Chapter 12: Tim's Story
Thursday Night, May 24, 2018 - Night Shift Patrol
Night patrol was different. Quieter streets. Different energy. People out at 2 AM were either working, partying, or up to something.
Tim drove in silence, scanning intersections with practiced efficiency. We'd been on shift for three hours with only two calls—noise complaint and a false alarm at a convenience store.
"You handled that pursuit wrong last week," Tim said suddenly.
Not a question. Statement of fact.
"I know."
"But you didn't freeze." He glanced over. "Some boots do. First real chase, first real danger, they lock up. You went after him."
"Seemed like the thing to do."
"It was stupid." Tim turned onto a residential street. "Also brave. The two aren't mutually exclusive."
This was new territory. Tim offering something almost like praise, wrapped in criticism.
"Freezing would've been worse than taking the hit," I said carefully.
"True." He pulled into a 7-Eleven parking lot. "Coffee?"
We grabbed cups from the always-fresh, never-good pot. Tim took his black. I added sugar—one packet, stirred exactly three times. He noticed.
"You count your stirs?"
"Habit."
"You have a lot of habits. Coffee orders memorized. Details catalogued. Everything organized." He sipped. "Control mechanisms. I recognize them because I do the same thing."
Tim Bradford's POV
The kid was wound tighter than he appeared. I'd seen it building over five weeks—the careful deflections, the controlled responses, the walls disguised as openness.
"How do you handle the bad calls?" Mercer asked. "The ones that stick?"
"Poorly." Honest answer. "I used to think I could carry everything alone. Someone I knew once tried the same thing. Ended badly."
"Someone?"
"Someone." I wasn't ready to talk about Isabel with a rookie. Wasn't sure I'd ever be ready. "Point is, trying to be bulletproof doesn't work. You crack eventually. Better to admit you need help before that happens."
Mercer stared out the window. "What if you can't ask for help?"
"Can't or won't?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah. It does." I finished my coffee. "Can't means the system failed you. Won't means you're failing yourself."
He didn't respond. We drove in silence for another hour, handling two more calls. Routine stuff. The kid was competent—better than competent. But something was eating him.
Ethan's POV - 3:47 AM
We parked on an empty overlook. Downtown LA glittered below, artificial stars against dark sky.
"You deflect," Tim said suddenly.
"Sir?"
"Every personal question, you deflect. Joke or story about your parents. Change the subject. I do the same thing." He turned to face me. "It doesn't work long-term. Whatever weight you're carrying, rookie money and good instincts won't fix it."
My hands tightened on my knees. "I'm fine."
"Everyone says that before they're not." His voice was gentle. Actually gentle. "I know the signs, Mercer. You're running yourself into the ground trying to be perfect. It's not sustainable."
I died in another world. Woke up in someone else's body. Have powers I can't explain. Know people are going to die if I don't stop it. And I can't tell anyone any of this.
"I just want to do good work," I said.
"You are doing good work. But you're also carrying something that's tearing you up inside." He paused. "I'm not asking you to tell me what it is. I'm telling you that you can't carry it alone forever. Eventually, you'll need to trust someone."
The words hit harder than the punch from the pursuit suspect. Tim saw through me. Not the powers—he didn't know about those. But the weight. The isolation. The pretending.
"How do you do it?" I asked. "Carry the weight?"
"I don't. Not well, anyway." He started the engine. "I work too much. I train too hard. I keep people at arm's length because letting them close means they can hurt you. It's not healthy. Don't copy my coping mechanisms."
"You're telling me not to be like you?"
"I'm telling you to be better than me."
Friday Morning, May 25, 2018 - End of Shift
I sat in my Honda for twenty minutes after shift ended. Tim's words circled on loop in my perfect recall.
You deflect. You're carrying something. You can't do it alone forever.
My phone buzzed. Text from Nolan: You good? Saw you sitting in your car.
I typed: Do I deflect too much?
His response came immediately: Yes. But we love you anyway.
I smiled despite the exhaustion. Nolan's earnest honesty was exactly what I needed.
Another text: Beer tonight? Just us. No big party.
Yeah. Your place?
See you at 7.
I drove home past Nolan's house, the mansion that still felt too big, the garage with cars I never drove. Tim was right—I was carrying weight I couldn't share. But maybe I didn't have to carry it completely alone.
I couldn't tell them about the transmigration. Couldn't explain the powers. Couldn't reveal the meta-knowledge.
But I could let them in on the smaller things. The stress. The fear. The loneliness of pretending to be someone I wasn't.
Baby steps. One beer at a time.
At least it was a start.
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