Malphegor
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PIG Ch. 24
🕑 Added 2025-11-30 12:16:33 +0000 UTCWhat should he eat for lunch?
It was a harder question than it should've been.
By the time Marco walked out of Bob's office, it was already past noon. He had more than ten grand sitting in his bank account, technically, he should treat himself to something decent. But once taxes kicked in, that ten thousand would shrink to maybe six. Better to be smart about it.
He was still debating between the precinct cafeteria's questionable pizza or just skipping lunch entirely when he stepped into the main lobby.
The moment he crossed the threshold, an odd silence grabbed hold of the room. Dozens of eyes snapped toward him. Then someone started clapping.
Then a second person. A third. The scattered applause gradually merged into a steady, if not particularly enthusiastic, stream. Albert stood up from his desk and extended his hand.
"Thank you. I think every officer in Gotham will appreciate what you did for that fund."
Marco blinked. "You guys found out already?"
"Gossip travels faster than the radio," Albert said with a small smile. "It's not about the amount. It's the fact that it shows you're truly one of us."
One of us... So now I'm officially part of the corruption crew.
Marco glanced around. Most of the officers clapping were older, veterans who'd been on the force long enough to know how the game worked. Interests always came first. He didn't comment. Just smiled politely and kept walking.
That's when the dispatcher's voice crackled over the intercom, flat and lifeless as always.
"Vitale, don't forget you've got a follow-up visit on that domestic violence call. Domestic Violence Rapid Response Unit, huh?"
Marco frowned. "I already went to 15th Street. That case is closed."
"Not that one. The one you responded to in the Narrows. That little girl called a few days ago asking for you, but you were still in the hospital."
"Oh. Right."
Marco flipped through his notebook. This must've been something his pre-transmigration self had handled. There were only a few sparse lines about some abusive asshole named Marcus, almost nothing about the victims. He shoved the notebook back into his pocket with a grunt.
"I'll take care of it this afternoon."
---
After forcing down a truly awful cafeteria lunch, Marco slipped into a patrol car to catch a quick nap. He'd barely been asleep for half an hour when Bob's call jolted him awake. His voice sounded strained.
"Your new partners are here. I think you'd better come see for yourself."
Sleep forgotten, he hurried back to Bob's office. Bob was sitting behind his desk, looking like a man who'd just been told he had to work a double shift. Across from him sat two young officers in uniform.
Oh no.
Now Marco understood Bob's tone.
The first was a neat, glasses-wearing young man with a nervous posture. He looked like the kind of guy who'd aced every exam in school but had never thrown a punch in his life. Stick him in a library, and he'd thrive. Send him onto Gotham's streets? He'd last maybe twenty minutes.
The second was a tall young woman with a few faint freckles across her nose and an expression full of bright-eyed innocence. The kind of rookie who still believed the system worked. The kind who'd probably never seen real violence. Send someone like her into the Narrows, and the criminals would pop champagne.
"Look at this!"
Bob grabbed two printed sheets from beside his ashtray and flicked them at Marco.
"Both top students."
Marco caught the first sheet. "Alan Wiggins?"
The male officer shot to his feet immediately, hand raised. "Yes, sir!"
Marco scanned the page. Sure enough, all of Alan's police academy theory classes were A+. But anything hands-on was solidly mediocre.
This is basically a desk jockey, Marco thought, picking up the second sheet. "Anna Ramirez?"
"Yes, sir!" Anna raised her hand enthusiastically. Her grades were more balanced, mostly B+ and A-.
Marco looked up at Bob. "How many am I keeping?"
"Up to you. One or both. We're short-staffed anyway, and these are supposedly the good students." Bob held back for a moment before finally lighting a cigarette. Through the smoke, he jerked his chin at the two rookies. "This is Officer Marco Vitale. Your training will be handled by him."
Marco looked both of them in the eyes.
"I have one question. Have either of you ever fired at a suspect? Doesn't matter if you missed or didn't kill them. Just answer honestly."
He watched their reactions.
Alan's face went noticeably pale. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. But he straightened his back and answered, "No, sir!"
Anna showed a flash of fear too.
"No, sir!"
I'm a Boy Scout troop leader now.
Then again, he'd been green once too. Maybe they'd surprise him.
"Alright. I'll take them out to a scene first. See how they do."
Now he really was the Domestic Violence Rapid Response Unit.
