Chapter 8: Vulture's Veto
[Morning – 99th Precinct – October 23, 2013]
The precinct was a coiled spring of simmering fury, a collective, vibrating rage that had been building since the moment Detective Jake Peralta slammed his fist on his desk. The sound had been a sharp, concussive punctuation mark in the morning's quiet routine, and it had reverberated through the bull-pen like a physical force. Adam, who was trying to get a cup of coffee from the perpetually broken machine—a machine that wheezed and groaned like an ancient, dying beast—felt the tension in the air like a physical force. The usual morning banter, the low hum of conversation and the clatter of keyboards, had been replaced by a grim, funereal silence. The air smelled of burnt coffee and simmering frustration.
"He did it again," Jake said, his voice a low, strangled growl, filled with a palpable sense of defeat. He was staring at his desk, as if it had personally betrayed him. "That smug, greasy vulture. He took our case."
"It was a good case, too," Amy muttered, her face a mask of furious concentration as she scribbled on a notepad. Her pen scratched against the paper with a frustrated energy. "A high-profile robbery-homicide. We were so close to getting a warrant. I had all the paperwork color-coded and everything. It was a beautiful system."
The Vulture. Adam knew the name from his foreknowledge. A detective who worked for the NYPD's Major Crimes Unit, a greasy, arrogant man who had a penchant for stealing cases from other precincts just as they were about to be solved. He was an unofficial nemesis of the Nine-Nine, a constant source of frustration. The knowledge, a cold, hard piece of data, felt like a small, comforting advantage.
[SYSTEM: ENEMY IDENTIFIED. OBJECTIVE: DEFEAT THE VULTURE. Sub-objectives: 1) Secure the Case. 2) Restore Morale. 3) Increase Reputation with Squad. Reward: Reputation increase, SP bonus.]
This is a weird one, Adam thought, a small, humorless smirk on his face. The System is officially a cheerleader now. 'Restore Morale'? It's an AI, not a life coach. And yet... I can feel the 'Objective' status glowing. He walked over to Jake's desk, a plan already forming in his head. A wild, illogical, and perfectly absurd plan that felt perfectly aligned with his new "Embracing Chaos" trait.
"What's the plan, Jake?" Adam asked, his voice low. "How do we get it back?"
"There's nothing we can do," Jake said, slumping in his chair with a defeated sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire precinct. "He filed the paperwork. It's out of our hands. He's probably already on his way to make the arrest."
"No, he's not," Adam said, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. "We're going to get it back. We just have to be... creative." He felt a sense of exhilaration, the same feeling he had had when he was sliding across the floor to catch the ferret. It was a stupid plan, and that was its strength.
Jake looked up, a flicker of hope in his eyes. He sat up straighter, the defeat momentarily forgotten. "Creative? I like creative. Is this a creative like a 'make a giant sandwich out of case files' creative, or a 'write a rap battle to solve a murder' creative?"
"More like a 'we're going to distract him with a series of minor, hilariously frustrating inconveniences' creative," Adam replied, a mischievous smile spreading across his face. "And we're going to use his own arrogance against him. I have a tip that will send him on a wild goose chase."
He leaned in, and began to whisper his plan to Jake. It was a bizarre, multi-faceted scheme involving mislabeled files, an overly-complicated delivery system, and a completely fabricated lead that was designed to send the Vulture on a pointless, hours-long journey across the city. As he spoke, he felt the familiar rush of the System working, providing him with every piece of information he needed to craft the perfect distraction.
[SYSTEM: STRATEGY ENGAGED. Tip will utilize Vulture's predictable behavioral patterns. Predictive model shows a 97.8% chance of success in delaying his action for 3.5 hours.]
"This is insane," Jake said, a wide, excited grin on his face. His voice was a low, enthusiastic whisper. "This is so, so stupid. I love it! It's so petty and beautiful."
Their first obstacle was to create the distraction. This was where Boyle came in. Adam and Jake needed a diversion, something so outlandish and bizarre that it would consume the Vulture's full attention for a few crucial minutes.
"Boyle," Adam said, walking over to the detective who was meticulously wiping down his desk. The desk shone with a faint, clean sheen. "We need your help. We need a decoy."
"A decoy?" Boyle asked, his eyes wide. "Like in a spy movie? Will I have to wear a wig and a fake mustache?" He looked hopeful.
"No," Adam said, trying to contain his laughter. "We need you to 'accidentally' drop a box of evidence. But not just any box. We need a box of highly organized, color-coded, and very, very fragile folders."
"But... but my system!" Boyle protested, his voice a wail of professional anguish. He ran a hand over a neat stack of folders, his expression one of profound love. "I spent hours organizing those! The reds are for 'high-priority,' the blues are for 'minor theft,' and the yellows are for 'case closed,' but only with an emotional resolution!"
