"Officer Marco Vitale, step forward."
Bob's voice carried across the small ceremony room. Most promotions happened in the commissioner's office with cameras and press. This one was happening in a converted conference room in the East End Precinct, attended by maybe two dozen people, half of them cops from Marco's own team.
Marco stepped up to the podium. His dress uniform felt stiff, the collar cutting into his neck.
"By the authority vested in me by the City of Gotham, it is my honor to promote you to the rank of Captain of the Gotham City Police Department, East End Precinct."
Bob's fingers worked at the star-shaped officer's badge on Marco's shoulder, replacing it with a metal bar marked with three chevrons.
"Sorry, kid." His voice dropped low enough that only Marco could hear. "None of your family could make it, so I'm overstepping a bit here."
He gave the new insignia a gentle pat, then picked up a cross-shaped medal from the small table beside them.
"At the same time," he said louder, for the room, "you are awarded the Medal of Valor, in recognition of your courage and sacrifice during multiple operations."
He pinned the medal to Marco's chest.
There was applause. Not enthusiastic, not halfhearted either. Just the kind of tired clapping you got from cops who'd seen too many ceremonies and knew most of them didn't mean shit in the long run.
Marco shook Bob's hand, nodded to the room, and stepped back.
That was it. No speech or photos.
---
"So? How does it feel to be a captain?"
Darnell was sitting in a wheelchair near the back of the room. Marco walked over, tugging at his collar, and undid the top two buttons of his dress coat.
"Not bad. The uniform's too tight, though." He frowned, looking Darnell over. "Thanks for coming, but... wait. You should've recovered halfway by now. Two months is more than enough time. Why are you in a wheelchair?"
"Oh! Don't worry about that." Darnell suddenly stood up, smooth as anything, and spun the wheelchair around. "I just figured out that people let you take the elevator first if you're sitting in one of these things."
"You're such a fucking—"
Marco shook his head, and gestured to the small crowd milling around the room. Most of them were helping themselves to cheap coffee and stale donuts from the break room.
"Come on. Meet the team. Pretty much everyone here has more seniority than you."
"Don't listen to him." Darnell's eyes immediately landed on Anna, who was standing near the coffee table in civilian clothes. He held out a hand with an easy smile. "Hey! Want to grab a drink after this? Wait... is she your girl?"
"Not even close," Marco said flatly. "She told me she likes refined gentlemen with elegant manners. Not rough assholes like us who swear every other word."
Anna rolled her eyes at Darnell, but there was a hint of amusement there. Darnell didn't seem bothered. He gave Marco a light punch on the shoulder.
"Damn, man. You look even bigger than before. What've you been doing, eating protein powder for breakfast?"
Marco smirked. The truth was, whenever he had free time, he'd been grinding through the system's training tasks. The progress was slow, but his body was responding. He could feel the difference in how he moved.
"Comes from wrestling lunatics in alleyways. But seriously, you should get back to resting. You're not cleared for duty yet."
"Oh, come on, Captain." Darnell groaned dramatically. "I never thought I'd miss work this much. Recovery's boring as hell. Sitting at home is worse than being in the hospital. And I have to deal with my mom and my sister nagging me every five minutes."
Marco glanced around the room, then waved Otis over. The man shuffled forward, still looking uncomfortable in his borrowed civilian clothes.
"Otis. Your case." Marco kept his voice low. "The chief and the judge worked things out. You'll be going to court soon. I was going to have Darnell help you with the paperwork, but..."
He paused, considering it for a moment, then shook his head.
"Yeah, no. If he helps you, you'll never get your case overturned in this lifetime. Alan!"
"Yes, sir!" Alan snapped to attention a little too quickly, nearly spilling his coffee.
"If any lawyers or anyone else shows up asking questions about Otis' legal status, you handle it. Officially, he's still listed as an inmate at Blackgate. Keep it quiet."
"Understood, sir." Alan gave a sharp salute. "I'll take care of it."
"Thank you. Thank you so much." Otis' face was twitching. "I... I don't know how to—"
"Enough with the 'I' and 'I don't know,'" Marco said, clapping him on the arm. "You promised you'd work for me to pay off your debt. That's enough."
"No problem, Captain!" Otis stood straighter, gave a salute that was nowhere near regulation standard, and stepped back.
Marco smirked slightly, then continued.
"From headquarters... Ed's transfer paperwork is done. He should be reporting to the East End within the next few days." He scratched his head. "But I promised him a morgue and a forensics lab, and I still don't have anywhere to put them. I was thinking about buying the office building next door. The building itself is cheap, but renovations? That's going to cost a fortune."
"Can't help you there," Darnell said with a shrug. "You're the captain now. Figure it out. But seriously, can't you assign me something to do? Anything?"
Marco studied him for a moment, then said, "How about going undercover?"
"If you want me dead, just say it."
Marco chuckled and let the subject drop. Once everyone had cleared out of the room, he sat down at the desk, pulled out a blank sheet of paper, and started sketching. Based on what he'd observed, Bruce's current costume wasn't exactly high-tech. There was a bat symbol on the chest, but it wasn't armor, looked more like reinforced ballistic fabric, the kind you'd find in standard-issue bulletproof vests. The lower half wasn't some garish bright-colored underwear situation, thank God, but tight leather pants with a very obvious seam running down the crotch.
He stared at his stick-figure drawing: a round head with two triangular ears, four thin lines for limbs, and a trapezoidal cape hanging off the back.
"If I ever applied to art school, I'd be the first one they rejected."
He set the pen down.
Bruce wanted to come out and "play" tonight. That meant he had to make sure the night was fun, satisfying, and showed just how hard the East End Precinct was working and how badly they needed resources. Otherwise, why the hell would Bruce happily open his wallet the next day?
This was going to be a pain in the ass.
He wrote down a second name: CPS.
Hale had called him a few days ago. The books were mostly sorted out now. But with the chaos the Mad Hatter had stirred up across the city, he hadn't had time to follow up. He needed to check in soon.
Intervening in the CPS project had been an impulsive move, sparked by the Harper siblings' situation. But it was also a good way to funnel money and build goodwill. Still, if he wanted CPS to back off without burning bridges, he had to control the scope carefully.
Third, he wrote: Carmine Falcone.
The Roman's empire was deeply entrenched. The mafia godfather's foundation was solid as bedrock. Killing him might not be hard, but the entire Gotham underworld would explode into chaos the moment he went down. With the handful of cops Marco had, there'd be no way to rein it in. He needed a proxy arranged ahead of time. Someone who could keep the situation under control when the dominoes started falling.
He stared at the names on the paper, his fingers drumming lightly on the desk.
Then he stopped.
Something felt wrong.
He stood abruptly, walked quickly to the gilt-framed mirror in the corner of the office. The mirror wasn't tall enough. He couldn't see his face in the reflection. All he could see was his posture, leaning back slightly, belly pushed out unconsciously, and the voice that came from his own mouth: "Congratulations, kid."
He froze.
That was Bob's voice, and tone.
Cold sweat poured down his back, soaking through his shirt almost instantly.
"When did I start copying his habits?"
He looked down at the desk. The old thermos he used to carry wasn't there. Instead, there was a cup of cold coffee, half-finished. He looked toward the dark window. Rain drizzled down, tapping steadily against the glass. Neon lights blurred in the rain. The shadow on the window seemed to curl its lips into a strange, mocking grin.
He picked up the cup of coffee, walked to the window, and poured the entire contents into the potted plant on the sill. The brown-black liquid seeped into the soil like poison being fed to the roots.
He stood there for a long time, staring at Gotham in the rain, wondering what he had become.
At last, he shook his head.
"Maybe not. Right?"