Malphegor
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PIG V3 Ch. 08
🕑 Added 2026-01-21 01:16:54 +0000 UTCCountry music crackled through the radio in broken fragments, lyrics about heartbreak and pickup trucks that somehow matched the scenery rolling past outside the window. Vast fields stretched to the horizon, dense forests climbed distant mountains, and the occasional small town flashed by in a blur of gas stations and diners. Even the air felt drier out here than it had in Metropolis or Central City.
Originally, Marco hadn't had much motivation to undertake a cross-country road trip. But after his morning workout, two pieces of good news from the system had given him the push he needed.
[All-Rounder:
Your understanding and proficiency with most melee weapons and hand-to-hand combat techniques has reached a mastery level.]
[Progress Missions:
Straight Punch: 0/8000
Kicking: 0/8000
Horse Stance: 0/8000
Footwork: 0/8000
Hook Punch: 0/8000
Swing Punch: 0/8000
Slashing: 0/8000
Stabbing: 0/8000]
[Complete all missions to increase skill level. A critical weapon cannot replace a critical hit from a weapon!]
"Finally."
Marco had let out a long breath when he'd seen that. And the second notification had brought him a skill point.
[You have altered the fate of Winslow Schott in a minor way. Skill Point +1]
Huh. So that guy took the job at Wayne Enterprises. Maybe buying toys from him in the future would come with a discount.
Riding that sudden surge of confidence, he had ultimately decided to make the trip to Star City. After all, squeezing a little cash out of a billionaire's pocket was a hell of a lot easier than earning it himself.
---
The Cherokee kept heading west.
Through Kansas, where the plains stretched so flat and endless it felt like driving across the surface of the ocean. Into Colorado, where the Rocky Mountains rose. Through Utah, where red rock canyons carved impossible shapes into the desert.
And then Nevada.
Las Vegas.
Marco had stopped there for two days. Maybe three. He'd walked into the first casino with twenty-three thousand dollars in his wallet and walked out with less than three.
He'd slapped himself in the face twice while getting back in the Cherokee, pulled onto I-80 West, and sworn never to gamble again.
At least not until he had more money to burn.
After almost ten days on the road, Marco finally took the exit into Star City's outskirts. He stretched, his back popping in three places, and rolled his stiff neck. What he wanted most right now was a decent hotel and twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. Everything else could wait.
Then he saw the traffic jam.
"You've got to be kidding me."
Up ahead, several police cruisers were parked at haphazard angles across the road, red and blue lights spinning silently. Four or five cops in Star City PD uniforms stood in the middle of the street, waving cars to a stop. Their eyes swept over each driver and vehicle interior.
Marco recognized the setup immediately. He slowed down and stopped obediently in front of a cop wearing mirrored sunglasses and chewing gum.
"License," the cop said.
Marco handed over his documents without a word.
The cop flipped them open, glanced at them, then leaned in to scan the interior of the Cherokee. His gaze lingered on the backpack in the passenger seat and the well-made jacket Marco was wearing. "New Jersey? That's a hell of a drive. What're you doing out here?"
"Vacation."
"Vacation?" The cop snorted, closed the license, but made no move to return it. "Your car's got some issues. Tire tread looks worn. And I'm pretty sure I just saw that taillight flickering."
Two of his colleagues drifted closer from either side, forming a loose semicircle around the Cherokee. Marco kept his expression neutral. If this were Gotham, cops running a checkpoint could tell at a glance whether a driver was worth the trouble. And if they wanted money, they'd already have a gun to his head and a bag of plant evidence ready to toss in the backseat.
These guys? Amateurs.
"So?" Marco asked calmly.
"So..." The cop leaned closer. "By the book, your vehicle needs to be impounded for further inspection. But you've come a long way. I get that. Why don't you pay a processing fee, and we'll expedite things for you. Hundred bucks. Sound fair? Saves everyone the hassle."
As he spoke, one hand came to rest on the door frame, fingers tapping lightly against the metal. Marco looked at him for a long moment. Then he smiled.
"Alright," Marco said slowly. He reached toward his inner pocket.
Instantly, all three cops tensed. Hands went to holsters. But Marco just pulled out a black leather wallet. With a sharp snap, he flipped it open, revealing the badge of the Gotham City Police Department.
"Same side," he said quietly.
The air seemed to freeze.
The cop's face went through several expressions in rapid succession. He stared hard at the badge, clearly trying to find some sign it was fake. But the material, the design... it was all real.
He pulled his hand off the door frame and took a step back. Shot a look at the other cops. They huddled together a few meters away.
"...Gotham PD?"
"What the hell's he doing here?"
"So what? He doesn't have jurisdiction."
"Yeah, but still. Gotham cops aren't exactly known for playing nice."
"You wanna shake him down?"
"Fuck no. What if he's here on a case? What if he's got connections? Last thing we need is him writing up a report and getting us jammed up."
"...Better not risk it."
After a brief discussion, the first cop turned back around. He forced something resembling a smile onto his face, though it looked more like a grimace. He shoved the license back into Marco's hand.
"Uh... turns out you're on the job. You should've mentioned that earlier." His voice was stiff. "The tires look fine to me. And the taillight's good too. You're free to go, officer. Welcome to Star City."
Marco pocketed the badge without a word. Just nodded once, rolled up the window, and stepped on the gas.
As the Cherokee pulled away from the checkpoint, he glanced in the rearview mirror. The cops were still clustered together, pointing at his vehicle and talking.
---
Marco drove a few hundred meters, then pulled over to the curb near a corner where a homeless man was sprawled against a building, half-asleep in the afternoon sun.
Marco rolled down the window. "Hey. Got a question."
The homeless man cracked one eye open, looked at him, and didn't move. Marco pulled a five-dollar bill from his pocket and waved it. The man's eyes lit up immediately. He rolled to his feet with surprising speed and jogged over, snatching the bill.
"Those cops back there," Marco said, jerking his chin toward the checkpoint. "What's got them so worked up? Something going on in the city?"
The homeless man stuffed the bill deep into his coat pocket and grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellowed, uneven teeth. "What else? Haven't you heard, man? There's a Robin Hood in town."
Marco raised an eyebrow. "Robin Hood?"
"It started just a few days ago! Some guy dressed in green. Wears a hood, carries a bow and arrows. He shows up out of nowhere, disappears just as fast. And he's been causing serious headaches for the mayor and all those rich assholes he's in bed with."
He spat on the sidewalk. "Last night? Guy hit some warehouse down at the docks. It belonged to some shipping company or whatever. Then he took all their dirty ledgers and pinned them to the front doors of City Hall with arrows. You should've seen the mayor's face this morning. It looked like someone had shit in his coffee."
The man laughed. "So now the cops are running around. Can't catch the guy in green, so they're taking it out on everyone else. Shaking down locals, squeezing out-of-towners. Anything to make their quotas and feel like they're doing something useful. Bastards."
The light at the intersection ahead turned green.
"Appreciate it," Marco said. He rolled up the window and eased the Cherokee back into traffic.
"Guy in green with a bow and arrows..."
So Oliver Queen had already made it back from that island, whatever it was called. Probably not more than a week ago, based on the timeline.
In that case, he'd find a place to crash first, get some sleep, then figure out the lay of the land.