---
The three of them squeezed into Marco's old patrol car. He made Alan drive and sent Anna to the back seat.
"You two can shoot, right? Your marksmanship scores looked decent."
"N-No problem, sir..."
Alan answered while turning the key. He engaged the clutch and shifted into gear... The car shuddered violently and stalled on the spot.
Marco sighed. "No need to be nervous. Pretend I'm not here."
He turned to Anna, giving Alan a moment to collect himself.
"How long have you guys been at the precinct?"
"Three days, sir!" Anna gripped her seatbelt excitedly. "We've heard about your heroic deeds. We even listened to your speech this morning! Alan and I both think you should be in Major Crimes, not on patrol... Of course, if you are on patrol, you must be the best at it!"
Uh.
So this is what being showered in flattery feels like.
Marco scratched his head awkwardly. "I just happened to take out a few terrorists. I'm not some kind of hero."
He snuck a glance at Alan, who had now successfully merged onto the lightly trafficked avenue. At least the kid could drive once he calmed down.
"It doesn't seem like much difference to me," Anna said, playing with a strand of hair. "I always thought police life would be super exciting!"
"As you wish," Marco said, feeling a chill run down his spine. How had he not noticed she was a chatterbox? "The place we're going today isn't much better than Afghanistan."
That wasn't an exaggeration.
The Narrows was a special corner of Gotham, surrounded by water on three sides, isolated, different in terrain and atmosphere from the rest of the city. If other slums hid cunning predators in the shadows, the Narrows, thanks to Arkham Asylum and the old prison looming over everything, was crawling with a different breed entirely. The kind of people who'd stab you for looking at them wrong. The kind who didn't need a reason.
"Damn it," he muttered, gripping his Remington 870 tightly. "Can't these lunatics pick a spot and OD quietly?"
The place wasn't just dirtier than other neighborhoods, it was colder. Entire blocks looked like they were splintering under the wind. And yet, addicts lay everywhere: slumped against walls, curled in doorways, sprawled across street corners. They could lunge at you without warning, maybe without hostile intent, maybe just high out of their minds, but he wasn't taking chances.
He glanced at the apartment building ahead. Even more ruined than the place he'd visited before. Constant gloom and acidic industrial rain had carved deep cracks across the structure, and rainbow-colored mold spread like a disease. It looked like it might collapse at any moment.
He sighed and gestured for the rookies to follow.
They stepped inside.
The stairwell reeked of urine and something sickly sweet. The wooden stairs were warped and decayed, creaking with tooth-grinding groans underfoot. Every step echoed harshly in the silence.
They crept up to the third floor.
WAHAHAHAHA!
A shrill, twisted cackle erupted from the darkness of the corridor. A gaunt figure shot out like a spring-loaded trap, straight at Alan.
"Ah!!"
"GCPD! Drop the weapon immediately or I will—"
CRACK!
Marco slammed his shotgun's stock into the man's neck. The attacker collapsed instantly. He hit the ground, twitching once before going still.
"Nice work," he muttered, bending down for a look.
The guy was in his fifties, skeletal and filthy. Two syringes were still clutched between his fingers.
He lifted the man's head to glance at the rookies.
Anna's face was white, her body trembling slightly. She'd at least drawn her taser, though the probe had embedded itself crookedly into the broken doorframe beside her.
Alan was still frozen in a firing stance, his 1911 raised, safety not even disengaged. His eyes were wide.
Marco straightened.
"Wonderful. Both of you. If I hadn't acted, Anna, under your cover, your partner would've been successfully stabbed with a needle likely carrying HIV or hepatitis. Alan, as the model officer of the GCPD, you flawlessly followed protocol and issued commands to the suspect. Congratulations. You might've died later from an infection, but you would've upheld the dignity of the law."
"S-Sorry, sir!"
"Thank you, sir..."
"Don't apologize to me," Marco said flatly. "You didn't fail me. You failed your partner who almost died, and yourselves."
He turned away from them and strode toward the dark corridor. Alan called after him.
"S-Sir... he..."
Marco glanced back. Alan was pointing at the motionless attacker on the floor.
"According to regulations, w-we... we're supposed to..."
"Mm. You're right." Marco nodded.
That stock strike was a violation. Potentially dangerous. If Darnell were here, the two of them would've silently ignored the attacker's condition and moved on like nothing had happened.
