Jake leaned back in his chair, lazily spinning an action figure between his fingers. A quiet hum of mischief played behind his grin, while Amy stood nearby, arms crossed, clearly waiting for him to drop the toy and get serious.
"I just wish McGintley never left," Jake said, tossing the figure from hand to hand. "That guy knew how to lead a precinct. Fire extinguisher races? Derby days? Total legend."
Amy frowned. "He let you do whatever you wanted. That's not leadership. That's lazy."
Jake smirked. "Tomato, to-mah-to. He was fun. Bet the new guy's a washed-up pencil pusher who runs on batteries and disappointment."
Without missing a beat, he shifted into his robot voice. "Meep morp zeep. Robot Captain engage."
Behind him, Ezra Kael, lounging against his desk like he owned the air around him, raised one brow. "You know, if there were actual stakes for predicting terrible first impressions, you'd be undefeated."
"Ezra, you wound me," Jake said, spinning in his chair. "Where's your spirit of optimism?"
Ezra's smirk didn't reach his eyes. "Hiding under the weight of your sixth disciplinary report."
Then a voice cut in, low, calm, and razor-sharp. "Is that what you think?"
Jake froze. Amy straightened. Ezra didn't move at all—just lifted his gaze slightly, eyes cool but alert.
There, behind them, stood a tall, composed man in a crisp uniform. Jake swallowed, visibly rewinding the last few seconds in his head.
"Oh, hey!" Jake jumped to his feet, grinning way too hard. "New Captain alert. You must be the new C.O. I'm Detective Jake Peralta. So great to meet you, sir."
The man didn't blink. "You were describing the kind of person I'm going to be. Please, finish."
Jake looked around. Everyone had stopped what they were doing. Amy was practically glowing with secondhand embarrassment. Ezra… still hadn't moved.
"I mean… robot joke, pencil pusher…" Jake trailed off, voice thinning.
"Do the robot voice," the man said flatly.
"Which—?"
"The one you were doing when you implied I was a rule-following robot."
Jake sighed. "Meep morp zarp… robot…"
The Captain regarded him in silence. "That's a terrible robot voice."
Jake nodded solemnly. "Agreed."
The man turned slightly, scanning the room. "The next time I see you, Detective Peralta, I expect you to be wearing a necktie."
Jake gestured vaguely at his chest. "The last Captain didn't really care about ties…"
"Well," the man said, turning toward the Captain's office, "your new Captain does. And more importantly, he expects his detectives to follow direct orders."
He faced the squad. "I'm Captain Raymond Holt. I'm your new commanding officer."
For a moment, there was complete silence. Then Amy clapped once. "Speech!"
"That was my speech," Holt replied.
"Short and sweet," Ezra muttered under his breath, standing now, arms loosely folded.
Holt's gaze found him immediately. "You're Ezra Kael."
Ezra didn't blink. "Guilty."
"I've read your file."
"Condolences."
Holt stepped closer. "It's rare to find someone whose commendations and disciplinary actions are in equal measure. Curious."
Ezra's smile stayed smooth. "Balance is important."
Holt didn't return the smile. "Sergeant Jeffords, a word."
As Holt turned to go, Jake exhaled hard. "Okay, so that happened."
Ezra leaned in beside him. "I like him."
"You like him?" Jake hissed. "He barely looked at you!"
"That's why I like him."
Amy nodded. "He's serious. Smart. And he just shut you down like a pro."
Jake scowled. "So glad I've got such supportive coworkers."
Across the bullpen, Gina twirled a pencil. "Did anyone else get a bit of a gay vibe?"
Jake blinked. "Gina!"
"What? I'm observant. The man's got taste. And presence. He could be a Bond villain."
Ezra finally turned fully toward the office, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. For all his outward charm and casual posture, something unreadable flickered behind his expression.
Holt was more than a by-the-book robot. He was controlled, sharp, and unflinching. And he saw everything.
Ezra smiled to himself.
This… might actually be interesting.
Captain Holt placed the nameplate on his desk with clinical precision, then sat down with his hands folded. Terry stood across from him, standing just a little too straight.
"You were in the 1-8 with me," Holt said, studying Terry. "Though you were significantly—"
"Fatter, sir," Terry said quickly. "They called me 'Terry Titties.' Because I had large, uh—"
"Titties. Yes," Holt said, nodding. "I never liked that nickname. Though, to be fair, it was accurate."
Terry offered a sheepish smile.
"What's this I hear about you being on administrative leave?" Holt asked.
"A year ago, my wife and I had twin girls." Terry pulled out his wallet and proudly showed off a photo. "Cagney and Lacey."
"They have adorable chubby cheeks," Holt said, glancing briefly at the photo.
"Ever since they were born, I got scared of getting hurt. Lost my edge." Terry's expression darkened. "There was an incident at a department store. It rattled me."
Holt stood and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back. "Tell me about your detective squad."
Terry followed his gaze to the bullpen. "Scully, Hitchcock, and Daniels are technically detectives. They're mostly worthless, but they make good coffee."
"Copy that," Holt said dryly.
"Now the good ones," Terry continued. "Rosa Diaz—tough, smart, hard to read, and really scary."
