aFireFist
A Life in DC
Chapter 11 - Part 2
The radio crackled to life almost immediately, dispatch voices cutting through the static with the usual morning litany of Gotham's low-level chaos.
"Unit 12, Unit 12, we have a 10-10 at 14th and Kane—domestic disturbance, female caller reports male subject breaking furniture and threatening to harm himself. Backup requested, possible weapons involved."
Vieri's fingers tapped lightly on the wheel as he listened. Another one. The kind that usually ended with someone in cuffs or on a stretcher, the cycle repeating tomorrow.
A second call overlapped slightly, the dispatcher's voice calm but clipped. "All units in the Bowery sector, be advised of multiple reports of a 10-35—possible gang activity near the old Falcone warehouse. Suspects described as armed, at least four individuals. Possible drug-related. Proceed with caution."
He glanced at the rearview as he merged lanes, the wet pavement reflecting the gray sky. A group of kids in hoodies huddled under an awning, passing something between them. Probably nothing serious, but in this city you never knew.
"Unit 7, Unit 7, respond to a 10-16 at the corner of 8th and Park—mugging in progress. Victim reports two suspects, one with a knife. Last seen heading north on foot toward Crime Alley. Any units nearby, please advise."
Vieri exhaled through his nose, the sound barely audible over the wipers. Crime Alley. Classic. The radio kept spitting out calls like a broken record—petty thefts, bar fights spilling into the street, a reported break-in at a corner store where the owner claimed the intruder had "glowed weird" before running off. Gotham weirdness bleeding into the everyday. He tuned it out enough to focus on driving but kept the volume up, the chatter a constant backdrop. Another domestic. A car accident with possible injuries. A report of someone selling "glowing rocks" out of a van near the docks—probably another minor metahuman or just bad drugs.
His mind drifted between the calls and the news segment still playing in his head. Madame Zodiac's ritual at the Pentagon.
The radio squawked again. "Unit 3, Unit 3, we have a 10-90 at the old amusement park on the outskirts—possible riot or large disturbance. Reports of costumed individuals, possible minor metahuman activity. Multiple calls coming in. All available units respond."
Vieri shook his head slightly. Costumed individuals. Always a wildcard in this city. He turned onto the avenue leading toward the precinct, the building coming into view through the rain—gray concrete, rows of windows glowing with fluorescent light, the parking lot half-full with patrol cars. He pulled in, found a spot near the side entrance, and killed the engine. The wipers stopped mid-swipe. For a second he just sat there, hands on the wheel, listening to the rain tap against the roof and the fading static from the radio. The calls kept coming in the background—another theft, another fight, the city grinding on like it always did.
He grabbed his jacket from the passenger seat, shrugged it on, and stepped out into the damp air. Two uniforms were smoking by the side door, collars turned up against the rain, the glow of their cigarettes bright in the gray morning. Vieri nodded to them as he passed. One nodded back, the other gave a half-wave. He pushed through the door into the precinct, the familiar mix of coffee, paper, and institutional air hitting him as the sou
The bullpen hit Vieri like it always did after a morning run and the quiet of his drive in. The air was thick with the smell of burnt coffee from the pot that had been sitting too long on the warmer, old paper from stacks of reports that never seemed to shrink, and that faint metallic tang drifting up from the holding cells down the hall. Phones rang nonstop—sharp, insistent tones cutting through the low hum of conversation. Keyboards clacked in uneven rhythms as officers typed up overnight incidents. At the far end of the room, two detectives were arguing about paperwork again, voices rising and falling in the familiar pattern of frustration that came with too many forms and not enough time. "I filed it yesterday, you said it was in the system!" one of them snapped. The other just sighed and waved a handful of printouts. Same shit, different morning.
Vieri walked through it all, jacket slung over one shoulder, nodding to a couple of uniforms who glanced his way. His boots left faint damp prints on the worn linoleum from the rain outside. Near the middle of the room, Montoya sat at her desk, dark hair pulled back tight into a practical ponytail that still let a few strands frame her face. Her white button-down stretched across her full C-cup chest as she leaned forward over a file, the fabric pulling just enough to hint at the smooth olive skin beneath the open collar. She looked up when he walked past, giving him a small, professional nod. But her golden-brown eyes held on him a beat longer than they needed to. The pollen from the raid was weeks gone, but the memory sat right there under the surface—her on her knees in the office that day, the Spanish spilling out hot and needy while she and Sawyer competed for him, the way her throat had worked around his cock as she tried to take him deeper than she should have been able to. It showed now in the subtle way she shifted in her chair, thighs pressing together under the dark slacks, a faint flush creeping up her neck before she looked back down at her papers.
