Malphegor
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PIG V3 Ch. 11
🕑 Added 2026-01-22 00:32:46 +0000 UTC"I'm sorry, what did you just say?"
"An elite individual with an international perspective."
Marco stared at the invitation in his hand, then looked up at the hotel manager standing in his doorway with the kind of smile that could sell ice to penguins.
International perspective? The only thing he'd done internationally lately was lose twenty grand at a Vegas poker table to what he was pretty sure were Russian mobsters pretending to be investment bankers. That counted as international charity, right?
"You mean the person you're talking about is... me?"
"That's correct, Mr. Vitale." The manager's smile could've powered a small city. "You're from Gotham. That alone makes you someone from a very controversial place."
Oh, great. Famous for being from the murder capital of America. Mom would be so proud.
"So Mr. Queen is hosting..." Marco glanced at the invitation again, squinting at the pretentious calligraphy. "Star City's Light of the Future Charity Gala. That's Star City business. What's it got to do with me?"
"Mr. Queen hopes that talented individuals from across the nation, and indeed, the world, will contribute valuable insights to Star City's development." The manager bent slightly at the waist, like he was bowing to royalty. "Especially an officer like yourself, who has personally charged into the front lines of urban counterterrorism and public security. Your experience in police department development and safety strategy is an invaluable asset to Star City."
Marco blinked. Holy shit, this guy could sell sand in the Sahara.
He knew exactly what this was, of course. Last night's environmentalist in the green hood was changing venues. Oliver was trying to have another go at him on home turf. Probably wanted to lecture him about violence and civic responsibility over champagne and caviar.
As for donations? The dirty money in his trunk didn't grow on trees, especially after twenty grand had already vanished into the Vegas void. He would starve to death before he gave one goddamn cent to whatever charity these Star City rich assholes were running.
But the free food...
He looked at the invitation again. "Light of the Future Charity Gala." Translated from rich-person speak, that meant: open bar and fancy appetizers that normal people only saw in cooking shows.
"Alright," he said, waving the manager off. "Tell Mr. Queen I'll be there on time."
The manager left, still smiling. Marco shut the door, looked at the invitation, then at his reflection in the mirror.
He was wearing the same leather jacket and jeans he'd had on when he checked in. The jacket had a coffee stain on the collar from this morning.
"Fuck it," he muttered. "It's free food."
---
Night fell over Star City, and the Dome of Light Hotel truly lived up to its name. Located on the top floor of one of the tallest buildings downtown, the massive arched glass ceiling enclosed the entire banquet hall. Looking up, you could see stars, assuming you ignored the layer of industrial smog that hung over the city.
Inside, the lights blazed. Men in tailored tuxedos and women in evening gowns drifted through the space, wine glasses in hand, wearing smiles so calculated they could've been drawn with a protractor.
Marco stood in the entrance.
"So this is how the other half lives."
It was different from the tacky, nouveau-riche glitter of Las Vegas. Here, everyone had to pretend to be classy. The lighting was warm but not gaudy. The music was soft classical shit he didn't recognize.
And his leather jacket and jeans stood out like a raccoon at a jewelry store.
The attendant at the entrance stared at Marco's invitation for a solid ten seconds. His eyes flicked between the embossed card and Marco's stained jacket at least five times before he finally stepped aside with a smile.
"Welcome, sir. Enjoy the evening."
Marco grinned. "Thanks, buddy."
As he walked into the hall, he could feel the stares. Whispers rippled through the crowd like he'd just tracked mud across a white carpet. A woman in a diamond necklace clutched her purse tighter as he passed.
He couldn't have cared less. His attention was locked on the servers weaving through the crowd with trays of food. Tiny pieces of toast topped with what he assumed was caviar. Shrimp wrapped in bacon. Little pastry things with cheese inside. And in the corner, a carving station with prime rib.
He was already planning his attack strategy: start with the shrimp, move to the prime rib, finish with whatever those little chocolate things were.
Then a commotion near the entrance pulled his attention.
The scattered crowd subtly converged forward. Oliver Queen, heir and CEO of Queen Consolidated, appeared in an impeccably tailored dark blue suit. His blonde hair was styled perfectly, not a strand out of place, and he wore the kind of smile that billionaires practiced in mirrors: warm enough to seem genuine, distant enough to maintain control.
He moved through the crowd, nodding to guests, shaking hands, saying just enough to each person to make them feel important without committing to anything.
But Marco's gaze slid right past him and landed on the young woman at his side.
It was the girl from the bar last night.
