Nick’s second journey through the Cinema Pass had taken place two years prior.
It involved a low-budget, foreign survival horror film—a narrative completely unfamiliar to him.
His objective had been deceptive in its simplicity: navigate a quarantined urban block in Barcelona to extract a trapped civilian couple before the infection swept the area.
He had entered the world bound to the identity of a local tactical response officer.
Despite utilizing every ounce of his squad-leader instincts—clearing stairwells under immense physical strain and maneuvering through dark corridors—he had arrived at the designated apartment only to find the door sealed from the inside.
Within the primary bath, two bodies lay chained to the pipes, already fully turned into aggressive, unreasoning hosts.
Though he failed the primary objective, surviving until the narrative closed yielded a second passive trait: [Kinetic Pre-Cognition & Reflex Enhancement].
It did not grant him superhuman speed, but it heightened his neurological processing.
His perception of motion accelerated, granting him the critical millisecond advantage needed to react before a threat could fully execute an intent.
In target shooting, the difference was immediate.
Where a seasoned law-enforcement marksman required nearly a second to draw, align sight picture, and squeeze off a controlled double-tap, Nick could draw his issue sidearm and place six precise rounds on steel in under a second—a feat he strictly kept to private range sessions far from precinct eyes.
In hand-to-hand combat, his military Sanda foundation, paired with heightened reflexes, made him practically untouchable among his peers at the Bureau’s tactical gym.
Yet Nick maintained a quiet, reserved posture.
In the Portland Police Bureau, excessive display only brought unwanted attention, and Nick preferred the quiet utility of competence over reputation.
The Portland of 2008 remained relatively calm, its neighborhood precincts operating with an orderly routine.
For over three years as a patrol officer, Nick had rarely found occasion to unholster his service weapon outside of duty qualifications.
Minor disturbances were typically resolved with verbal command presence, or, at most, a brief spray of OC pepper.
His issue Glock 22—chambered in .40 S&W—sat securely in his Safariland holster, its finish unblemished by emergency deployments.
Today was his final shift in uniform.
With Hank already reassigned upstairs to prepare his desk in Homicide, Nick took his final solo patrol route through the North and Northeast districts.
After stopping for a quick lunch along 8th Avenue, he picked up his radio mic to update his status with Dispatch.
Before he could key the channel, a call crackled through the console speaker.
“All units, dispatch radio check, over.”
Nick pressed the PTT switch on his lapel.
“Burkhardt, 78.
Signal clear.”
The dispatcher’s tone shifted subtly, losing its rigid, metallic edge.
“Copy, 78.
We have a non-emergency parking complaint.
Location: 2800 block of Alberta Street.”
“Copy, Alberta Street.
What’s the situation?” Nick checked his side mirror, executed a smooth U-turn, and held the mic.
“Property owner reports an unauthorized white Kia sedan, Oregon plate Tango-Xray-Yankee-584, blocking a construction bay access lane.
The driver is refusing to move or clear the lane.
Complainant requests an officer to issue a citation or authorize a commercial tow.”
“Understood.
White Kia, plate T-X-Y-584.
I’m five minutes out.
Show me en route.”
Nick pressed down on the accelerator, the Ford Crown Victoria’s modular V8 engine letting out a low, steady rumble as the patrol car gained speed along the avenue.
“Copy, 78.
Status set to 10-6,” the dispatcher replied, pausing briefly before adding, “If you require secondary details, switch to line two.”
Recognizing the subtle instruction, Nick adjusted the selector dial on his console to the secondary channel reserved for non-recorded administrative queries.
“What is it, Laila?”
Laila’s professional cadence dropped immediately into a warm, familiar tone.
“So, ‘Mr.
July,’ are we actually going to see you at the precinct gathering tonight?
Hank said you were trying to skip out early.”
Nick let out a quiet breath.
“Laila, I’m on duty.
And I report to the Homicide Division tomorrow morning.
Starting off my transfer with an administrative review over airtime usage isn’t on my schedule.”
A low laugh came over the receiver.
“Please, Nick.
The supervisor won’t care, and I’ll clear the secondary log anyway.
Just make sure you show up at the Blue Knight.
Half the precinct shifts are dropping by.”
“I’ll be there,” Nick replied, his tone steady but soft.
“Just keep the channels clear, Laila.
I’m approaching the street now.”
“Understood, Detective-to-be,” she teased softly before cutting the connection.
Switching his radio back to the primary dispatch frequency, Nick adjusted his grip on the wheel as he turned onto Alberta Street, his blue eyes narrowing slightly as he scanned the quiet curb ahead.