The tires kicked up spray as Marco's car hit the Gotham city limits. The windshield wipers worked overtime, smearing grime across the glass.
One month away, and the city hadn't changed at all.
He rolled down the window and grabbed the cheap souvenir keychain he'd bought in some Florida gift shop. It was a plastic palm tree with "KEY WEST" printed on it in sun-faded letters.
After a moment, he closed the window, opened the glove compartment, and dropped the keychain inside. He shut it again and fixed his eyes on the road ahead.
Vacation was over.
Welcome home.
The first landmark he spotted was a massive penguin statue at the Robinson Park intersection. Beneath it, someone had graffitied in bright red letters:
"PAYING TAXES IS A CITIZEN'S DUTY."
Marco's mouth twitched.
"Cobblepot," he muttered. "Looks like you've had an interesting month."
---
The East End Precinct parking lot looked exactly the same as he'd left it: half-empty, poorly lit, with the same oil stains on the asphalt and the same chain-link fence that someone kept promising to replace. Marco pulled into his usual spot, nobody had stolen it and killed the engine.
For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the building through the dirty windshield. The brick facade was as grey and uninviting as ever. Somewhere inside, someone was probably filling out paperwork. Someone else was probably sleeping at their desk. And someone was definitely making shitty coffee.
Home sweet home.
He grabbed his duffel bag from the back seat and headed for the entrance. The moment he pushed through the doors into the lobby, he heard someone on the radio shout:
"Captain's back!"
"Oh shit," Marco muttered under his breath. "What am I walking into?"
When he stepped into the main lobby, the entire room erupted into applause.
Cops stood up from their desks. Civilians waiting to file reports looked confused but started clapping along anyway, because when everyone else is doing something in a police station, you just go with it. Even a couple of handcuffed perps looked vaguely supportive, though that might've been Stockholm syndrome. And then the door to the chief's office opened, and Bob walked out, grinning like he'd just won the lottery, gesturing for Marco to come upstairs.
Marco's blood ran cold.
They sacrificed me to some kind of demon, didn't they? This is a cult thing. I'm about to walk into my own surprise funeral.
He made his way through the crowd, nodded politely to a few familiar faces, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Bob's office door was already open. He stepped inside, closed it behind him, and sat down in the visitor's chair.
"Chief," he said. "What's going on?"
"Oh, nothing much." Bob was already lighting a cigarette. He cracked open the window to let some of the smoke out. "About two weeks ago, Mr. Cobblepot donated five hundred thousand dollars to the department. He said he wants to maintain a 'good, stable relationship' with the GCPD."
Marco blinked. "Half a million."
"Yep." Bob took a long drag and grinned. "I didn't ask too many questions. It seemed rude."
Marco leaned back in his chair. Half a million dollars was a lot of goodwill. It was also a lot of leverage. Which meant Cobblepot either wanted something, or he was scared of something.
"I knew it," he said finally. "I knew the only thing that gets people that excited is money."
"Money makes the world go round, kid." Bob flicked ash into an already-overflowing tray. "So. How was your vacation?"
"It was fine. I saw some friends and ran into some weird shit." Marco shrugged. "But honestly, the sunshine down there is a hell of a lot brighter than Gotham's. You could see the sky. Wild concept."
"Sounds boring."
"It was great." Marco stretched. "How's the House? Darnell out on patrol?"
"Yeah, he's driving that armored van around, scaring the shit out of people." Bob grinned. "He's having the time of his life. Oh, and there's some other stuff you should know about."
"Yeah?"
"Alan got transferred back to headquarters, promoted straight to Lieutenant. Next time you see him, you'll have to call him 'sir.'"
"What the hell did he do to deserve that?"
"Nothing, really. Essen officially became Commissioner of the GCPD last month. Her old civilian liaison position opened up, and they needed someone who could handle paperwork and not embarrass the department. They asked me for recommendations. I asked Alan if he wanted it. And he said yes. So I pushed him through."
"Good for him, I guess. What about Gordon?"
"Gordon's heading up Major Crimes and Narcotics now. He's also working with the Commissioner's office to set up a new Special Operations Unit—"
"Wait." Marco held up a hand. "Hold on. Sarah Essen is Gordon's wife, isn't she?"
"Yep."
"So he just got promoted because he's married to the Commissioner?"
Bob raised an eyebrow. "You planning to file a complaint?"
"I'm planning to give him shit about it the next time I see him." Marco grinned. "Nepotism at its finest."
"Knock it off." Bob waved his cigarette dismissively. "Anyway, there's more. The new police building renovations are done. HR, finance, all the administrative departments have already moved over. Pretty soon the brass and logistics are moving too. This old building's just going to keep frontline operations."
He paused, taking another drag.
"Oh, and I bought the two rundown office buildings next door. Three hundred fifty grand each. We're carrying about six hundred thousand in debt now." He sighed heavily, smoke streaming from his nose. "Money doesn't last as long as you'd think. Especially when you keep insisting we need to build a temporary shelter for at-risk kids..."
He shot Marco a pointed look.
"Alright, alright," Marco said, holding up his hands in surrender. "I'll figure out the funding. We can start a donation drive or something, get the officers involved, and make it a big public thing."
Bob nodded, satisfied. "That's what I like to hear."
Marco stood up, stretching again. "I'm gonna go check out the new building."
