Sitcomverse: TBBT, HIMYM, B99, & Modern family (Remake)

CHAPTER 4: THE 99TH, THE PRANK BROTHER, AND THE CASE OF THE MYSTERIOUS BAGEL

The taxi ride to Brooklyn felt like crossing into another dimension, even within the same city. Manhattan, with its towering, pristine glass, gave way to the grittier, more lived-in charm of Brooklyn. Brownstones with stoops, bustling bodegas, and the distant wail of a siren replaced the polished gleam of Fifth Avenue. Adam, armed with his new NYPD forensic consultant ID and a bubbling sense of anticipation, felt a distinct shift in the air. This wasn't the intellectual sparring ground of Caltech-NYC or the social hub of MacLaren's. This was where the laws of physics met the chaos of human nature, and where a detective with the emotional maturity of a golden retriever somehow solved crimes.

" Okay, Stiels, deep breaths. This is it. The Nine-Nine. The mecca of mayhem and surprisingly effective policing. Don't mess this up. Don't accidentally quote too many Die Hard lines. At least not right away. "

The 99th Precinct building stood, a solid, no-nonsense brick structure, perfectly embodying the bureaucratic charm of law enforcement. He pushed through the heavy double doors, and the familiar cacophony of a working police station hit him like a warm, chaotic hug. Phones rang, typewriters clacked (yes, actual typewriters, because some things are just timeless), and the distinct aroma of cheap coffee and institutional cleaning supplies hung in the air.

And there he was. Jake Peralta. He was leaning back in his chair, feet propped up on his desk, meticulously crafting a paper airplane out of what looked suspiciously like a case file. His mouth was open slightly, a clear sign of intense concentration. Beside him, Detective Amy Santiago was meticulously organizing her pens by color and tip size, occasionally shooting Jake a look of exasperated fondness. Across the bullpen, Rosa Diaz, with her signature leather jacket, was sharpening a knife with unnerving calm, while Charles Boyle, bless his earnest heart, was excitedly describing the merits of a new artisanal pickle.

" It's even better in person. The sheer, unadulterated chaos. It's like a living, breathing sitcom. And I'm about to step right into the middle of it. "

Adam strode purposefully towards the front desk, where a perpetually bored civilian looked up, chewing gum with an almost rhythmic precision. "Adam Stiels, forensic consultant," he announced, flashing his new ID. "I believe Captain Holt is expecting me."

The civilian, without a word, pointed vaguely towards a closed door. "Holt's office. Don't touch anything."

Adam nodded, suppressing a smirk. "Wouldn't dream of it. Unless it's evidence. Then all bets are off."

He knocked twice on Captain Raymond Holt's door. A deep, measured voice from within replied, "Enter."

Captain Holt. The stoic, unflappable, emotionally impenetrable leader of the 99th. Adam mentally braced himself. This was a man who measured his emotions in nanometers.

Holt sat behind his desk, ramrod straight, his expression as unreadable as a cryptic crossword puzzle. He was meticulously cleaning his glasses. "Mr. Stiels. You're prompt. I appreciate punctuality. It signifies a respect for the established temporal framework."

"Captain Holt," Adam replied, extending a hand. Holt shook it firmly, his grip surprisingly strong. "Adam Stiels. Glad to be here. Heard you had a particularly… unique brand of crime-solving here at the 99th."

Holt's lips, imperceptibly, twitched. "Our methods are efficient. Effective. And occasionally, unconventional. But results are achieved. Your resume, Mr. Stiels, is… impressive. Two PhDs, one in String Theory, the other in Forensic Science. Your theoretical knowledge is, on paper, unparalleled." He paused, his gaze unblinking. "However, the realities of practical police work often differ from the pristine environments of academia. Can you handle… the mess?"

"Captain," Adam said, a hint of his Stiles Stilinski sarcasm creeping into his voice, "my previous life involved negotiating with a printer that actively despised me and convincing a man named Gary that paperclips are not, in fact, sentient. I assure you, I can handle 'the mess.' In fact, I thrive in it. Controlled chaos is my specialty."

A tiny, almost imperceptible nod from Holt. "Good. We have a… situation. A rather perplexing one. Detective Peralta." He gestured towards the bullpen. "Explain the situation to Mr. Stiels."

Jake, upon hearing his name, sprang up from his desk with the enthusiasm of a puppy who'd just been told it was walkies time. "Noice! The new science dude! I'm Jake Peralta, lead detective, master of deduction, and inventor of the 'human lie detector' game, which, by the way, Amy always loses because she's terrible at lying."

Amy rolled her eyes. "I just prefer to be honest, Jake. It's a foundational principle of a functional society."

"Boring!" Jake declared, then turned his attention to Adam, his eyes wide with excitement. "So, Mr. Stiels, you're the forensic genius, huh? Heard you've got like, two brains in there." He tapped his own head for emphasis.

"Something like that," Adam said, grinning. "And you must be Detective Peralta. The reputation precedes you. Something about a love of bad puns and the inherent superiority of Die Hard as a Christmas movie?"

Jake gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. "He gets it! He gets me! Finally! Someone who understands the fundamental truths of the universe!" He then dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Captain Holt doesn't appreciate my genius. He just… stares."

Holt, from his office, somehow managed to project a palpable sense of disapproval without making a sound.

"So, what's the situation?" Adam asked, eager to dive into his first actual case.