They both glanced down to the bullpen where Rosa was silently intimidating a vending machine into working properly.
"Charles Boyle," Terry continued. "He's a grinder. Not the brightest, but works harder than anyone else. Not exactly... graceful."
Boyle was currently trying to balance a box of case files, a coffee, and his phone, which was slipping down his shoulder. The coffee wobbled. The files teetered. Chaos imminent.
"Amy Santiago," Terry added. "Seven brothers. Always trying to prove she's the toughest in the room."
Amy was in the middle of organizing colored folders, then furiously re-organizing them when the yellows didn't align with the orange shades. She muttered something about chromatic balance.
"She and Peralta have a running bet over who gets more arrests this year," Terry said. "Ever since that started, their stats have gone through the roof."
Holt nodded slightly. "Tell me about Peralta."
Jake was holding a tiny police action figure at his desk, shifting it in and out of the overhead light.
"Jacob Peralta is my best detective," Terry said. "He likes putting away bad guys. Loves solving puzzles. Only puzzle he hasn't solved is how to grow up."
"That was very well put."
"I've talked a lot about Jake in my departmentally-mandated therapy sessions," Terry admitted.
Holt turned from the window, facing Terry directly. "You know my history. You know how important this is to me. This precinct is doing fine, but I want it to be the best in Brooklyn. I need your help."
Terry nodded firmly. "Absolutely, sir." They shook hands.
"Where do we start?"
Before Holt could answer, a familiar voice drifted from just outside the office.
"Sorry to interrupt, but you missed one," Ezra said, stepping inside, his hands tucked neatly into his coat pockets.
Holt arched a brow. "Detective Kael."
Terry cleared his throat. "Right. Ezra Kael. Joined a few months back. Specializes in undercover operations, excellent with intel analysis, sniper certification. His methods are… unconventional, but his results speak for themselves."
Ezra gave a wry smile. "I'd say 'charmingly unorthodox.'"
"Self-assessment noted," Holt replied.
"I figured since you're assessing the squad, you'd want the full picture."
Holt's tone remained cool, but not unfriendly. "I was getting to you. Your file is... extensive."
Ezra offered a short nod, then tipped two fingers to his brow in a mock salute and stepped back out. Holt watched him go with measured interest.
Terry gave a short chuckle. "He's a bit of a mystery, sir. But reliable."
Holt returned to his desk. "Then let's make this squad exceptional."
Captain Holt stood behind the blinds of his office, watching the bullpen with a silent intensity. Below, the Nine-Nine hummed with its usual organized chaos—paperwork rustled, coffee brewed, and jokes were made far too loudly. Jake Peralta was at the center of it all.
"Peralta! My office. Now," Holt said, stepping out with the kind of authority that silenced the room in an instant.
Jake looked up, mouth half-open mid-joke, then grinned. "Coming, Captain!"
As he crossed the bullpen, he leaned over to Ezra, who had just returned to his desk with a cup of tea.
"Wish me luck. This could be the moment he adopts me or throws me out a window. Equal odds."
Ezra lifted his cup slightly in mock toast. "Try not to trip over your daddy issues."
Jake entered Holt's office, eyes scanning the pristine desk, the perfectly aligned nameplate, and Holt himself—stiff-backed, expression unreadable.
"Detective Peralta," Holt began.
Jake cut in immediately with a stiff, robotic voice, mimicking Holt's serious demeanor. "Hello, Captain. I am Detective Peralta. Robot voice. Engage. Beep. Boop."
Holt blinked once. "Is that supposed to be me?"
Jake smiled, only slightly less cocky. "Not… not exactly, sir. Just a fun way to say hello."
"Mm-hmm," Holt said, utterly unamused. "I've been reviewing your arrest records."
Jake brightened. "Oh! They're good, right? Super good. Like Die Hard-level good. Which, coincidentally, is why I became a cop. That and the handcuffs."
Holt steepled his fingers. "You have the highest arrest rate in the precinct."
Jake grinned. "Thank you, sir."
"You also have the second-highest number of disciplinary infractions."
Jake's grin faded slightly. "Still a silver medal, though."
"This precinct is not a playground, Detective."
"Understood. It's more like a laser tag arena where justice is the target."
Holt's face remained stoic. "You're talented, Peralta. But unstructured. I intend to change that."
Jake blinked. "Copy that, sir. Structure engaged. Rebooting. Beep. Boop."
Holt sighed and gestured toward the door. "Dismissed."
Jake gave an awkward salute and exited. Back at his desk, he slumped into his chair.
"So… on a scale from 'welcome hug' to 'I ruined his life,' where do we think I landed?"
"Somewhere between 'minor disappointment' and 'public hazard,'" Ezra said, not looking up from his computer.
"Nailed it," Jake said with a forced smile.
Terry appeared, clapping once to get attention. "All right squad! Captain Holt's officially taken command. Let's show him what the Nine-Nine can do."
As the detectives scattered to their tasks, Ezra remained seated, eyes briefly flicking toward Holt's office.
A new captain meant new rules.
And Ezra Kael had always been very good at playing the game—just not always by the rules.