Word on the street was that the caped freak got hurt during his Christmas rampage, but nobody had solid proof. No fingerprints or bloodstains recovered at any of the scenes. The whole "bat monster" rumor burned hot for a while before gradually fading into Gotham's usual background noise.
At first, a few muddle-headed punks even jumped out claiming they were the guy in question. Trying to build street cred. But once Falcone and Maroni put out bounties, one million and five hundred thousand respectively, those impostors scrambled to find priests and lawyers to write sworn statements proving they were not the Batman.
One and a half million dollars.
Those two bounties burned at Marco's nerves almost every single day. His daily nightmare was that someone would figure out Bruce's identity and go claim the money. He didn't plan on selling him out, he wasn't that much of a bastard, but the moment he thought about that number, his heart felt like it was being clawed apart by something with very sharp talons.
If he could get that money, he could run straight to Central City and never look back.
But then he imagined a certain black-clad, wounded, petty vigilante lurking outside his window every night, watching him with those creepy eyes, and decided Barry Allen probably wouldn't be able to protect him. So all he could do was wander around the holding cells with bloodshot eyes, sizing up the detainees and wondering how feasible it would be to pin the whole thing on some random schmuck and scam the bounty.
This went on for more than a week.
Gotham made it through New Year's Eve, calm as ever by its own standards. If Bruce hadn't shown up at the New Year's charity gala, Marco would've driven to Wayne Manor himself to check whether some mob lackey's shaky trigger finger had accidentally pulled off a miracle shot and sent him to meet his parents early.
"I think he looks like that because he's not getting enough sleep," he muttered, tossing the newspaper to Anna in the passenger seat. He rolled down the window and yelled at two thugs who were in the middle of loudly threatening each other on the corner. "Quit squabbling like a couple of old ladies, would you? Either pull a knife and kill each other so I can shoot whoever's left standing, or go do something more productive with your time. Your choice."
The two punks glanced at the monster-truck-sized SWAT van, then at each other. Their aggressive postures deflated immediately.
"Officer, come on. We're all friends here. No way we'd stab each other."
Marco watched them awkwardly sling their arms around each other and shuffle off down the street. He reached for his thermos, but the onboard radio started crackling before he could take a sip.
"...Zzzt... All units, be advised: Gotham Public Financial Bank is being robbed. Suspects are masked and wearing... unusual... co...Zzzt... stumes. They are presumed to be armed with lethal weapons and exhibiting signs of mental instability. Nearby units, respond immediately."
A chill ran down Marco's spine.
Unusual costumes.
Oh, fuck. Don't tell him the Joker spawned this early. Bruce really was a walking disaster. The guy came back to Gotham and suddenly everything went to shit.
Before Bruce's return, Gotham's bank robberies had all been spur-of-the-moment jobs by small-time hoods looking for a quick score. Big bosses like Falcone or Maroni never touched banks, their money was in banks. Why rob yourself?
"I'm going to check it out. Call headquarters for backup!" he said as he hung up the radio, motioning for Anna to grab the rifles and shotgun from the weapon rack. Probably because it was her first time facing this type of situation, the girl's face was flushed with excitement, which made Marco's eye twitch.
"Listen to me very carefully. You stay in the car. Do not get out without direct orders from me. Understood?"
"Yes, sir!"
People dressed weirdly and mentally unstable. If this really was some Joker-level nonsense manifesting early, forget these rookies, he might end up scattered across the crime scene in pieces, requiring shovels and mops to clean up properly.
But something felt off about the whole thing. Gotham Public Financial Bank sounded fancy, but it was really just a somewhat larger community bank. If this were the Joker, why would he bother with such a small target? Did supervillains have tutorial missions?
The new patrol vehicle had one major advantage over the old car, its sheer size. Once the siren was on, every car in front scrambled to get out of the way. No more polite honking and hoping people moved.
The patrol vehicle barreled down the streets like Optimus Prime on a rampage. In under ten minutes, Marco reached the scene. He skidded the truck sideways in front of the entrance for cover, grabbed his rifle, and jumped out from the driver's side, weapon raised.
But the expected rain of bullets didn't come. Not even a single shot.
Inside the bank, there was chaos, but no gunfire. He crouched low and peeked around the front of the truck. Under the harsh fluorescent lobby lights, a crowd of people were huddled together. In the middle of them stood a masked man wearing a green visor and black sunglasses, holding two pistols and supervising the tellers as they stuffed cash into a duffel bag.
Keeping low and quiet, he crept along the outer wall and pressed close to the glass for a better look. The two guns in the man's hands didn't look like standard models. Each grip had tubes running from the pistol to some kind of canister strapped to the guy's back.
Please don't let this be some maniac with a homemade flamethrower.
He thought for a moment, then crouched and moved toward the entrance. Whether the suspect opened fire or he accidentally hit that fuel tank, with this crowd density it wouldn't end with just one or two casualties. Only a clean headshot from a sure angle could minimize the danger.
