Cobblepot's "get well soon" bouquets lined the windowsill, sent by people who probably hoped he wouldn't get well at all.
Marco stood at the foot of the bed, peeling a tangerine. The bodyguard, some thick-necked enforcer whose name he had never bothered to learn, stood in the corner looking.
Cobblepot's eyes fluttered open. The bruises on his face had yet to fade. He tilted his head slightly, registering Marco's presence, and forced a weak smile.
"You came. Sorry I wasn't awake to greet you properly. I heard you cleared things up with the Don."
"Don't mention it." Marco waved a hand dismissively, not looking up from the tangerine. He separated a section, popped it in his mouth, and chewed slowly before continuing. "Last time, I was the one in the hospital bed. Now..." He finally looked up, meeting Cobblepot's eyes. "Funny how things turn around."
A trace of confusion appeared on Cobblepot's face, but it vanished quickly.
"We need to talk about the robbery."
"Cough... cough cough..."
Cobblepot's hand flew to his throat, and he erupted into a violent coughing fit. He hacked and wheezed for a solid two minutes, his face turning red, eyes watering. Marco just stood there, eating his tangerine. When it became clear Marco wasn't buying the performance, his coughing tapered off. He cleared his throat one last time, looking embarrassed, then waved at his bodyguard.
"Leave us."
The enforcer looked between them, then lumbered out of the room. The door clicked shut.
"Alright." Cobblepot's voice had lost some of its weakness. "I'll never forget what you did for me. I owe you my life. I'll always be loyal to you. Whatever you need, whatever you ask, I won't refuse."
Marco walked to the bedside. "Swear that the money wasn't taken by you."
"I swear. Don Falcone's money was taken by Black Mask."
"I'm talking about the second robbery."
"I swear on my life, the second robbery wasn't me either."
Marco's expression didn't change. "Swear it on your mother."
Cobblepot's face twisted. "You shouldn't ask that. I've always considered you a friend, my best friend. And you keep doubting me, pushing me, extorting me over and over..."
For a moment he looked almost hurt.
"I love my mother more than anything in this world. But for you... for you, I'll swear on her name." He met Marco's eyes. "The second robbery of Carmine Falcone's treasury was not done by me."
Marco's hand moved toward Cobblepot's shoulder, as if to offer a reassuring pat. Then it stopped midair.
"Actually..." His eyes narrowed, and a slight smile touched his lips. "You wouldn't mind doing it one more time, would you? Swear on your mother's name that the money isn't with you. And that you didn't send anyone to do it."
Cobblepot's expression darkened. "You can insult me. You can beat me. You can question my honor. But don't you insult my mother. As for those twelve million dollars... Fine. I'll swear. On her name, I swear that money is definitely not in this hospital gown right now. Not in my pockets or under my pillow. Now please stop pushing me."
"Ah. So that's how it is."
Marco pulled the pillow up behind Cobblepot's back, then dragged the chair over and sat down next to the bed.
"You really are a master of language." He picked up another tangerine, turning it over in his hands. "Alright. I believe you. Let's move on to the next topic."
Cobblepot's expression remained guarded.
"Don Falcone's lost close to twenty million in the past month," Marco continued. "It won't cripple him completely, but it's definitely hurt. And yesterday..." He started peeling the tangerine, the citrus smell filling the room. "Want some?"
"No. Thank you. What happened yesterday?"
"Yesterday, his people finally caught a trace of Black Mask. There was a firefight. Don Falcone lost a lot of men."
Cobblepot's eyes flashed, before his expression settled back.
"That's terrible news. Such a shame. I wish I could have personally—"
"Jesus Christ, this is exhausting." Marco shook his head, cutting him off. "You're getting better at playing it cool. Too good, actually. All these words, all this timidity, it's boring me to death." He stood up abruptly, brushing tangerine peel from his pants. "If you're going to keep acting like this, I'll find another partner. Get well soon."
He turned toward the door without looking back.
"Wait! Wait, please..."
Cobblepot threw himself out of bed, his injured leg buckling slightly as he limped forward and grabbed Marco's arm.
"We can talk more openly."
Marco looked down at Cobblepot's hand on his arm, then back at his face. He smiled.
"Looks like you're recovering faster than I thought."
He let Cobblepot lead him back to the bed, waiting until the other man had settled before pulling the chair closer.
"Let's talk about something practical." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I said this before: Don Falcone's old. I think someone who understands cooperation, someone who doesn't act rashly, would be better suited for leadership. The GCPD doesn't want this city falling into chaos, bad for business. So here's my question, and I'm only asking once: Are you willing to replace him?"
Cobblepot's mouth twitched violently. His eyes locked onto Marco's, unblinking, for what felt like an eternity. When he finally spoke, his voice had changed completely.
"If our plan can—"
"There is no plan." Marco cut him off flatly. "I don't have a fucking plan."
"What? Then what are you..."
"First, I need to know if you've got the courage. Anyone who wants power has to accept responsibility and risk. You can't hide behind other people forever."
He pointed at Cobblepot.
"And here's another question for you: Let's say you take his seat. What happens then? Won't what he's experiencing today eventually happen to you too? Won't someone younger, hungrier, smarter come along and do to you exactly what you're planning to do to him?"
Cobblepot opened his mouth, then closed it.
"Is this where your ambition ends? Taking over one crime family in one city? Think about your family. Your mother. Don't you want more for them? Don't you want to go further?"
"Further?" The idea seemed foreign to Cobblepot, like he'd never let himself think that far ahead. "That's seems impossible."
"But you have to want it first," Marco said. "Ambition starts in your head before it becomes real."
Cobblepot stared at him.
