The Prologue: Once Upon A Time...

A/N: This is the prologue for a story that had just recently popped into my head in the last month as I was rewatching Grimm. This one will have somewhat shorter chapters, so I can release them sooner. It only has one aspect that makes it a crossover. I decided to write it in first-person with multiple third-person POVs from the supporting characters, but I've come to realize how difficult it is to write like that. I might rewrite this and change it to third-person, depending on how it goes. Either way, I hope you all enjoy it!

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"Ohhhh," I groaned

'What happened?' I asked myself as my head spun. 'The last thing I remember…I don't remember. What the hell is going on?... Who am I?'

I was lying down on a bed. I could feel the warm blanket covering me, the fluffy pillow underneath my head, and…something soft touching my arm. I think it was a person.

'But why was it so dark?'

Oh, my eyes were closed. I slowly cracked them open while wiping the gunk between them to see a beige wooden roof…?

There was a nightstand, a couch chair, a large dresser, and some random pictures I couldn't make out. It was still dark, even with my eyes open wide.

The curtains were drawn, but I saw the night sky through the crack between them. I sat up, trying to figure out where or whose bed I was sleeping in.

'Did I get drunk last night? This ... is this my bed?'

I looked around madly and noticed how unfamiliar everything was, including the 'banging' redhead sleeping beside him, half-naked.

'Is this my house or hers? Where am I?'

"Mmmm," the girl moaned when I accidentally shook her.

I tried to stay quiet, but I was literally freaking out. Her back was to me as she slept, but I crept my head over to take a better look at her face.

'I mean…good for me.'

She looked tall, wearing a red-laced nightgown that matched her hair and showed plenty of cleavage. The girl was really pretty, and pale, and…

'Why does she look so familiar? I know I've seen her before.'

I tried hard to put a name to the face, but I came up blank.

"Maybe I was too drunk…," I mumbled before being hit with an excruciating headache between his eyes and at my temples.

"Ahhh," he shouted.

Images flew across my eyes—or mind, I wasn't sure. I was too preoccupied with the feeling of my mind melting into goo.

'Nick Burhart…'

'I know that name. I hear it all the time. I talked to him. I lived with him for almost thirty years. But how? I remember seeing the name in my yearbook. The boy was short, with green eyes and long straight dark hair styled in a bowl cut.'

The boy was adopted after his parents died in a car accident. He lived in New York, then in Portland with his Aunt Mar—wait, Aunt Marie?

'My Aunt Marie?!'

I remembered… The day mom and dad died in Rhinebeck, I spent the week with Aunt Marie.

She told me about their crash; she took me in to live with her. She hugged me in my bed and cradled me as I cried myself to sleep over their death.

We moved to Portland a couple of years later. She took me to basketball games—we loved the Blazers. Every Christmas, we would celebrate with a movie marathon before we opened gifts.

My trading card collection, toys, and my signed Rod Strickland jersey all came from her.

'The toy gun I begged for was my favorite.'

The dead frog in the microwave...

After high school, I joined the police academy while she took her trailer on a road trip across America. I remember being worried, but she was adamant that everything would be fine.

"I can take care of myself. You just need to worry about finishing at the top and watching out for the bad guys, Mr. Police officer," she told him. I was eighteen and still felt like a kid in front of her.

That didn't erase any of my worries. She was like a mother to me and the only family I had left.

But I just listened like a good boy and finished the academy ahead of all my peers. I worked, trained, studied, and loved it; hand-to-hand training, detective work, profiling, shooting… 'I was good.'

I knew I was meant to be a cop; it felt right.

She made it to my graduation…then I made it to Minneapolis… for her chemo.

'But that was years ago. Where was she now? At the hospital… Why do I doubt that…?'

"Nick! Nick, what's going on? Are you okay? What happened," someone grabbed me and yelled.

I turned, only to see one of the most beautiful girls I had ever laid eyes on. She turned on the lamp on the nightstand beside her and grabbed ahold of him worriedly.

The light only made her look more beautiful. Dark blue eyes, dark red hair, dark lips, heart-shaped face.

"Juliette…," I whispered.

Then…I met the girl… Juliette! How could I forget her?

I was so nervous when we first met that my palms were calmy. I was just a beat cop trying to get a pretty vet's number.

And she said yes. We went on our first date and more after it. We made mutual friends and went to parties together. I told her I loved her under a mistletoe, and we moved in together soon after.

The memory warmed me inside as I tried smiling at her while she looked at me, all agitated.

'That's where I was!'

"Nick, talk to me! You're scaring me. What's wrong with you? Wait, let me call an ambulance," she asked frantically, picking up her phone and about to dial.

"Wait!" I stopped her instead…a little too loudly. She still looked scared as she eyed me.

I calmed her down with a pat on the shoulder while I still rubbed my temples with my other hand.