"Alright, so," Jake began, launching into a rapid-fire explanation, "we had a break-in at this artisanal bagel shop in Bushwick. Now, usually, we're talking smashed windows, cash register gone, the usual. But this guy… he didn't take any money. He didn't smash anything. He just… ate one bagel. A sesame bagel. And left the rest. With a single, perfectly symmetrical bite mark." Jake leaned in, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "We're calling it… The Case of the Highly Discriminating Bagel Bandit!"

Adam stared. "He broke into a bagel shop… to eat one bagel?"

"A sesame bagel!" Boyle chimed in, "The most superior of all bagels, of course. Excellent choice, Bandit."

Rosa snorted from her desk. "It's a bagel, Boyle. It's not a work of art."

"But it is a statement, Rosa!" Jake exclaimed. "Why just one? Why sesame? Why no money? It's a mystery wrapped in an enigma, covered in delicious seeds!"

"And what kind of forensic evidence did you find?" Adam asked, trying to keep a straight face. This was exactly the kind of absurd, low-stakes, yet endlessly entertaining case he remembered from the show.

"That's where you come in, brainiac!" Jake said, slapping him on the back. "We got… nothing. No prints, no fibers, no DNA. It's like he was a ghost! A bagel-eating ghost!"

" A ghost who really loves sesame bagels. Well, that narrows it down. To basically everyone in New York. "

Adam thought for a moment, accessing his system-granted forensic knowledge. He remembered the specific episode. The culprit was a local artist who was obsessed with creating "food art" and had developed a hyper-specific, almost ritualistic method of breaking into places and consuming only a single, symbolic item. The key to catching him was an obscure type of flour on his shoes.

"Alright," Adam said, a plan forming in his mind. "Let's go to the scene. I want to check for trace evidence. Specifically, I'm looking for… a particular kind of flour."

Jake's eyes lit up. "Flour! See, I told you guys he was good! My 'gut feeling' was saying 'flour,' but I couldn't put my finger on why!"

Amy rolled her eyes again. "Your 'gut feeling' usually says 'pizza' or 'another Die Hard sequel'."

At the bagel shop, the scene was exactly as described. One solitary, perfectly bitten sesame bagel on the counter. Adam, with his newly acquired "Expert Forensic Skills," knelt down, examining the floor. It was almost pristine, but his enhanced vision (another passive system perk he hadn't noticed until now) allowed him to spot it. A faint dusting of something unusual. He carefully collected a sample.

Back at the precinct's lab – a small but functional space where Adam was thrilled to find his name on the door – he ran the sample through a series of tests. "Got it," he announced triumphantly a few minutes later, holding up a small vial. "This isn't just any flour. This is… organic, artisanal, single-origin Sonora White Wheat flour. Very specific. Only found in a few high-end bakeries in the city."

Jake clapped his hands together. "Yes! Knew it! Now we just find the guy who smells like fancy bread and a deep-seated desire for only one specific bagel!"

"It's not just the flour, Jake," Adam continued, "it's the absence of anything else. No disturbance. No struggle. This guy isn't a typical thief. He's methodical. Ritualistic. And the single bite? It's not about hunger. It's about… an aesthetic. A performance."

Holt, who had silently entered the lab, actually raised an eyebrow. "An aesthetic? You deduce this from a bite mark and flour?"

"It's about psychological profiling, Captain," Adam said, enjoying the moment. "This isn't a crime of need; it's a crime of… expression. He's leaving his mark. Literally." He then pulled up a database on his computer. "Now, if we cross-reference this specific flour with known artists or performance art collectives in the area… ah. Here we go. Jeremy Pinter. Known for his 'ephemeral food installations' and his particular fondness for minimalist consumption as a critique of consumerism."

Jake stared, his jaw agape. "You just… knew that? From a bagel and some flour? This is amazing! You're like a wizard, but with science!"

"It's called forensic science, Jake," Adam corrected, but a genuine smile spread across his face. This was it. This was the immediate click he'd been hoping for. "And yes, sometimes it feels a little like magic. Now, let's go get our highly discerning bagel bandit."

Later that day, after a surprisingly easy arrest (Pinter was caught mid-contemplation of a single, perfectly ripe avocado), Jake cornered Adam in the bullpen, his eyes gleaming.

"Adam, dude, you're the best! That was awesome! You're like… the Sherlock Holmes of crumbs! We should be prank brothers! Like, a real, official duo! We could solve crimes, pull off epic Halloween Heists, and maybe even prank Holt so hard he cracks a smile!"

"Prank brothers, huh?" Adam mused, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I like the sound of that, Jake. I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful, chaotic friendship. And for the record, I'm already thinking of ways to replace Captain Holt's coffee with a non-caffeinated alternative that tastes exactly the same, just to observe his reaction."

Jake gasped. "You monster! I love it! Nine-Nine!"

Adam grinned. "Nine-Nine!"

The Plots System, ever present, shimmered with a new notification.

["PARTICIPATION REWARD: RESOLVED 'THE CASE OF THE HIGHLY DISCRIMINATING BAGEL BANDIT.' HIDDEN REWARD UNLOCKED: 'PRANK CO-CHAMPION' – ENHANCED ABILITY TO CONCEIVE AND EXECUTE COMPLEX PRANKS. +15 RESOURCEFULNESS, +10 COMEDIC TIMING. UPCOMING PLOT ALERT: 'THE PINEAPPLE INCIDENT' – TED MOSBY'S MYSTERY. REMINDER: MACLAREN'S PUB IS YOURS, SUBTLE INTERVENTION POTENTIAL HIGH."]

Adam couldn't help but laugh. He'd just gained "prank co-champion" status. His sarcastic, slightly nerdy soul felt utterly at home. This was going to be an epic ride.