"Exactly," Jake said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "The Vulture will be so consumed by the sheer, unbridled chaos of your system being destroyed that he won't be able to process anything else. He's a psychopath, and he loves order. We're going to give him the opposite of order."
Boyle, his brow furrowed in concentration, finally nodded. A sense of a higher purpose settled over him. "Okay. For the squad. For justice."
They waited in the bullpen. The Vulture, a man in a poorly fitting suit with a perpetually greasy sheen to his hair, swaggered into the precinct, a thick folder under his arm. He had a smug, self-satisfied look on his face, a look that said he had already won. The scent of cheap cologne and hair gel preceded him.
"Gentlemen," he said, his voice a low, mocking drawl. "I'm sorry, I'd stay and chat, but I have to go make an arrest."
This was their cue. Boyle, holding a flimsy cardboard box that was clearly too weak for its contents, walked toward the Vulture. He feigned a trip, a clumsy, dramatic lurch, and the box tumbled from his hands. The sound of papers hitting the floor was a sharp, brittle sound, like a thousand dry leaves falling at once.
The folders, a rainbow of colors, flew through the air, their contents spilling out. Papers, case files, and crime scene photos rained down upon the floor. Boyle, in an act of hilarious, desperate physical comedy, tried to catch them all at once. He slipped on a stray piece of paper, flailing his arms like a dying bird, and landed with a loud, theatrical thump.
The Vulture, who had been about to walk past, stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes, full of a horrified fascination, stared at the chaotic mess on the floor. His meticulous, obsessive nature was in conflict with his need to get to the case. He stood there, frozen, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated distress. His jaw went slack, and the smug look was wiped clean.
"What is this madness?" he whispered to himself, his voice a low, strangled sound. The sound was like a confession. "The colors... they're not even in the right order! Red and yellow next to each other? What kind of monster would do this?" The scent of his hair gel suddenly seemed to burn in the air, a physical manifestation of his internal turmoil.
"I'm sorry, sir! It just... it just happened!" Boyle cried from the floor, still tangled in the mess of papers.
The Vulture couldn't look away. He was transfixed. It was in this moment, as he was consumed by the psychological torture of an unsorted file system, that Jake made his move. He walked over to the Vulture's side, and with a casual, almost imperceptible motion, he slid the folder from under his arm. The feeling of the cold, smooth paper against his fingertips was a quiet triumph. He replaced it with a pre-prepared, identical folder full of fake, nonsensical paperwork.
"Hey, Vulture," Jake said with a casual grin. "Looks like you have your hands full. I'll take this for you."
The Vulture didn't even register it. He was too busy staring at Boyle, who was now crawling on his hands and knees, trying to organize the files by color. "Don't touch them!" the Vulture screamed, his voice filled with a desperate, paternalistic rage. "They need to be organized by emotional tone!"
Jake walked away, the real folder secure under his arm, a wide, triumphant smile on his face. The squad, who had been watching in silent, furious anticipation, let out a collective cheer, a low, celebratory murmur that broke the tension.
Later that day, as the Vulture was still trying to find his way out of a fake lead, Holt walked past Adam's desk. He didn't say anything, didn't crack a smile. But as he passed, he gave Adam a subtle, barely perceptible nod. It was a rare, meaningful gesture of approval, and Adam felt a quiet swell of pride. The scent of Holt's clean, starchy uniform felt like a silent compliment.
The System, in a purely informational, non-emotional way, provided the final, satisfying reward.
[SYSTEM: REPUTATION WITH SQUAD: +15%. YOU ARE NOW CONSIDERED A VALUED ASSET. A high-value bonus has been awarded for strategic use of absurdity.]
[SYSTEM: The Vulture has been thwarted. Your actions have created a short-term deterrent. However, his behavioral patterns indicate a high likelihood of retaliation.]
Adam sat at his desk, the quiet triumph of the day still lingering. His hand, the one the ferret had bitten, was still throbbing, but it felt like a small, insignificant price to pay. He looked over at Boyle, who was walking toward him with a small, wrapped package in his hand.
"Here," Boyle said, his voice soft. "For helping with... the madness. It's a gift."
Adam unwrapped it to find a small, beautifully carved wooden ferret. It was painted with a mischievous expression, and it had a tiny, minuscule block of Gouda cheese in its paws. The wood felt smooth and cool under his fingers, and the paint was a glossy, vibrant color. The faint smell of wood polish and paint filled his nostrils.
"It's from the artisanal ferret festival," Boyle said, a shy smile on his face. "I thought... I thought you deserved it."
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