"Sorry, Juliette. I'm fine. You don't need to call an ambulance. I'm okay," I said.

"Nick, what's wrong? Are you sure? What the hell was that?" she scrutinized while bombarding me with questions, hitting me with those damn turquoise eyes of hers.

"Nothing, nothing," I said as the pain receded some.

"That wasn't nothing, Nick. You almost blew my eardrums out. You scared that hell out of me. I almost peed myself," she confessed.

I just chortled, imagining her wetting the bed.

"No, seriously, Nick. You looked like you there was something wrong. What was that?" she repeated, almost begging to know.

"Nothing, really," I repeated calmly. "I woke up from a headache and then stubbed my toe trying to get up." I rubbed my toes gently…they were a bit cold.

"That's it!" she said, incredulous, sounding almost offended that I only hurt myself a little.

He tried to laugh, but it came out as a moan. "I was asleep. I wasn't expecting an attack from the meticulously picked-out oak floorboard." That was the wrong thing to say. I should always expect an attack, but why…?

"I thought a seasoned detective like you should always know to be prepared. Isn't that right?" she tapped my nose. "You tell me that all the time."

"Because you should always have a spare key for your car," I reminded her, "especially if you already lost the replacement that came with it," I defended with a chuckle, recalling the incident at Chris and Melissa's house.

"Are you really blaming your clumsiness on our floorboard?" she crossed her arms and defended her precious wood.

She loved our hardwood. Juliette and I went on two trips and spent at least ten hours in total at hardware stores, picking them out after I moved in.

"Of course not," I kissed her, then uncovered myself and got out of bed.

"Where are you going?" she looked at me, confused.

"I need some water, maybe some fresh air." And wasn't that the truth?

My stomach felt queasy, like I was about to barf—or more like dry-heave since my stomach was completely empty.

"Okay, but are you sure you're feeling fine?" she asked again, worrying over me.

"Definitely. Just a light headache." That, on the other hand, was a lie. Something was going on with me, and I needed to figure it out before I scared her again.

"Go ahead, but hurry back. I need to snuggle with something hot and strong to keep me warm," she said with a coy grin.

I gave her a short laugh, "Sure. I'll be back in a minute," he said, returning her loving smile with one of my own. I was a lucky man.

She closed the lights and went back under the covers while I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and walked out of our bedroom, closing the door behind me.

I went downstairs, noting the pictures of Juliette and me spread across the walls, separated perfectly apart, with frames Juliette picked out. Same with the living room; there were either photos of us on dates or of flowers and animals that she liked to call 'art.'

I was really thirsty. My throat was way too parched, and the skin on my bottom lip broke from being chapped. It was sore, and I kept wetting it with my tongue to soothe it.

I went to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and drank the whole thing. I noticed another photo of Juliette and me through the doorway in the living room, of them on a picnic, looking cozy together.

'Why does this feel so… bizarre?'

Everything around looked familiar but different at the same time. Like I was floating while taking my hundredth tour of a new house.

I remembered when we picked out the furniture, the grocery shopping every week, paying the bills, even the vegan bacon he remembered Juliette buying when she was on a diet.

I was thrilled the day I moved in, but I was also self-conscience, worried that she might change her mind.

I carried two moving boxes by myself as I walked up the front porch. I didn't want her to strain herself with me moving in.

My hands were full, and the door was closed.

"Juliette, could you get the door, please?' I yelled, hoping she would hear from inside.

When no one came out, I yelled a little louder.

"Juliet door," I called out again just as she came outside.

"Baby, you're gonna hurt yourself," she said, opening the door for him.

"It's part of the plan. Then you'll have to take care of me," I joked. It wasn't too difficult, and she should know how I was.

Almost out of breath, I walked inside and said, "I think these are the encyclopedias."

'Why did I need so many encyclopedias when I had the internet…?'

I went to the living room and placed the boxes atop the others I had already brought in.

I turned back around and headed for the door.

"A couple of more loads should do it," I said.

"I'm gonna start unpacking then," she decided.

I took a second and paused, giving her a strained look.

"What?" she asked, puzzled.

"You're still okay with us moving in together, right?" I asked the one question stuck in my mind since I started packing my things.

"Are you?" she responded.

"I don't know," I said because I was unsure what she was thinking.

"Oh yeah? You…um…you starting to have second thoughts," she asked coyly.

And that calmed my nerves. If she was playing around like that, she must have thought my question was a joke.

She wanted me here.

"No, just one thought," I said before kissing her.

I moved in the rest of my boxes and sat down on the couch next to her while she sat on the floor unpacking.

"Yeah," I chuckled, taking out my favorite lamp of Elvis' head. "Where should we put this," I asked her, showing it off.

"Ah, in the trash," she told him simply.

I was stunned, "This is my Elvis lamp. I got it in Mexico," I explained as if that meant anything.