"Good luck with that," Bob called after him.
---
Marco left the office, exchanged a few greetings with colleagues in the hallway, and made his way out of the old building toward the new one.
And then he stopped dead in his tracks.
"What the fuck."
The new GCPD building looked like a goddamn strip mall.
The entire first floor had been converted into storefronts. The only thing that indicated this was a police building was a small glass door in the center with "GCPD" stenciled above it in utilitarian letters.
Everything else? Subway. Some kind of cell phone repair kiosk. A dry cleaner.
And right in front of him, taking up a prime corner spot, was a full-service Burger King with a drive-through lane.
He walked over slowly. He leaned over the counter and peered inside.
A familiar face looked up from the register.
"Bronnie?"
The officer, a woman with a name tag that read "BRONNIE" and a Burger King visor perched on her head, lit up when she saw him.
"Captain! You're back!"
"Yeah... I'm back." Marco gestured vaguely at the restaurant around her. "What the hell is this?"
"Oh, the chief had an idea. He said it was a waste to leave the first floor as office space when we could be generating revenue. So he lined up a bunch of franchise deals. Officers who want to run them in their off hours get to keep a third of the net profits."
Marco pinched the bridge of his nose. "Isn't the chief worried about security? Someone could just walk in here and plant a bomb or something."
"That's why there's no dine-in," Bronnie said, like this was obvious. "All the offices are on the second floor. The only way up is through a secure entrance with metal detectors and ID checks. This is just the drive-through. Totally safe."
"Huh."
"Right?" Bronnie beamed. "So, you want anything? I make a mean Whopper."
"How's business?"
"Pretty good, actually. Though that asshole Johnny opened a McDonald's on the other side of the building. He's clearly trying to steal my customers."
"I bet." Marco couldn't help but smile. "Alright, give me a soft-serve cone."
"You got it."
Bronnie swirled the ice cream into a perfect cone and handed it over. Marco took a bite. It tasted exactly like every other Burger King soft-serve he'd ever had, which was weirdly comforting.
"Not bad."
"Thanks. That'll be one dollar."
Marco nearly dropped the cone. "A dollar? Are you serious?"
"You think I was gonna give it to you for free?" Bronnie raised an eyebrow. "This is a business, Captain. Gotta make a profit."
Marco fished a crumpled dollar bill out of his wallet and handed it over. "What happens if someone drives off without paying?"
Bronnie's grin turned vicious. "We call traffic enforcement and have their plates run."
"Of course you do."
"Always a solution," she said cheerfully.
Marco shook his head, waved goodbye, and walked toward the GCPD entrance. He swiped his badge, walked through the security checkpoint, and took the stairs down to the basement level.
The forensics lab was exactly where it was supposed to be. He opened the door.
"Hey, Ed."
Edward looked up from his computer, smiled, and stood up to greet him. The lab had somehow accumulated even more books and files since Marco had left.
"Hey, Marco." He clasped his hand in a firm handshake. "Welcome back. How was your vacation?"
"Weird. But good." Marco glanced around the lab. "You've been busy."
"There's always more to learn."
"Any major developments while I was gone?"
"A few." Edward sat back down, pulling up a file on his computer. "Oswald Cobblepot has been showing signs of wanting a truce, so I've eased off the pressure."
Marco blinked. "You were pressuring him? What did you do?"
"Oh, nothing too dramatic." Edward waved a hand dismissively. "I just had various city departments conduct routine inspections of his businesses. Health inspections, fire code violations, tax audits, that sort of thing. All perfectly legal. He doesn't know it was me specifically, but I'm sure he's figured out that he pissed off someone."
His smile was the kind of smile that belonged on a chess player who'd just put their opponent in checkmate.
"If you see him again, don't mention it. The threat is more effective when it's implied rather than stated."
Marco nodded slowly. "Got it."
"Anything else?" he asked.
Edward's expression turned more serious. "The Wayne Tower incident hasn't fully settled. Several officers from East End and the West precinct have been showing symptoms of psychological breakdown. A few have already been committed to Arkham for observation and treatment."
He shook his head. "I haven't been able to examine any of them personally, so I can't give you specifics. But it's concerning."
The Wayne Tower op had been a shitshow from start to finish. The fact that people were still suffering from it a month later didn't surprise Marco, but it sure as hell pissed him off.
"Being a cop in Gotham is a high-risk job," he said quietly. "Comes with the territory."
"Doesn't make it right."
"No. It doesn't."
They sat in silence for a moment.
"What about Wayne?" Marco asked, changing the subject. "What's he up to these days? Any new donations coming in?"
"Not recently. He's been playing the part pretty hard." Edward pulled up a society page on his computer, showing a photo of Bruce in a tuxedo, arm around a stunning woman in an evening gown. "He's hosting some charity gala tonight. The guest list includes half of Gotham's elite and a few international diplomats. His current companion is Jaina Hudson, daughter of a diplomat. They've been seen together quite a bit lately."
Marco studied the photo. Bruce looked every bit the charming, slightly drunk socialite.
"You think it's an act?" Marco asked.
Edward tilted his head thoughtfully. "I think he is always performing. The question is whether he's performing for us or for himself."
"That's deep, Ed."
"I have my moments." Edward closed the browser. "Anyway, I'll keep monitoring him. If any donations come through, I'll let you know."