Across the room, Sawyer was standing by another detective's desk, tall and solid at 5'10", with her thick thighs and the firm, rounded curve of her ass. She was mid-conversation, gesturing with one hand while the other rested on her hip, but when she caught Vieri's eye she gave him a quick, warm smile that didn't quite stay professional. It lingered just a second too long, the corner of her mouth curving with something that wasn't entirely about the job. Montoya saw the smile. Her jaw tightened, just a fraction, the pen in her hand tapping once against the desk before she caught herself. Subtle, but there. Both of them were still feeling it. The raid. The office. The way things had shifted between the three of them after the pollen had burned through their systems and left something raw and hungry behind. They wanted more. Vieri could read it in the way their eyes tracked him when they thought no one else was looking—the quick glances, the way Montoya's posture changed when Sawyer smiled at him, the faint tension in Sawyer's shoulders as she tried to keep her conversation going.
He didn't get long to sit with it. A uniform caught his eye from across the room and jerked his thumb toward the back hallway. "IA wants another round with you, Oronzo. They're in the small interview room."
Vieri nodded once and headed that way, the noise of the bullpen fading slightly as he walked down the hall. The small interview room was the same as always—windowless, walls painted that institutional beige that always looked slightly dirty no matter how many times they scrubbed them. It smelled like cheap carpet cleaner and old coffee, the kind that had been reheated too many times. One of the IA suits sat at the table with a notepad in front of him, pen already poised. The other leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, trying for casual but landing somewhere between bored and predatory. Same two guys as last time. Same fake-polite tone that meant they were hunting for any crack they could widen into leverage.
"Officer Oronzo," the one with the notepad said, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Have a seat. We'd like to walk you through the Kane Street apartment again. From the moment you entered, if you don't mind."
Vieri sat, keeping his posture relaxed but straight. He rested his hands on the table, voice calm and flat like he was reciting a report he'd already filed twice. "Flashbang went in first. Smoke filled the main room quick. We moved as a standard stack—me, the two rookies behind me. Vines hit hard almost immediately. Thick ones, coming up through the floorboards. I got separated, pushed into the back bedroom area. The Queens were already there. Pollen was thick in the air. It hit me and the others. I was closest to the main burst when it went off. That's why it affected me harder than most of the team."
The suit with the notepad scribbled something, then looked up. "And the Queens? You had visual on all three—Catwoman, Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn. Yet they walked out clean. Walk us through that part again. Slowly."
Vieri didn't flinch. He kept his expression even, the same steady cop face he used on the street. "Like I said before. The pollen was heavy. It messes with your head—makes people suggestible, disoriented. The team was compromised. I did what I could to contain the situation until backup and the Bat Family arrived. The Queens used the chaos. They got out. That's it."
The second suit pushed off the wall, arms still crossed. "Your clothes were torn. Neck had fresh scratches when you came out. Looked like you'd been in more than just a vine struggle. Care to explain that?"
"Ivy's plants. They weren't gentle. And yeah, there was close contact when things got messy in the back room. Pollen makes everything… heightened. But I stuck to procedure as much as I could."
They circled the same ground for the next twenty minutes, rephrasing questions, probing for inconsistencies. Why did half the team look drugged and glassy-eyed? Why were there reports of laughter and strange behavior from inside before the Bat Family showed? Why did Vieri's report feel light on specifics about the Queens' exact movements? Vieri gave them the same answers every time—steady, boring, consistent. The pollen story held because most of it was true. The suits finally leaned back, exchanged a look, and let him go with the usual line about filing complete reports and full cooperation going forward.
"Appreciate your time, Officer," the one with the notepad said as Vieri stood. "We'll be in touch if we need anything else."
Vieri nodded and stepped out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him. The bullpen noise washed over him again as he walked back in. Before he could make it to his desk, the captain waved the task force over to the big whiteboard near the front. A handful of them gathered—Montoya, Sawyer, a couple of other detectives who'd been looped in. The captain stood in front of the board, arms crossed, looking tired but hard around the eyes. The whiteboard was covered in photos from the Kane Street scene, red lines connecting points, notes in black marker about timelines and escape routes.
"One more chance," the captain said, voice carrying just enough to cut through the nearby chatter. He looked at each of them in turn, slow and deliberate. "Brass is breathing down my neck on this. Another clusterfuck like Kane Street and this unit gets pulled entirely. I want results. Real ones. Make the Queens feel actual pressure. Bring something to the table we can show upstairs—arrests, disrupted operations, anything that looks like progress. No more excuses about pollen clouds or the Bat Family showing up late. We do our jobs, we get it done."
A couple of the others murmured agreement. Montoya nodded, her expression tight and focused. Sawyer shifted her weight, powerful frame steady, but her eyes flicked toward Vieri for a split second. Vieri nodded along with the rest of them, keeping his face neutral. He already had the play ready for Friday. The meeting with the Queens. It was the kind of balance he'd been cobbling together since this whole mess started—give the task force something that looked like wins on paper, keep the women satisfied enough to play along. It was risky. But in Gotham, everything was.
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