"I see that, and that doesn't make it any more valuable," she informed me.

"I had a drink a lot of mezcal and eat a worm for this thing," I tried to defend. It was my first time in Mexico or out of the country. I made good memories there.

"Nick," she said, getting off the floor and sitting next to him on the couch, "you just have to ask yourself one question: Who do you love more?" she asked, and there was clearly only one right answer.

She gave me 'the look,' and all I could do was smile at her and give in to her superior sense of taste.

I took one last look at my Elvis lamp and dropped it back into the box, resigned to the fact that it was probably too tacky. Besides, I'll always have the photos I took.

"I'm gonna go get you a beer to celebrate your breakup," she said, patting my leg before leaving for the kitchen.

"Please do. We need to put more than just beer in that fridge," I said, since most of our time was spent moving instead of grocery shopping. I looked around in my new home, the smell of her perfume, the frames she had already put up, and fantasized… about the family Juliette and I would one day have.

I remembered it all…so clearly, in fact. Actually…now that I'm thinking about it, I remember it too well, even the looks I gave her as we unpacked.

'How do I remember what my face looked like…?'

He opened the cabinets and drawers, searching for one of Juliette's mirrors. I wanted to see my face—if it was the same face I remembered, but she must have moved it to one of the bathrooms because I couldn't find it.

'My phone!' It was in my pocket.

He reached in, 'Even grabbing it feels weird.'

It was so small and bulgy. It looked ancient! Why the hell do I have a phone this old? It's twenty-elev—

Wait, it's twenty-eleven. This is my brand-new iPhone Four. I bought it after the screen on my Three-G broke. But I distinctly remembered having a better iPhone—a thirteen. That's… a ten-generation difference.

'Yeah, I did have one. It was way thinner with a larger screen and a better camera, and it even had face recognition software.'

That seemed too high-tech for a phone. It was only a couple of years ago that I had a flip phone, then a Blackberry after that.

But I remember…

More memories of someone I thought was me started flowing through the forefront of my brain.

I remember going to the store and trading in my old phone for an upgrade. I picked the green frame as the new color to match my eyes…

'Okay, let's keep that a secret.'

But it was true; I remember it all—driving to the store, talking to the worker, picking out the color from an assortment of others.

My friends even warned me to get a case, but I told them I preferred the feel of the bare metal in my hand, but they still clowned me. So, I gave in and bought one.

It fell on the sidewalk that night when we went to the beach—we spent a good amount of time joking about it.

'That…me…'

I turned on the front camera and took a look at my face, wondering what I might find.

But it was just my face, nothing different…but the feeling that something was wrong never left—like I forgot something vital, but the memory was just out of my reach.

My brain felt like it was throbbing with these new memories trying to break free.

I searched my phone for recent pictures and current news to hopefully jog my memory. The photos were all some I remembered taking. I tapped my feet as I waited for the web search to load.

'Why is this taking so long?' I asked myself in annoyance.

'Forget it.' I grabbed another bottle from the fridge and went to the living room.

I was not going to waste my time getting something Three-G to load when I had a computer.

'Come on! Three-G! Am I spoiled, or does that seem way too slow?'

'Why, though?!'

These memories bombarded me with images; every step I took to my desk was like a slap across my head.

I couldn't make sense as to why I had the memories of someone else because it wasn't me.

'…Was it?'

I reached the computer and sat down, relieved to get off my feet. I searched for the year, important dates, events, nine-eleven—they were all the same.

But the nagging feeling still simmered.

Then I got an idea and decided to do a search on my name. I'm not conceited or anything; I could care less what people wrote about me as long as it wasn't a lie.

I read The Oregonian, the Portland Tribune, the Portland Press Harold, and The Observer; they were all familiar.

"Detective Nick Burkhart and his partner, Detective Hank Griffin, solve the grisly murder of young college student Ana Watson. Detectives Burkhart and Griffin of the South Precinct solve the man-slaughter of sixty-three-year-old war veteran Jackson Fischer, caused by drunk driver Cameron Dean, twenty-two," I read out loud.

Everything seemed normal. He remembered solving those cases and talking to their families, trying to comfort them as much as he could as they cried.

The next had a picture of the captain speaking to reporters. "The Portland Police Department's Chief Sean Renard has confirmed the arrest of suspected perp responsible for the recent homicide that occurred only days ago near the Willamette River. It was all thanks to splendid detective work led by Detective Nick Burkhart and Hank Griffin," he finished but gazed back at the picture.

"The captain…," I looked at him weirdly and analyzed his face, searching for…something.

'Why don't I like him…I do… He's a fair boss and straightforward. We do good work together. But then, why does his face irritate me so much?' I couldn't put my finger on it.

I shook my head and sighed. 'I'm going crazy. Why was this happening to me now!' He thought of Juliette and how she would act.

