Malphegor
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PIG V3 Ch. 13
🕑 Added 2026-01-23 02:01:57 +0000 UTCSo they were members of the Queen family.
Of course they were.
Marco had figured that out about halfway through Thea's declaration, right around the part where she'd mentioned "on behalf of Queen Consolidated." Rich kids really did just run wild through bars without any sense of class boundaries, didn't they?
Thea's pledge was like pushing over the first domino. Whispers rippled through the crowd. More and more hands went up, some out of charity, some out of social pressure, some just to be seen doing the right thing. Motives didn't matter. Money was money.
"I'll add two hundred thousand. For the children of Gotham."
A woman in the third row, diamonds dripping from her neck.
"Daedalus Technologies, one hundred thousand!"
A man in an expensive suit near the bar.
"Count us in. One hundred fifty thousand."
Another couple, older, looking uncomfortable but committed.
The emcee scrambled back onto the stage, trying desperately to regain control of the situation. The chaos had a momentum of its own now, pledges flying faster than she could write them down. Within minutes, the total for the Gotham East End Precinct Children's Aid Program had climbed to $2.3 million.
Oliver stood frozen beside Marco. The spotlight was still trained on him. He glanced at his sister in the crowd. Then he looked at Marco, who still hadn't changed his expression.
He picked up the microphone again.
"It seems that Officer Vitale's experiences have truly touched all of us here tonight. To express the Queen family's support, and my own personal support, for law enforcement and, especially, for the care of the next generation... I pledge an additional seven hundred thousand dollars. I hope this money can help those children who need it most."
Applause broke out, but it was scattered. Nothing like the thunderous response to the earlier million-dollar checks. More like the sound people make when they feel obligated to clap but aren't really invested. After all, Gotham was on the other side of the continent. Donating some pocket change was generous enough.
---
The gala finally limped to its conclusion in a strange, awkward atmosphere. Guests filed out in clusters. Many were still murmuring about the night's turn.
Marco declined a few attempts at conversation from people who wanted to congratulate him or ask questions or just be seen talking to the man of the hour. He was halfway to the exit when a figure stepped into his path.
"Officer Vitale." Oliver's voice was low, stripped of the performative charm he'd used on stage. Without the microphone's amplification, it sounded more real. "Could we talk?"
Marco raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He just gestured toward the terrace.
They walked in silence through the emptying hall, past waiters collecting glasses and busboys stacking chairs. The terrace was deserted, overlooking Star City's nighttime skyline.
Oliver leaned against the railing, staring out at the city for a moment before turning to face Marco.
"Those things you said..." He got straight to the point. "About the terrorists, the siblings you rescued, and your children's program. How much of it was true?"
"Every word." Marco's expression didn't change. "I swear on Cobblepot's mother, every single word."
Oliver blinked. "I'm sorry, who is Cobblepot?"
"He is a guy I know. And he is very devoted to his mother. Don't worry about it."
Oliver felt his brain short-circuiting. Every conversation with this man somehow veered off into bizarre territory. He knew Marco was deliberately dodging, but he forced himself to stay focused. He'd been raised with good manners and discipline, and he wasn't going to lose his composure now.
"Tell me something. If I want to help this city, what should I do? Not like this." He gestured back toward the empty banquet hall. "Not throwing money at charity galas and feeling good about myself. But something that works."
Marco looked at him.
He could see it now... the same desperation he'd seen in the girl at the bar. The same need to do something, even if they didn't know what. Oliver wasn't stupid. He was just lost. Searching for direction in a world that didn't come with a manual.
"I don't know," he said finally. "I'm not that guy, Mr. Queen. I don't have the answers you're looking for. I'm not a politician, I'm not a philosopher, and I sure as hell don't know how to run a city."
Disappointment flickered across Oliver's face.
"But," Marco continued, "maybe you're asking the wrong question."
"What do you mean?"
"You're asking me what to do. Like I've got some secret playbook that'll fix everything. I don't. Nobody does. But you know what might help? Stop looking for easy answers. Start looking at what's worked before."
"History, you mean."
"Yeah. History. Not American history, though. That's all Founding Fathers and Manifest Destiny bullshit. You want real answers? Look somewhere harder."
