Anna picked her way through the precinct courtyard, dodging coroners loading body bags into vans and officers hauling debris into dumpsters. She shoved the main door open with more force than necessary, and the look on her face made it clear she was pissed.
"Sir," she said, marching straight up to Marco. "With an operation this big going down, even Edward got to stay on-site, and he's technically civilian staff. So why was I the one told to take time off?"
Marco rubbed his temples. His head was still pounding from the night before, and Anna's voice felt like someone hammering nails into his skull. He shot her an annoyed look.
"Missing it was a good thing. Last night wasn't a carnival. We've got guys in the infirmary right now with their arms in slings. But since you've got so much energy..."
He glanced around the room until he spotted Raven sitting off to the side, sipping hot cocoa from a paper cup.
"Raven," he called out. "How're we looking? Any threats?"
Raven looked up from her cup.
"My father won't give up. But the tide of danger has receded for now. I don't sense any malice approaching."
"Good." Marco turned back to Anna. "Officer Ramirez."
"Yes, sir."
"I've got an important assignment for you." He pointed at Raven. "You're on protection detail. Stick to her like glue. Wherever she goes, you go. Whatever she does, you're right there with her. Until I say otherwise, you're her shadow. Clear?"
Anna looked at Raven, then back at Marco. She straightened her posture and snapped off a crisp salute.
"Yes, sir. I'll keep her safe."
"Good." Marco nodded, then turned his attention to the other side of the room.
Dr. Quinzel was holding a mug of coffee, surrounded by a cluster of tactical officers. The guys were cracking jokes and laughing like schoolboys. She was eating it up, giggling and flirting and making them blush. It was hard to tell who was supposed to be giving therapy to whom.
"Doctor!" he called out.
Dr. Quinzel turned around reluctantly.
"You," Marco said, jerking his thumb toward the door. "You're off duty. I'm having someone drive you home. Go rest. Don't come back unless I call you."
"What? But I—"
"That's an order. You need to calm down before you crash hard. Darnell!"
Darnell looked up from across the room.
"Find someone to drive Dr. Quinzel home. Make sure she gets inside safe."
Darnell nodded and waved over an officer who'd just finished scarfing down a breakfast sandwich. He whispered a few quick instructions, and the officer headed over to Dr. Quinzel.
She looked deeply unhappy about this turn of events. She muttered something under her breath about "obstructing research" and "just when things were getting interesting," but ultimately let herself be escorted toward the exit.
Marco watched her go, then let out a long breath. The last of his energy drained away. He felt like he could fall asleep standing up.
"Alright," he said to no one in particular. "I'm leaving this to you guys."
He yawned so hard his eyes watered, then dragged himself toward the new building and the dormitory upstairs.
He slept like the dead.
---
It wasn't until noon, when sunlight finally managed to force its way through Gotham's cloud cover and stream through the narrow dormitory window, that Marco woke up. He lay there for a moment, disoriented and groggy, trying to remember where he was.
The physical exhaustion had eased. His muscles didn't ache quite as much, and his head wasn't pounding anymore. But the mental fatigue was still there.
He dragged himself out of bed, took a long shower, and changed into clean civilian clothes. Then he wandered slowly back toward the precinct.
"Rare to see weather this nice," he muttered to himself, squinting up at the sky.
The lobby was still busy when he walked in, but order had been mostly restored. The bloodstains were gone, scrubbed away with industrial cleaner. Bullet holes had been marked with tape for the forensics team. Shattered furniture had been hauled out to the dumpsters. The sandbags had been dragged back into storage.
He had just exchanged greetings with a few officers when his phone rang. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen.
"Yeah, chief. What's up?"
"Come to my office in the new building."
Marco groaned. "If you'd told me that ten minutes ago, I wouldn't have walked all the way over here."
"Just get your ass up here."
The line went dead.
He sighed, pocketed his phone, and headed back toward the new building. On his way through the lobby, he stopped at the newly opened Dairy Queen on the ground floor and grabbed an ice cream cone. It was chocolate-dipped, because if he was going to deal with Bob's bullshit, he might as well enjoy some sugar first. He charged it to the chief's account, naturally.
He took the elevator up to the third floor, and walked down the hallway to Bob's office. When he reached the door, he pulled it open and immediately jumped back.
A thick cloud of cigarette smoke rolled out like fog.
He coughed, waving his hand in front of his face. He pulled a mask out of his pocket, and put it on before stepping inside. "Can't you at least crack a fucking window?"
"Can't catch a draft at my age," Bob said, stubbing out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray.
Marco walked over to the window and opened it. Fresh air flooded the room.
"I thought I wouldn't see you until tomorrow," Bob said, leaning back in his chair. "Things got pretty intense last night."
"It could've been worse." Marco dropped into a chair across from Bob's desk, still holding his ice cream. "Aside from the non-human things, it wasn't too bad. Ed held them off mostly by himself."
"The East End struck gold when we got him." Bob grinned, looking pleased. "You've got a good eye for talent. And speaking of which, if anything got damaged last night, just arrange for a construction crew to fix it. You still have that business card I gave you?"
"Yeah, I've got it." Marco gave him a sideways look. "So you can skim your kickback, right?"
Bob laughed. "Anyway, that's not why I called you up here. We just got word from Star City. A representative from the Charity Foundation is flying into Gotham tonight. Officially, they're here for a charity donation handover ceremony. They also want to take a look at Gotham's public security situation, specifically, our East End precinct."