'I'm going to propose, I'm getting the ring tomorrow, and this happens.'

I grabbed my head with my left hand and continued searching with my right.

'Burkhart, Burkhart, Burkhart,' I repeated, scrolling down the list of links available.

"The accident!" I shook, seeing an article with a picture of a torched car and the name Reed and Kelly Burkhart underneath.

'This is where everything changed forever. The last time I read this, I was in the academy researching during my free time.'

I spent hours going through it and reading the police report. I don't know why. Maybe other people would think him deranged for wanting to study his parents' death.

But he wanted to know everything about them and how they died. Maybe it was closure or his cop instinct…

'Maybe I am deranged,' I thought as more memories came crashing down on him—of a calm childhood with loving parents who weren't his.

Then a scene, a photo. 'It was their accident!'

I grabbed ahold of that memory and gripped it tight, focusing on every little detail.

It was the only memory that matched my own and one that he recognized.

'Why does this feel weird too?' It was 'the accident,' but it looked like I saw it through a laptop.

'I can't let this go. I refuse.' I thought adamantly.

'My sanity's breaking… Juliette… No, I can't! She doesn't deserve this!'

I did the only thing I could think of that might help. I clicked the link to my parents' accident and read it.

It was the same as it always was. "Two people identified as Reed and Kelly Burkhart died in a tragic car accident that exploded, killing them instantly. They will be remembered through their son Nick, twelve-year-old…."

'Yeah, that's right….'

My cop brain was working on overdrive; the memories hadn't bothered me since I started reading the article.

'There were no dental records… They only assumed it was mom and dad because it was their car. That's it! They were burned beyond recognition, and the closest family member, Aunt Marie, testified that they left in that car.'

'There's a chance….'

But why does that matter? Who else would be driving their car? It had to be them, but…

Memories upon memories of a boy watching his favorite tv show flooded my brain like a dam that finally broke. The pilot, season openings, season finales, re-runs when he was home alone, marathons on Prime…

'It was insane. This was me—'

Then more memories of an adult version of the boy; going to college, using high-tech computers, graduating, and entering the police academy…he became a detective like me, inspired by me, even.

Then the hostage situation. He was trying to talk the man down… I spoke calmly and followed protocol, hoping the man would listen to reason. But the kidnapper didn't care.

"I rather die than go back to jail, pig," he yelled at me while drawing his gun. I quickly did the same, but I wasn't fast enough.

Bang

I saw the bullet hole I had made in his head. He fell backward, dead.

But I wasn't the only one who hit their target.

Bang

I was shot in the line of duty. I was dying as the hostages ran to me, trying to stop the bleeding.

"Ahhh!" I freaked.

I jumped up and grabbed my chest—my face, my heart. I pulled my shirt up and touched myself all over…

'I'm fine, I'm fine. I'm good,' I repeated like a mantra.

I gripped the water bottle on the desk and finished it all in one go. I was sweating so much that my collar was drenched.

'I'm not dead. I'm not de—'

But I was. I died. That guy shot me point blank. The bullet hit me in my sternum. I was bleeding. It—it didn't feel like a dream.

Everything was real, what I saw, what I felt­—it was all real.

There was so much in my head to take in like I died and lived a whole other life.

I sat back down and covered my face with my hands.

My name is Nick. My name was always Nick. I liked watching the games on tv, going to the batting cages, pick-up games at the park, but I never had the time anymore. I binged sci-fi and fantasy shows whenever I caught a break. I was a cop…both times.

'But…I was more...'

'My god! What the hell is wrong with this world?' I thought when I saw what was supposedly out there, hiding in the shadows of society.

'I'm…I'm a…'

Before I was able to finish my thought and make sense of everything I had just learned about myself—and my ancestors­—I had peaked the lights dimming just noticeably.

It made the room seem a bit darker.

'It's the wiring again?' I thought.

Then I looked up and saw the screen go dark and a large green cursor blinking in and out.

'This desktop was so slow,' I huffed, annoyed.

'It was huge and old, too, like an actual antique; no one should still be using one of these.'

I was about to reset it by unplugging the whole thing, but as I reached for the extension cord, the curser started typing…

"HELLO,"

'Who…?'

My heart started thumping. I froze in terror, rattled when I realized someone was hacking into my computer.

'A stalker? Could be, but that's the best-case scenario. If it's some deranged criminal, I put away, out for payback….'

I had to run upstairs and grab Juliette. They were after me, not her. I needed to take her to the precinct where she could be safe and where I could talk to the cybercrimes division.

If I could get a team back here quickly enough, maybe they could find a trace or some clue that would lead me to the hacker.

I was trying to think fast before the worst happened.

I glared at the screen. 'This guy messed with the wrong detective.'

'After all, I am—'

"SIR, MY NAME IS KAREN…"

…

"…What?"