The main entrance wasn't far from the window. He edged over and found the door wasn't locked. Inside, a security guard was on the floor covering his eyes, wailing in pain but very much alive.
He didn't kill anyone?
Marco braced a foot lightly against the doorframe, planning to ease the door open just a crack before bursting in. But as he did, the masked man's yelling became much clearer.
"Hurry up and pack it! Don't try any tricks, or I'll give you a taste of my special hot sauce!"
...What?
What kind of bizarre threat was that?
His brain short-circuited for a second. He was half-tempted to buy a couple of potatoes later and plant them in flowerpots, just in case zombies somehow showed up at night to eat his brain, which clearly wasn't functioning at full capacity right now.
You're a bank robber, man. Do you even hear yourself?
He glanced at the hostages again. Nobody looked truly terrified. A few of the management-looking types were even a little... excited? Like this was the most interesting thing that had happened all week.
Could the robber be fake? Some kind of inside job? If so, he couldn't just shoot him dead, there'd be no testimony afterward, and the whole thing would get messy.
But staging a fake bank robbery... how would the bank take that risk? If the truth came out, they'd face criminal charges. Everyone involved would be blacklisted from the financial industry forever. The risk simply wasn't worth the reward.
Unless they were certain the robber wouldn't get caught.
He looked down at himself. Bulletproof vest still on. His service weapon loaded. The AR-15 ready to go.
Fuck it.
He kicked the door open, dove behind the marble pillar by the entrance, raised his rifle, and shouted:
"GCPD! Drop your weapons and get on the ground, now!"
The masked man let out a weird, high-pitched laugh. He spun around and opened fire.
"Eat my mustard blast!"
Marco had already lined up the shot before shouting, his sights fixed on center mass. But something still felt wrong about the whole situation. So the moment the guy turned and fired, he ducked behind the marble pillar.
The guns fired, except there was no bang. Just two wet, squelching sounds.
Splurt. Splurt.
And then two heavy streams of red and yellow liquid shot past his position, thick and gooey, splattering against the wall behind him. The smell hit him a second later.
Spicy. Savory. Tangy.
Wait.
Wait.
Marco's brain struggled to process what was happening.
"Are you fucking kidding me?! The hot sauce thing was literal?!"
He looked down at his AR-15. Then he looked at the condiment-splattered wall. Then he looked at the rifle again, completely at a loss.
Hot sauce. Bank robbery. How did those two concepts even end up in the same sentence?
Dude. Are you from Florida or something?
Shaking his head, he propped the rifle against the wall. He took off his police jacket and held it in front of him like a shield, then charged forward. More wet splattering sounds erupted ahead. The jacket jerked with every hit, thick sauce oozing down the fabric and dripping onto the polished marble floor.
To be fair... it actually smelled pretty good.
After three or four running steps, he reached the masked man. He flung the jacket over the guy's head, blinding him, and delivered a solid kick to the gut. The man screamed and crumpled to the floor, clutching his stomach and wheezing.
"This is the guy who thought he could rob a bank?" Marco murmured, picking up his jacket. Both sides were completely soaked through with sauce, and even his shirt underneath had splatters. "Shit. East End doesn't reimburse dry cleaning!"
He stepped forward, stripped the masked man of his ridiculous weapons, and cuffed him. Looking around at the crowd, he raised his voice.
"Who's in charge here? Anyone injured?"
Two suited managers stepped out from the crowd. One of them shook his head curtly.
"No real damage, officer. Just the guard's eyes, he needs them flushed out."
Marco radioed Anna and told her to come inside and start taking statements. Then, because he was curious and had lost control of his life at this point, he secretly dabbed a bit of the sauce off his jacket and tasted it.
Huh.
Not bad, actually.
He crouched down beside the robber, who was still groaning on the floor.
"Hey. Your sauce tastes great. Mind sharing the recipe?"
The robber's eyes lit up immediately, even through the pain. He wheezed out an answer.
"Twenty... twenty-five percent... tomato juice... plus thirty... percent... Mexican... extra-hot... pep—"
He gagged mid-sentence, overwhelmed by the lingering spice in his own mouth.
Just then, Anna approached with an elderly man, about sixty years old, who looked oddly excited for someone who'd just witnessed a bank robbery.
"Sir, this is the person who reported the crime. He says he used to be a long-term customer of the bank."
"Used to?"
"Until this afternoon!" the old man said. He waved his hands enthusiastically. "My friend told me the bank's finances were in serious trouble, about to go under. But it's fine! I withdrew all my money just now, right before this happened. This guy..." He pointed at the groaning robber. "He's a restaurant owner. He went bankrupt six months ago and lost his mind. But who knows why he decided to rob a bank today of all days. With condiments."
Marco nodded slowly, processing this circus of information. He told Anna to escort the suspect to the patrol vehicle, then turned back to look at the noisy bank lobby one more time.
The age of chaos was coming.
Gotham was finally starting to produce weirdly dressed lunatics.