"I..."
---
BANG.
The gunshot echoed through the basement range, and the paper target jerked as the bullet wenr through the black silhouette's center mass. The round tumbled down the angled collection grid before dropping into the catch box.
Marco lowered the gun, exhaled slowly, and let his consciousness sink inward.
Finally. The skill had leveled up.
[Gunslinger Basics:
Your knowledge and practical mastery of most firearms has reached a mastery level. You can handle all types of guns with ease, and can even pull off various improbable (and utterly impractical) trick shots. Your base accuracy has increased by 5%]
[Progress Missions:
Firearm Disassembly/Maintenance: 0/2000
Firearm Shooting: 0/2000]
[Complete all missions to increase skill level. The system only raises your upper limit, your effort determines your lower limit. Have you ever seen Gotham at 4 AM?]
He holstered the gun, pulled off his ear protection, and headed upstairs. By the time he emerged from the basement range, it was past ten at night. Most of the precinct was dark, but he could see light spilling from under the forensics lab door.
"It's ten-thirty at night..."
He opened the door and found Edward hunched over his desk, but for once he wasn't tinkering with evidence or examining tissue samples. Instead, he was reading.
"Ed?"
"Oh. Hey, Marco." Edward looked up, blinking like he'd forgotten where he was. He set the book down, and Marco caught sight of the title: Advanced Flight Dynamics: Aerodynamic Theory and Application.
Marco picked up the book and flipped through a few pages. The words might as well have been written in ancient Sumerian for all the sense they made to him.
"What are you...?"
"Just learning some new things." Edward gestured at the shelves behind him. "Those are all books I bought today."
Marco turned to look. The shelves, which had previously been filled with case files and personnel records, now groaned under the weight of dozens of new textbooks: fluid dynamics, evolutionary biology, infectious disease vectors, network architecture, electronic circuit modification, aeronautical engineering.
"Jesus, Ed." He set the flight dynamics book down. "I didn't expect someone as smart as you to still need to study this much."
"Being smart and learning are two different things." Edward smiled slightly. "Even the most brilliant brain won't have knowledge spontaneously manifest inside it. You have to put in the work." He tilted his head. "Did you need something?"
"No, I just..." Marco shook his head. "You have a way of making everything sound reasonable when you explain it."
He wandered around the forensics lab aimlessly, picking up random objects and setting them back down. "How's that dismemberment case coming along?"
"Still no solid leads." Edward pulled out his notebook and extracted a single sheet of paper. "But we've noticed a pattern. The killer always chooses the filthiest places to dump the bodies. Abandoned lots, toxic waste areas, sewage outflows. It might stem from intense dissatisfaction with his 'work.' If that's the case, he likely has severe obsessive-compulsive tendencies. He can't tolerate imperfection. Unfortunately, we don't know what his standard of perfection actually is."
He tapped the paper thoughtfully.
"However, I'd suggest we start with the drugs required for surgery. Anesthetics, steroids, medical-grade latex for prosthetics. Especially anesthetics, there's a strong chance they're coming from the black market. As for the dump sites..." He raised an eyebrow. "I think Otis might be able to help with that."
"What passes through walls without a trace, comes and goes through the streets day and night, feasts beneath the moonlight, and softly chants my name in the dark?"
Marco grinned confidently. "That's way too easy. We deal with those every day." He gave a thumbs-up. "Smugglers!"
"You did that on purpose. Get out!"
He scrambled out of the forensics lab, laughing, and nearly collided with a desk in the front hall. The precinct was quiet tonight, only a handful of officers on duty, a couple of drunks sleeping it off in the holding cells. What he didn't expect was to see Bob still there, sprawled in a chair in the lobby, watching TV with a few off-duty cops.
On the screen, Friends was playing. The characters were arguing about something, and Bob was laughing so hard he was practically wheezing.
"Hey, chief!" Marco called out. "You're still here? Don't tell me you're pulling an all-nighter."
"When you reach my age, you'll understand, sometimes going home is worse than staying at work." Bob took a drag from his cigarette, eyes still glued to the screen. "They don't know that we know they know we know!"
He laughed until tears formed in the corners of his eyes, wiping them away with the back of his hand before turning to look at Marco.
"You don't think it's funny? Why aren't you laughing?"
"Honestly, I've tried watching this show a few times, but I can never keep track of who's sleeping with who or why everyone's so upset about it." Marco shrugged. "It's exhausting."
"You young guys always want everything spelled out." Bob shook his head, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. "But life doesn't work like that. Sometimes you just gotta roll with it, enjoy the moment. By the time you've got it all figured out, the moment's already gone."
He leaned closer to Marco, lowering his voice.
"Speaking of which, I got some inside news from City Hall today. Loeb's probably stepping down. About damn time, if you ask me." His expression darkened slightly. "But after I backed out last time, my chances of moving up aren't great. Right now, the frontrunner is Captain Nathaniel Barnes."
He bent forward, and flicked ash onto the floor.
"Sorry, kid. I know you were planning for this. I screwed it up."
"It's fine. Opportunities come around." Marco glanced at the officers watching TV, then back at Bob. "At least you didn't send them into a meat grinder."
"Don't give me that 'good person' bullshit. Good people don't last long in Gotham." Bob crushed his cigarette under his heel and stood up, grabbing his briefcase from the chair. "Alright, I'm heading out."
"Wait."
Marco pointed at the cigarette butt on the floor.
"Didn't you issue that memo last month? The one about fines for damaging public property?"
Bob stared at the crushed cigarette for a long moment. Then he looked at Marco.
"You gonna write me up, Captain Vitale?"
"No, sir."
"Then shut the hell up and go home."