Nick’s second journey into a movie world had taken place two years earlier.
The Magic Movie Ticket sent him into an obscure low-budget zombie film that he had never seen in his prrward on paper: enter a Barcelona overrun by the infected and rescue a couple trapped inside a residential building.
In practice, it was another nightmare.
The ticket gave Nick the identity of a soldier assigned to a Spanish special-operations unit.
He entered the besieged city alongside the rest of his team, fighting through streets filled with infected civilians before reaching the apartment block where the targets were supposedly hiding.
The unit suffered heavily while clearing the surrounding area.
By the time they secured the building and reached the correct apartment, everyone was exhausted, wounded, and running low on ammunition.
Nick forced open the bathroom door and found the missing couple inside.
They had chained their wrists and ankles together before the infection completely took over, probably hoping to stop themselves from hurting anyone.
It had not saved them.
By the time the rescue team arrived, both had fully transformed.
Nick failed the mission, but unlike his disastrous experience aboard the Nostromo, he managed to survive until the movie’s main story ended.
That was enough to earn him a basic reward.
Passive Skill: Lightning Reflexes The ability dramatically increased his reaction speed.
It was nowhere near Spider-Man’s danger sense, and it did nothing to increase his strength or durability.
However, when raw reflexes alone were considered, Nick believed he could briefly keep pace with someone like Captain America.
That advantage became especially obvious when he handled firearms.
Bob Munden, one of America’s most famous exhibition shooters, had become legendary for drawing, firing, and returning a revolver to its holster in a fraction of a second.
Nick had never been particularly interested in old-fashioned wheel guns, but Lightning Reflexes convinced him to practice privately.
His best result came with a single-action Colt revolver.
He drew and fired all six rounds in nine-tenths of a second, placing every bullet inside the target area.
His close-quarters skills were even more impressive.
In his former life, Nick had served as a field-kitchen squad leader in the U.S.
Army, but Army cooks were still soldiers.
He had trained with rifles, learned military combatives, and competed in boxing and kickboxing matches around his post.
His cooking assignment had never prevented him from becoming one of the toughest fighters in his unit.
After his rebirth, he began rebuilding his body at six years old.
Twenty years of disciplined exercise, martial-arts training, and conditioning had transformed him into the best hand-to-hand fighter in the Portland Police Bureau.
No officer in the department could consistently defeat him during sparring.
The muscle definition that had distracted Juliette enough to walk into a tree was merely the most visible result of those years of work.
Fortunately, Portland was still a relatively peaceful American city.
Nick knew that would not necessarily last.
In his former world, Oregon voters approved Measure 110 a little more than a decade later.
The law reduced penalties for possessing small quantities of illegal drugs and replaced many criminal charges with civil citations and treatment referrals.
Supporters believed the measure would move addiction away from the criminal-justice system and toward public health.
Nick remembered the streets deteriorating as drug use, homelessness, and public disorder became increasingly visible.
He did not know whether this world would follow the same path.
If Portland ever reached that point, he planned to resign, sell the house, and leave Oregon before the city collapsed around him.
Loyalty to a department did not mean he had to sacrifice his entire life for politicians determined to ignore reality.
For now, however, the streets remained manageable.
Nick had served as a PPB patrol officer for more than three years without firing his weapon outside the shooting range.
Most disorderly suspects backed down when confronted by an officer who stood six-foot-one and looked as though he could break them in half.
Pepper spray handled the few who refused to cooperate.
He rarely needed his Taser.
Portland officers were commonly issued Glock 22 pistols chambered in .40 S&W.
The one riding in Nick’s new Safariland holster had been cleaned, maintained, and carried through hundreds of shifts without ever being used against another person.
It was, as some officers joked, a gun of kindness.
Today seemed determined to preserve that record.
Because Nick’s regular patrol partner had been reassigned to train a rookie, he spent his final day in uniform working alone.
Part of him expected trouble simply because it was his last shift before moving upstairs to the detective division.
Experience had taught him that peaceful days often became chaotic the moment an officer started looking forward to going home.
Yet the entire morning passed without incident.
Nick cruised through downtown, responded to a noise complaint that resolved itself before he arrived, and helped an elderly driver change a flat tire.
The most dangerous encounter of the day involved a territorial Chihuahua that tried to bite his boot.
Around noon, he stopped at a small diner near Old Town Chinatown and ordered a turkey club with fries.
After finishing lunch in his patrol car, he reached for the radio to notify dispatch that he was available again.
The dispatcher called first.
“All units, radio check.” Nick pressed the push-to-talk button.
“Burkhardt Seven-Eight.
Signal is clear.” The woman on the other end paused after hearing his voice.
When she spoke again, her previously mechanical tone had softened.
“Copy, Burkhardt Seven-Eight.