He leaned forward and tapped his desk for emphasis.
"Three million dollars... That money needs to land safely in our account. Nothing can go wrong tonight."
Marco frowned. "The place just got torn to shit last night. How are we supposed to host some fancy donors?"
"Didn't you say last time that a little chaos shows off our accomplishments?"
"Yeah, but chaos that looks like a war zone in Fallujah doesn't count!" Marco gestured helplessly. "What if we scare off these office-dwelling charity types?"
"Then I don't care what methods you use," Bob said, pulling out another cigarette. "Before tonight, you restore that lobby to something resembling a normal police station. And set up the conference room in the new building, make it presentable. You need manpower or supplies, go get them. I'll sign off on it."
Marco rubbed his forehead, feeling the headache he'd just gotten rid of threatening to return. After a moment, he stood up.
"Alright. I got it."
---
Marco returned to the precinct lobby and clapped his hands together, loud enough to get everyone's attention. Officers stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him.
"Listen up! You all worked hard last night. Now there's a new task, and it looks like nobody's getting to rest just yet."
A few officers groaned. Others just looked resigned.
"We've got VIPs from a major charity foundation arriving tonight," Marco continued. "Chief's orders: the lobby needs to be fully restored, and the conference room in the new building needs to be set up for a presentation."
More groans. A few muttered complaints. Nobody wanted to do heavy labor after pulling an all-nighter.
"So, anyone willing to stay and work overtime, come register with me right now. Two hundred dollars cash per person. Paid on the spot. First come, first served until the job's done."
For a split second, the entire lobby went silent.
Then it exploded.
"Me! Captain! Count me in!"
"I'm strong as hell! I can move furniture!"
"I'm great with windows! Best window-opener in the department!"
"Captain, look at me! I clean glass like nobody's business!"
The fatigue and complaints evaporated instantly. Almost every officer in the room, including the ones with dark circles under their eyes and bandages on their hands, rushed toward Marco, arms raised like they were trying to hail a cab.
Two hundred dollars cash for a few hours of cleanup work was no joke. In Gotham, for rank-and-file cops making shit pay, that was serious money.
Marco watched the enthusiastic crowd, let out a sigh of relief, and headed out to his car to grab the bundle of cash he'd stashed in the trunk. When he came back inside, the once-quiet lobby had transformed into a bustling construction site.
Officers were hauling broken furniture out to the dumpsters. Others were scrubbing floors, patching walls, and hanging new light fixtures. Someone had found a radio and tuned it to a classic rock station, and the sound of guitars filled the air.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching them work, and felt something close to pride.
They were exhausted and underpaid. They were working for a corrupt system in the most dangerous city in America.
But they showed up anyway.
---
The Batcave, Twelve Hours Earlier.
The Batmobile roared into the vast natural dome of the Batcave. The heavy armored canopy lifted upward with a hydraulic hiss. Bruce stepped out of the cockpit.
He raised a hand and unlocked his helmet.
"Welcome home, Master Bruce," Alfred said. He'd been waiting nearby, holding a silver tray with a steaming cup of tea and several clean towels. "It seems Gotham's nights remain as energetic as ever."
Bruce set the helmet on a nearby workbench, bracing his hands against the surface. His gaze lifted to the main screen, where surveillance footage from the night's fight was still replaying in slow motion.
"Her objective was clear, Alfred," Bruce said. "Use the past to create opportunities for killing. Nothing more."
"Indeed," Alfred agreed. "Still, I can't help but wonder whether a more stable, socially conventional emotional relationship might be beneficial to your physical and mental health. And perhaps even to the future of the Wayne family. Gotham's nights need Batman, but Wayne Manor may also need a lady of the house. And perhaps a small heir."
Bruce picked up one of the towels and wiped his face. He didn't respond to Alfred's comment about a "lady of the house" or an "heir."
It was a familiar loop between them. Alfred pushed. He deflected. Neither of them ever gave ground.
He turned toward the armor display platform and began removing his gear. Alfred set the tray down and stepped forward to assist.
"How did the new equipment from Mr. Schott perform in combat?" Alfred asked, helping Bruce remove the chest armor.
Bruce examined the spot where Talia's dagger had struck. There was only a faint white scratch. Even the primer beneath the surface coating remained intact.
"Not bad," he said. "The mechanical bats are agile. But there's room for improvement."
"I'm sure Mr. Schott and Mr. Fox will be pleased to hear that." Alfred placed the removed armor components onto a nearby maintenance rack. "Oh, and Master Bruce, I received an interesting piece of information earlier today."
Bruce glanced at him.
"Mr. Oliver Queen of Star City has donated three million dollars to the Gotham Police Department's East End precinct through his charity foundation. Their representative arrives this evening. A formal donation ceremony will be held in the near future."
Bruce, who had been about to walk toward the medical station, stopped abruptly. He turned around, his expression shifting to something between disbelief and irritation.
"Star City? Queen? He's coming to Gotham to donate money?"
"It appears so, sir," Alfred confirmed calmly. "The press release has already been issued. It emphasizes intercity cooperation and corporate social responsibility."
Bruce was silent for several seconds. He walked over to the main computer and quickly pulled up news briefs from Star City, along with public information about the Queen Foundation. On the screen, Oliver's face appeared alongside glowing praise for the donation.
"Three million," Bruce repeated quietly. He looked at Alfred.
"What's he trying to prove?"
---
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