The one who'd blushed and asked for his number while doing Truth or Dare. Tonight she wore an elegant silver evening gown, her makeup light and refined, her hair swept up in some complicated style that probably required an engineering degree to achieve. She looked completely different from the tipsy college kid who'd been giggling at the bar.
He was still processing this when their eyes met across the room.
The girl's polite smile froze on her face. Her eyes went wide. She said something quickly to Oliver, then released his arm. She lifted her skirt slightly, lowered her head, and sprinted through the crowd toward the terrace exit. People had to step aside to avoid getting run over.
Oliver clearly noticed. His smile never wavered, but his eyes tracked her retreat, then followed her line of sight straight to Marco. For just a fraction of a second, his expression tightened before the billionaire playboy mask snapped back into place. He turned back to the group of important-looking people around him and continued whatever conversation he'd been having.
Marco shrugged and went back to planning his assault on the buffet table.
The dinner dragged on. There were speeches. A charity auction where people bid obscene amounts of money on things they didn't need to impress other people who didn't care. More speeches. Someone played a violin.
Marco found a relatively quiet corner near the prime rib station and committed himself fully to the cause of eating as much free food as humanly possible. He loaded his plate with beef, shrimp, those little pastry things, and something he was pretty sure was foie gras but might've been cat food for all he knew. It tasted expensive, which was good enough.
He was in the middle of deciding whether to go back for thirds when someone sat down in the empty chair beside him.
"This seat's taken, buddy," Marco said without looking up, sawing through a particularly thick piece of prime rib.
"I know," came the reply. "Now it's taken by me."
The voice was casual. Marco looked up and found Oliver sitting next to him, a glass of champagne in one hand.
He looked nothing like the hooded figure from last night.
"Oh," Marco said. He went back to eating.
Oliver raised his champagne glass slightly, trying to steer the conversation. "You're a police officer from Gotham, right? Thank you for coming tonight. I hope Star City's hospitality hasn't disappointed you. Judging by your plate, the food seems to meet your standards."
"It's alright, I guess." Marco wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I was hoping for some real food, though. You know, like pasta e fagioli. Or a decent bowl of stracciatella. Your Italian food here isn't authentic at all."
Oliver blinked. "I... what?"
"Pasta e fagioli. You know, pasta and beans. Throw in some pancetta, garlic, tomatoes, let it simmer until it's thick and hearty. That's comfort food. This?" Marco gestured at his plate. "This is food for people who've never been hungry."
Oliver stared at him for a long moment, trying to figure out if Marco was serious or messing with him. Finally, he cleared his throat.
"I'll... make a note of that. Next time we'll prepare more authentic Italian cuisine." He took a sip of champagne and reset his approach. "I've heard from friends in Gotham that you have some interesting insights when it comes to urban sociology."
"Friends in Gotham?" Marco looked up, genuinely curious now. "Who? I know half the cops in that city and most of the criminals. Name them."
Oliver's smile strained slightly. "Well... my friend might belong to the other half..."
"Hold on." Marco set down his fork and knife, giving Oliver his full attention. "I've got a question. Kind of urgent."
"Oh?" Oliver's posture shifted subtly. "Go ahead."
Marco's gaze locked onto Oliver's face, specifically, his perfectly groomed beard.
"Your beard."
Oliver froze.
"The styling," Marco continued, pointing at his own chin and then gesturing in the air. "Very distinctive. Is that the latest trend in Star City? Because I saw someone in a hood last night with exactly the same beard. I mean, down to the millimeter."
For half a second, Oliver's blood turned to ice. His fingers tightened around the champagne glass. He'd calculated for a hundred different scenarios tonight, but not for someone opening with a question about facial hair. He let out an exaggerated laugh.
"Hahaha! You mean that 'Green Arrow' guy?"
He shrugged, taking another sip of champagne. "Yeah, I noticed that too. Honestly, it's kind of annoying. You know how it is, when you're a public figure, image matters. I'm starting to think that guy's been secretly following my fashion choices for a while now. Wouldn't you call that... I don't know... copyright infringement?"
Marco nodded slowly. Then he picked up his fork again and speared another piece of beef.
"Then he's got good taste," he said around a mouthful of prime rib.
Oliver watched Marco go back to eating.
If even an ordinary police officer is like this, he thought, what the hell are the rest of them like?
He thought he'd seen every kind of person there was.
But Gotham...
"That city," he muttered under his breath, so quietly Marco didn't hear.
"What?"
"Nothing." Oliver stood up, smoothing his jacket. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr. Vitale. And... thank you for coming."
He walked away, disappearing back into the crowd of people who smiled and lied for a living.
Marco watched him go, then shrugged and went back to the buffet table for another plate.
Free food was free food.