Respond to a non-emergency illegal-parking complaint at the twenty-eight-hundred block of Northeast Alberta Street.” “Copy, twenty-eight-hundred block of Alberta.” Nick checked the rearview mirror, confirmed that the road behind him was clear, and made a U-turn.
“Give me the details.” “The complainant owns the property at that address.
A white Kia sedan with Oregon plates is parked in the access lane of an active construction site.
Plate number Tango X-ray Yankee Five-Eight-Four.” The dispatcher continued after a brief pause.
“The vehicle’s owner refuses to move it and will not speak with the complainant.
The property owner wants an officer to issue a citation and is prepared to contact a towing company.” “Understood.
White Kia blocking private construction access, Oregon plate TXY-584.
I’m leaving Old Town now.
Estimated arrival is five minutes.
Mark me en route.” Nick pressed lightly on the accelerator.
The Crown Victoria answered with a deep growl as its V8 engine pushed the heavy patrol car forward.
“Copy, Burkhardt Seven-Eight.
Status updated.” The dispatcher hesitated before adding, “For additional information, switch to the phone channel.” Nick sighed.
That last sentence had nothing to do with an illegally parked Kia.
He turned the selector knob to the private channel used for direct conversations with dispatch.
“What is it, Laila?” Her professional voice disappeared immediately.
“So, Mr.
July,” she said sweetly, “you’re coming to the party tonight, right?
It is being held for your promotion.” Nick kept his eyes on the road.
“Laila, we’re working.” “I noticed.” “I report to the detective division tomorrow.
Do you really want my new lieutenant hearing that I spent my last patrol shift flirting with dispatch?” Laila laughed softly.
“Don’t pretend you’re worried.
I know you’ve been seeing my supervisor.” Nick’s hand tightened around the steering wheel.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “Of course not.
Monica only starts wearing high heels to work whenever you’re scheduled for day shift.” “That proves nothing.” “It proves she wants you looking at her legs.” Nick rubbed his forehead.
Laila continued before he could stop her.
“Besides, I’ll delete this recording.
Even if Monica heard it, she wouldn’t care.” “That sounds dangerously optimistic.” “Just be at the Blue Knight tonight.
Monica can have you later, but the first half of the evening belongs to me.” Nick nearly missed his turn.
He recovered quickly, checked the intersection, and guided the Crown Victoria onto the next street.
Laila’s bold declaration left him momentarily speechless.
His free hand moved toward his lower back almost unconsciously.
This entire situation was his own fault.
The discipline developed during his military service had taught him to control his temper, maintain a routine, and endure hardship.
It had not erased his natural desires.
After awakening in this world, Nick had grown up surrounded by a far more casual attitude toward relationships.
Puberty combined that social freedom with an unusually attractive body and the confidence of an adult soul.
The results had been predictable.
His current body stood a little over six feet tall with broad shoulders, long legs, and balanced proportions.
Thick eyebrows framed deep-set blue eyes, while his black hair created a striking contrast against his fair complexion.
His jaw was strong without appearing harsh.
Faint smile lines beside his nose softened his features and gave him a trace of youthful charm whenever he relaxed.
Years of training added defined muscle without making him look bulky.
Women noticed him before he entered a room and continued watching after he left.
His eyes made the effect stronger.
The experiences of two lives had left a quiet weariness behind them.
Young women saw maturity in that expression, while older ones often viewed him as a stubborn, dangerous puppy they wanted to tame.
Throughout high school, college, and his first year with the PPB, Nick had rarely disappointed an attractive woman who showed clear interest.
He had never forced anyone or made promises he did not intend to keep.
Still, his romantic history had become complicated enough that Hank occasionally needed a drink merely to hear about it.
Nick had calmed down during the previous two years.
The thrill of another casual encounter no longer held the same appeal.
He had begun wanting something deeper than physical attraction, though he had not completely abandoned his old habits.
A few regular partners still invited him over for weekend “poker nights.” Laila was one of them.
“Fine,” Nick said at last.
“I’ll be there.” “I knew you would.” “Delete this recording afterward.
If Monica hears everything you just said, tonight could become far more interesting than I can handle.” Laila’s laughter became warmer.
“You’re hoping she hears it.” “I am not.” “Admit it.
You’d be the one benefiting.” Nick spotted the construction barriers ahead and quickly interrupted before the conversation became even more reckless.
“I’m approaching the address.
Switch us back to the public channel.” “Duty calls, Detective Burkhardt.” “Not until tomorrow.” “Then enjoy your last day in uniform, Officer Burkhardt.” The private channel went silent.
Nick returned the radio to the main frequency and slowed the Crown Victoria as he approached the twenty-eight-hundred block of Alberta Street.
His last patrol shift had finally given him something to do.