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When Shawn wakes up, he knows two things. His name is Shawn and he knows nothing else.
He’s nothing if not a detective (Is he? He didn’t know. That feels right though) and he begins to make some deductions.
Hospital. No memories. Bitch of a headache.
Injury induced amnesia.
How? No idea.
There’s a Black man sitting at his side, muttering about how much of an idiot Shawn is and how he’s going to kill him himself if he doesn’t die from this head injury.
He makes Shawn smile.
“Guess you’re gonna have to finish the job yourself because I’m feeling tippity top shape.”
“I’d be worried your brain’s been scrambled but that sounds exactly like the kind of dumbass bullshit you’d say. That’s definitely not the saying.”
“I’ve heard it both ways,” Shawn says with a shrug.
“Glad to see you’re still feeling yourself.”
He is? Well, that’s good to know.
Enter: a grumpy man with what seems to be a permanent scowl. He softens just slightly at the sight of Shawn.
“Seems you’re alive.”
“That I am. Don’t worry. I can’t be taken down that easily.”
“Well, in that case.” The man tosses Shawn a file full of pictures. “We’ve hit a dead end and we’re hoping you’ll… sense something.” He says this begrudgingly, like it hurts to say.
Shawn scans the photos and takes in the details. Ah, a crime scene. A puzzle for him to solve. An easy puzzle at that.
“The gardner is being framed, but it’s the cook.”
The man glares at him. “That’s it? No theatrics? No vision from the spirits?”
Man, this guy is quite dramatic.
Shawn flips through the photos. “Smudges of fertilizer and dirt in the footprints. Some may think it’s a sloppy mistake, but the weight distribution of the footsteps doesn’t align with what one may expect from a man with a size 10 foot.” Next photo. “Despite the seeming sloppiness of the killer, it’s a pristine kill. The curvature of the cuts are made not with the hands of someone who cuts plants but someone with a more delicate hand. Someone who, for example, would be cutting fish for their pescatarian client every day.” Next photo. “But the most damning evidence is the missing kitchen knife that, guessing by the slot missing in the block, would be the perfect size to commit this particular crime.” He looks up with a smug grin but is met with two jaw dropped faces of shock. “Or… not?”
“How did you know all of that?” the grumpy man demands.
“I… looked at the pictures? And deduced based on the clues? What else was I supposed to do?”
“Have you always been able to do this?”
The smiley, now panicked, man beside him gestures wildly at Shawn.
“I don’t know,” Shawn says honestly.
“You don’t— what do you mean you don’t know?” He wipes a hand over his mouth.
Shawn just shrugs quietly. “I’m sorry, sir. I wish I had an explanation but I don’t.”
“What did you just call me?” He says, head snapping to face Shawn, eyes calculating. “Shawn,” he says slowly. “Do you know who I am?”
Busted.
“You’re… my boss?”
The man who apparently isn’t his boss(?) takes a step back. “Fuck.” Realization dawns on him. “Shawn, are you psychic?”
Shawn snorts. “Is that… a joke that I don’t get?”
The panicked man deflates with defeat, slumping against the wall and covering his face with his hands.
“I knew it. I knew it. You were never—” His glee dims. “But that means… you were telling the truth when we first met. You really did solve those crimes just by watching the news.”
He did? Cool!
“And I didn’t believe you. So you had to make up a stupid lie… that I fell for.”
Man, this is soap opera levels of drama.
“What happens now?” Shawn asks.
“I don’t know. But the second you get you memories back, you are going to have a lot of explaining to do.”
Oh man. Sucks to be future him. But in the meantime…
“Do they have any pudding in here?”