Decoy Badge Day

A hand-lettered banner droops: “LAW ENFORCEMENT COLLECTORS EXCHANGE (NO QUESTIONS).”

Folding tables overflow with dusty batons, framed commendations, and badge cases like jewelry boxes. MEN in windbreakers murmur like they’re at a wine tasting.

COLE MERCER, cap pulled low, wears a thrift-store blazer that still has a PRICE TAG. JUNO REYES rocks a fake mustache and an oversized “SECURITY” lanyard.

Rule one: don’t look like you want a badge.

I literally used to have one.

Yeah. And now you’re like… a recovering badge guy.

They move. Juno “accidentally” bumps a collector; a badge case flips open midair—

—Cole SNATCHES it before it hits the floor. Clean. Too clean.

COLE (CONT’D)

Old muscle memory. Don’t judge me.

I’m judging you a little.

At a back table: a GLASS DISPLAY marked “RARE MUNICIPAL.” Behind it, a SLICK VENDOR in a bolo tie, smiling like a realtor.

Inside: an IDENTICAL VERSION of Cole’s old badge—same number stamp.

Cole stiffens.

That’s mine.

Our “mine,” remember? Like… emotional communism.

Cole steps up, casual.

Nice piece. Where’d it come from?

Consignment. Seized property, estate sale, attic miracles… depends who’s asking.

Juno flashes the SECURITY lanyard, tries authority.

We’re doing… compliance.

The vendor’s smile twitches. He points to a metal cash box with a keypad.

Compliance costs extra.

Cole spots a BROCHURE under the glass: “HOLT, D. — COMMUNITY HERO FUNDRAISER.” A photo of DETECTIVE DANA HOLT shaking hands with a mayor.

Stapled to it: a TAG with handwritten numbers—same format as an evidence log.

That’s not a price tag. That’s an evidence chain.

Or a very nerdy coupon.

Cole taps the brochure lightly. The vendor SLAPS his hand away—too fast.

Hands off.

Cole’s eyes flick to the vendor’s wrist.

A faint INK STAMP: “EVIDENCE - HOLD.”

Cole’s jaw tightens.

You’re laundering out of the department.

Department? No. Departments don’t do anything. People do.

A SHADOW falls across them.

Detective DANA HOLT stands there, plainclothes, tired eyes. She’s holding a coffee like it’s a weapon.

Cole Mercer.

The room hushes. Collectors suddenly find the ceiling fascinating.

Juno pops between them, mustache crooked.

Officer, I can explain—this is a… historical reenactment.

You’re robbing a VFW now?

I’m shopping. For my life.

Holt clocks the brochure, the badge, the vendor’s stamp.

What is that?

The vendor smoothly slides the brochure away.

Just charity material. Detective Holt, right? Big fan. You sign photos?

Holt’s eyes harden.

I don’t do merch.

Cole leans in, low.

They’re using your name the way they used mine.

Holt scoffs, reflexive… then notices the handwritten log numbers peeking from under the vendor’s palm.

“D.H. transfer—locker—release.”

She looks up, realization cracking through her certainty.

HOLT (CONT’D)

That’s… my initials.

Could also be “Deluxe Ham.” Just saying.

Holt ignores her, steps closer to the vendor.

Where did you get that tag?

The vendor’s smile drops a millimeter.

People donate. People forget.

No. Evidence doesn’t “donate.”

Holt reaches—FAST—snatches the brochure. The vendor’s hand shoots to stop her—

Juno KICKS the table leg.

The glass display wobbles, then TILTS like a slow-motion disaster.

Oh no.

CRASH—badges cascade like metallic rain, clattering everywhere. Collectors dive like it’s a grenade.

Juno rides the chaos, scooping the brochure and shoving it into Cole’s blazer.

Plan A: subtlety is dead.

What’s Plan B?

JUNO points to a side door marked “BINGO STORAGE.”

Plan B: cardio.

Holt grabs Cole’s arm—then hesitates, seeing the stamp on the vendor, the tags, the badges on the floor like spilled secrets.

Cole… if you’re telling the truth—

I am. And if you arrest me, you’re next.

A beat. Holt’s grip loosens.

Go.

Wow. Character growth. Love it.

Juno yanks Cole toward the storage door. Behind them, the vendor hisses into a phone.

They saw the Holt tag. Move the chain. Now.

Holt hears it. Her eyes flash: she’s in it whether she likes it or not.

They’re setting me up.

Cole and Juno vanish through the door as Holt turns—toward the vendor, toward the mess, toward a case that just became hers.