Chapter 3: Tactical Tacos and Tango Lessons
Fridays at the precinct had a vibe.
Lopez called it "false hope with paperwork." Bradford called it "Don't Get Shot Day." Chen just brought muffins.
But today, Grey made it weird.
"We're doing a precinct-wide cooking contest," he announced at roll call. "Break room. End of shift. Winner gets one vacation day. Loser cleans the microwave. Stanton, you're already on thin ice after last week's rice stunt."
"I won hearts," I said.
"You also melted a spatula."
"Fair."
Jackson whispered, "You are entering, right?"
I blinked. "I'm insulted you had to ask."
This wasn't just a contest.
This was my arena.
Retirement Home Mayhem
First call of the day? A noise complaint at a retirement home. Someone had set off firecrackers during a tai chi class.
When we arrived, the scene was... not what I expected.
"Everything was fine until Florence tried the tango," one resident whispered. "She knocked over a planter and declared war."
Sure enough, Florence—age 87, in pink sneakers—was leading a reluctant dance partner through the courtyard, while three elderly men were using canes as fencing foils.
Jackson said, "We have to intervene."
"No," I said, cracking my knuckles. "We have to out-dance her."
Jackson blinked. "You're kidding."
I stepped onto the patio, bowed to Florence, and said, "May I cut in?"
And thus began the most graceful, hilarious tango duel in LAPD history.
The Cook-Off Begins
Back at the precinct, the competition prep began. The break room had been cleared, tables pushed together, and a line of mismatched kitchen tools laid out like weapons.
Bradford was smug. "I did two tours in Texas. I know tacos."
Chen unrolled a packet of nori and cold rice. "Sushi tacos."
Lopez glared. "That's blasphemy."
Jackson whispered to me, "What's your plan?"
"Simple," I said. "We go fusion."
I scavenged the precinct fridge like a reality show contestant. Caramelized onions. Chipotle mayo. Leftover teriyaki beef. Tortillas that may have seen a better decade.
Every sizzle of the skillet had rhythm. I flipped tortillas with flair. Jackson followed, copying me until he nearly launched one into the ceiling.
"Control your arc," I said.
"I'm trying!"
"You must become the tortilla."
"...What does that even mean?!"
"Exactly."
Enter the Spy
Then Natasha walked in.
She wore sunglasses, a tailored black blazer, and carried a clipboard like she was conducting an FBI raid.
Grey blinked. "Who are you?"
"Independent evaluator," she said smoothly. "Your mayor's office wants transparency."
No one questioned it.
She winked at me once when no one was looking.
Each officer presented their dish. Bradford brought something covered in cheese and patriotism. Lopez's carne asada looked suspiciously catered. Chen's sushi taco got raised eyebrows.
Then came ours.
Jackson stepped forward proudly.
"We present: Teriyaki fire-fusion taco with crispy ghost pepper finish and grilled scallion crunch."
Grey took a bite. Blinked. Took another.
Natasha simply nodded. "Proper char. Bold finish. Tortilla arc needs work."
Jackson beamed.
We won.
Bradford sulked and glared at the microwave.
"I'm not scrubbing that thing," he growled.
"Yes, you are," Lopez said.
"And you'll like it," I added.
That night, Natasha and I celebrated on the rooftop.
"You're dangerously popular," she said.
"It's terrifying."
She bit into a taco, choked, and reached for water.
"Ghost pepper finish," I said.
She punched me in the arm.
Totally worth it.
Parkour and Power Rangers
Next shift, we visited a playground for community outreach. The kids loved the cruiser. One dared me to jump the jungle gym.
Jackson groaned. "Please don't."
I saluted. "For educational purposes only."
I ran, leapt—and clipped the slide. I spiraled into the sandbox.
The applause was thunderous.
A kid asked if I was a Power Ranger.
"Yes," I whispered. "But don't tell the Chief."
Training Dojo: Mop Edition
Grey surprised us with a team-building drill the next day.
"Obstacle course. Laps. Mop baton defense. Stanton, run it."
I grabbed two training mops. "Welcome to the dojo."
Lopez dropped into a stance. "Let's go, Sensei."
The drill was chaos. We flipped over mats. Jackson knocked over a trash can. Everyone was sweaty and laughing by the end.
Bradford muttered, "Dumbest thing I've ever enjoyed."
Morale? Sky-high.
Wedding Party Riot
Weekend call: wedding party noise complaint.
Inside the banquet hall? Strobe lights. Confetti. An inflatable llama.
Two families arguing over the playlist.
Lopez sighed. "They're about to throw hands over Bruno Mars."
"Everyone!" I shouted. "Dance battle for the AUX cord!"
They cheered.
Ten minutes later I was moonwalking while Bradford tried the worm and lost to gravity.
We brought peace through rhythm.
Back at the precinct, Chen muttered, "You're a walking fever dream."
Only on weekends.
Precinct Olympics
Grey groaned. "Who authorized this?"
On the board: PRECINCT OLYMPICS
Coffee Relay. Chair Course. Interrogation Charades.
Jackson and I (Team Mop Force) tied with Lopez and Chen (Team Sass Patrol).
Coin landed in a donut box.
Grey paid for both.
Victory.
Rookie Lessons
That night I found rookie Reyes sitting alone.
"Messed up a traffic stop," she mumbled. "Lopez hates me."
I handed her a protein bar. "Don't quit on day three."
"You're not what I expected," she said.
"That makes two of us."
She smiled.
"Can I ride with you sometime?"
"You're riding next shift."
She blinked.
"Bring your own mop."
Rooftop Reflections
Later, I sat with Natasha, churros between us.
"You're building something here," she said.
"I'm not sure what yet."
"A new legend," she whispered. "One that dances, cooks, and somehow survives Bradford."
The silence that followed didn't echo.
It glowed.