Oliver frowned. "Like where?"
"Europe. Post-war reconstruction. How did countries rebuild after everything burned down? Or look at social movements, labor rights, civil rights, the stuff that changed how societies function."
He paused, then went on.
"Read about people who fought systems bigger than themselves and won. People who looked at broken systems and said, 'This doesn't work. We're tearing it down and building something better.'"
He met Oliver's eyes.
"I'm not saying you need to start an uprising or whatever. But maybe stop thinking like a rich guy trying to fix problems with his checkbook, and start thinking like someone who understands what the problems are."
Oliver was quiet for a moment.
"How do I do that?"
"Get your hands dirty," Marco said. "Go to the Glades. Don't just roll through in a limo. Talk to people. Listen to them. Figure out what they need, not what you think they need."
He paused, then added, "And stop looking for heroes to follow. Be your own person. Make your own calls."
"That's... not very specific advice."
"Yeah, well." Marco shrugged. "I'm a cop, not a life coach. You want specific? Here's specific: stop throwing parties and start solving problems. Figure out what you're good at, what you can do, and then do it. Don't wait for someone to tell you it's okay. And don't wait for permission. Just act."
Oliver stared at him. "You really believe that?"
"I believe most people spend their whole lives waiting for someone else to fix things. And by the time they realize nobody's coming, it's too late." Marco turned to leave, then paused. "But you've got resources. You've got time. And you've got privilege most people would kill for. So stop wasting it on guilt and self-doubt. Either use it or don't. But make a choice."
He walked toward the exit, leaving Oliver standing alone on the terrace, staring out at the city he claimed to love but didn't really understand.
---
The Cherokee left Star City's lights in the rearview mirror, heading south along the I-5 corridor toward the final destination of this increasingly bizarre road trip: Florida.
Marco couldn't stop thinking about Oliver's expression during their conversation. That confusion, like a guy who'd just been told the meaning of life but couldn't quite parse the grammar. Would he do anything with it? Or would he just go back to throwing money at problems and hoping they went away?
Not his problem anymore.
The landscape changed as he drove. California's sprawl gave way to the beauty of the Southwest. He stopped at White Sands National Park, walking through dunes that looked like something from another planet, gypsum sand crunching under his boots.
Then Texas. God, Texas. He'd heard the stereotypes about rednecks and hostility, but he hadn't quite believed them until he stopped at a gas station outside Amarillo and got stared at like he'd just walked into a KKK meeting. The clerk behind the counter refused to make eye contact. A guy filling up his pickup at the next pump spat on the ground when Marco walked past.
"Friendly," he muttered, climbing back into the Cherokee.
He pushed through, stopping only for gas and bathroom breaks, until the terrain shifted again. Louisiana's bayou country greeted him with humidity so thick it felt like swimming through the air. The long causeway over Lake Pontchartrain stretched for what felt like forever, water on both sides.
By the time he crossed into Florida, the climate had gone fully tropical. Palm trees replaced pines. The air smelled like salt. Welcome to the Sunshine State.
Jacksonville wasn't quite what he'd expected. It had that weird Florida energy. Spanish moss hung from the trees in thick curtains, and the humidity made his shirt stick to his back within minutes of stepping out of the car.
He was driving through a residential neighborhood, windows down, when he saw the commotion.
A group of people, maybe six or seven, were fighting in the middle of the street. At the center of the chaos was an unremarkable-looking middle-aged man, average height and build, swinging his fists like a maniac. He wasn't especially skilled, but he didn't need to be. Everyone else was running from him like he was on fire.
Marco slowed the Cherokee.
A massive guy came sprinting past the car.
He rolled down the window. "Hey! Buddy!"
The big guy didn't even glance at him, just kept running.
"You're twice his size!" Marco called after him. "Why the hell are you running?"
The man finally looked back, still running, and shouted over his shoulder:
"You don't understand, he's got shit on his hands!"
Marco blinked.
Then he looked back at the middle-aged man, who was now chasing another victim down the street.
Comments
Jonah Rivera
Hahahaha
ShadowKnight
“He’s got sh$t on his hands” …………understandable
