven days."
"Right. And today was the first time I saw you laugh so hard you couldn't breathe."
Ezra went quiet.
Terry leaned forward. "Look, I don't know what your past looks like. I don't need to. But you're fitting in here. You know that, right?"
Ezra gave a noncommittal shrug. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just a very good liar."
Terry didn't blink. "Sure. But not with us. Not forever."
1:10 p.m. – Locker Room
Ezra opened his locker to find a glitter-stained chair ribbon taped inside, labeled in Jake's handwriting: Official Chair Racer Extraordinaire.
He shook his head with a tiny smile, but before he could stuff it away, Rosa appeared behind him.
"You handled yourself today," she said, arms crossed.
"Thanks. I try not to explode under yogurt pressure."
She raised an eyebrow. "Most new guys crumble. Or cry. Or somehow get stabbed by Boyle."
Ezra turned, mock-offended. "I am not 'most new guys.'"
"No," Rosa agreed. "You're weird. But useful."
He gave a mock bow. "I live to serve."
She stared a second longer. "Just… don't screw us over. You seem the type."
Ezra met her gaze, steady. "Only when I'm bored."
Rosa grunted, turned, and walked off.
Ezra stared at the ribbon again.
Then, carefully, folded it into a neat square and slipped it into his wallet.
2:00 p.m. – Rooftop
Ezra sat on the edge of the roof, legs dangling, looking out at the city skyline.
He pulled a small leather notebook from his coat and jotted down a few lines:
DAY 57 – Integration progress: Surprising.
Team dynamics: volatile, but sincere.
Emotional status: Unsettlingly... optimistic?
He paused. Flipped the page.
Wrote:
Today, I didn't feel like a con.
Then snapped the book shut and leaned back.
Below, the laughter echoed up from the bullpen windows.
And for once, he didn't second-guess staying.