"So? Are you two coming with me, or staying here to follow procedure and file a complaint against me?"
Without waiting for an answer, he turned and walked down the corridor to Room 307. He tossed the Remington back to Alan, then rested his hand on his sidearm and knocked on the door.
Knock knock.
The sound barely echoed twice before the broken wooden door creaked open from inside.
"Hi, Officer."
A clear, childlike voice came from below. Marco blinked and looked down.
A girl stood in the doorway, barely waist-high. She wore a faded, oversized T-shirt. Her brown hair was tied messily, and she looked up at him with calm eyes.
"Uh..." He scratched his head, feeling guilty. "What was your name again?"
His predecessor had handled the domestic violence case but had barely noted the kids' names, just the father's info.
The girl pursed her lips, visibly disappointed. She waved her hand dismissively.
"Forget it. You're just like my brother. Men never remember anything."
"Uh..."
Marco and the two rookies exchanged awkward looks. After a few seconds of silence, he crouched down, trying his best to look serious.
"I think you're right. How about you tell me again? I promise I won't forget this time."
"Men and their promises..." She sighed, then nodded. "Fine. I hope you remember this time. My name is Harper Row. I'm six. And this is my brother..."
She waved, and a boy about her age peeked out from inside.
"Cullen. If you can't remember our names, how can you really protect us?"
"Okay. I'll remember." Marco waved at Cullen, but the boy hid behind the doorframe, one eye peeking out timidly. He turned back to Harper. "I heard you called?"
Even crouched, Marco's large frame towered over her. Harper raised her face and nodded seriously.
"Yes, Officer. I need to report my father Marcus for domestic violence again."
Marco frowned. "He's still hitting you? We warned him."
"Yes." Harper nodded vigorously, her messy hair shaking with her head. "Your warning worked for a few days. Then he started again. He also locks me and Cullen inside the house while he goes out drinking."
She jerked her chin toward the doorknob.
"I can get the door open, but I don't go out looking for food. Outside is scary. I heard you shouting 'GCPD' just now..."
Marco shot a look at Alan, then stood and stepped past Harper, signaling the rookies to stay alert. Hand resting on his gun, he slowly entered the apartment.
Like almost every slum unit, filthy, chaotic, dilapidated, and damp. Empty bottles, cigarette butts, and trash bags littered the place. There was not a scrap of food anywhere.
Of course, Marcus wasn't there.
As the three inspected the apartment, Harper trailed behind with her brother. Seeing Marco's expression, she explained, "He went out drinking two nights ago. Maybe he'll be back in a day or two... or three or five."
"How long since you last ate?" Marco asked, his voice tight.
"This morning." Harper pointed to a greasy pizza box in the corner. "We finished the last bit of crust and some broken crackers. If you hadn't come today, we'd be hungry tonight."
Marco exhaled sharply through his nose, then strode out and shut the door, briefly closing the two children inside.
"At this rate, they'll die in that apartment," he said quietly.
"Right," Alan nodded. "But even if we file for emergency removal of custody and transfer them to CPS, it'll take four or five days minimum. But..."
"But they won't survive four or five days." Marco finished for him. "We're taking them. Now."
"Procedurally that's fine," Anna said slowly. "Even if their father objects, we can handle a drunk. But where do we take them? Should I call CPS?"
"We'll figure that out after we get them out of here. For now, get them to the car and get them something to eat."
Gotham CPS might as well have been labeled a semi-official trafficking ring. These rookies didn't know yet how many children disappeared from CPS every year. Marco sure as hell wasn't handing Harper and Cullen over to that system.
He returned to the room.
"Want to come with us?" he asked Harper. "Leave this place. We'll take you somewhere else."
He expected to have to persuade her. Maybe explain things. But Harper immediately ran inside, pulled two small backpacks from under the bed, slung one onto Cullen, and held the other herself.
"All our stuff is here. Let's go, Officer."
Marco was stunned. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then asked, "You're not even going to ask where we're taking you?"
"Anywhere's fine. It can't be worse than here, right?"
Marco said nothing. He took off his police jacket and wrapped it around her. The long black coat dragged along the floor, swallowing her small frame entirely.
He chuckled, bent down, scooped both kids up, one in each arm, and shouted toward the hallway, "Alan! Go to the car and grab a couple of thick coats. Move it! We're heading out!"
