Malphegor
patreon
PIG Ch. 22
🕑 Added 2025-11-30 12:15:13 +0000 UTCSwoverld stared at the cooperation order spread flat across his desk, then looked up at the GCPD officer standing in front of him, this recent name that kept popping up in departmental briefings, and felt his temples start to throb.
The official story fed to the public was that the police had taken down a terrorist cell planning an attack on Gotham. But everyone with enough rank to matter knew the truth: this was the GCPD sticking its nose into the Roman's "family business." And from start to finish, nearly all of it had been stirred up by the young man standing in his office right now. To make it worse, during that prison transport hijacking, he really had put his life on the line trying to save Blackgate guards. By all rights, the prison owed him a debt. Except all those guards were dead anyway.
"You should know today is Sunday," Swoverld said slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Even God himself would, ah, forget it. Do whatever you want. But listen carefully: don't cause trouble."
He picked up the internal phone. A corrections officer appeared almost immediately, snapping to attention.
"Sir!"
"Morrison, take him inside. Keep your eyes on him." Swoverld paused, as if mentally checking off a list of potential disasters. "As long as he doesn't try to incite a riot, blow up a cell block, or start some kind of prison brotherhood... let him see whoever he wants. Just make sure nothing goes wrong."
"Yes, sir!"
Morrison saluted again, then gestured stiffly toward Marco. "This way, please."
Marco jumped to his feet, offering something between a salute and a wave toward Swoverld, then hurried after Morrison into the corridor.
---
Two days ago, after getting back from the hospital and crashing at home, Marco had received a long-absent notification from his system.
[Your actions caused Fish Mooney's death to occur earlier than intended]
[You have altered the fate of Fish Mooney in a minor way. Skill Point +1]
Huh.
So that lunatic had probably been finished off by Zsasz, triggering the system's settlement. And even dying earlier only counted as a "minor change," meaning her ultimate fate hadn't actually deviated from its predetermined end.
He was starting to understand the logic. If you only advanced or delayed a turning point in someone's life, it counted as minor. If you completely altered their trajectory? That would be major.
He'd rolled around in bed for a while, but eventually, he'd stopped and decided to focus on what he could control.
Which brought him here. To Blackgate, on a Sunday.
---
The interrogation room was cold and smelled like rust and old sweat. Marco sat at the metal table, listening to the heavy clang of security doors opening in sequence. A middle-aged man in handcuffs shuffled inside. His face was carved with deep lines. His prison uniform was faded and too big for his frame. His hair was dry and unkempt, sticking up in uneven tufts.
Morrison shoved him forward, locked the cuffs to an iron ring on the table, and stepped back out. The door slammed shut. The lock turned with a heavy metallic clunk.
Marco gestured toward the chair across from him. The man stared at him, then at the chair, then back at Marco. Slowly, he shuffled forward, touched the back of the chair like he wasn't sure it was real, and finally sat down.
"I'm an officer with the GCPD, East End Precinct. Time's limited, so I'll be direct."
Marco pushed a paper cup of coffee toward the man. It was lukewarm at best.
"You were sentenced to ten years for second-degree murder. You've already served five. But I've been going through old case files, and based on your history, witness statements, the crime scene reports, and the entire chain of evidence..." He pulled out a small notebook from his jacket and flipped it open. "There are so many holes in this case that I'm convinced there's a strong chance you were wrongfully convicted."
The man didn't move.
"You filed appeals for years. But they all disappeared into the void. Then, about seven to nine months ago, you stopped filing." He looked up, meeting the man's eyes. "So I came here today to ask you directly, Otis Flannagan, do you still want to overturn your conviction?"
Otis went completely still. His cloudy eyes locked onto Marco's. For more than ten seconds, he didn't move. Then, slowly, he lowered his head. He buried his face in his arms on the table. His shoulders started to shake. At first, just a little. Then more and violently. A choked sound escaped his throat, and suddenly he was sobbing.
Marco didn't interrupt. He just sat there, letting the man cry.
Before the transmigration, he'd known about Otis, the Ratcatcher. A metahuman who could control rats. In the comics, he'd been a villain, mostly small-time, but dangerous in the right circumstances. What he hadn't expected was that the man's conviction was bullshit. If he could get it overturned, he'd not only save an innocent man but also plant a future ally in Gotham. No matter how he looked at it, this was a win.
In the corner of the room, a few rats peeked out from behind a loose baseboard, their noses twitching. They seemed to sense Otis' emotional state, moving anxiously in the shadows.
The crying lasted about a minute before it shifted into ragged, gasping sobs. His body convulsed like he was trying to cough out his lungs. Marco tapped the table lightly and slid two paper napkins across.
"Hey. Calm down a little. To be clear, I don't actually have proof yet that you didn't kill anyone—"
"I didn't!" Otis' head snapped up. "I didn't kill him! That short guy, he'd been stabbed. Twice. He was holding his stomach, blood everywhere, and he just... he ran toward me and collapsed right in front of me. I see it every night! I can't forget it! Blood... everywhere... It wasn't me! I didn't kill him!"
The scream faded into sobs again, quieter now.
Marco waited a moment, then spoke calmly. "Alright. Are you going to spend the time I've got crying like this, or are you going to think clearly?" He rapped his knuckles on the table. "Because if we reopen this case and it fails, you might face retaliation. Extended sentence. Harsher treatment inside. I won't be able to protect you from that. So decide for yourself. Do you want to risk it?"
Otis stopped crying.
"I want to appeal. I want to reopen the case."
He looked up, his eyes red and swollen but clear.
"No matter what happens, I won't regret it. Never. I'll always be grateful to you. Sir."
"Save the gratitude. This is going to be a pain in the ass. Once you go back to your cell, keep your mouth shut. To anyone. And I mean anyone. In a few days, I'll bring you to the precinct to restart the investigation. Understand?"
"Yes. Thank you. Thank you so much."
Marco pressed the call button on the desk. A harsh buzzer sounded. The door clanged open, and Morrison stepped inside.
"Come on, Flannagan. Back to your hole."
Otis' entire demeanor shifted instantly. He followed Morrison toward the door. Just before stepping through, he suddenly turned and bowed toward Marco.
Then he was gone, swallowed by the dark corridor beyond.
Marco smacked his forehead.
Seriously? I just told you... Damn it. This guy needs training.
---
Monday morning, Marco stood in front of his landlord's too-short mirror, adjusting his freshly washed black uniform. He couldn't see his face, just his broad shoulders and upright posture. But even without the reflection, he could tell he looked sharp.
"Good," he muttered to himself, straightening his collar. "Full of energy. Let's do this."
A new week meant new trouble.
By the time he fought his way off a packed bus and arrived at the precinct, he found Bob standing near the entrance, smoking. Judging by the pile of cigarette butts on the ground, he'd been waiting a while.
"Chief? You didn't come just to welcome me, did you?" He checked his watch nervously, then relaxed. "I'm not late. Still got fifteen minutes."
"Come with me."
Bob's voice was low. He started walking toward the parking lot without waiting for a response.
"This morning, Loeb called me. He said Falcone wants to thank the department, and pecifically requested that you be there."
They reached his Ford Taurus. He tossed Marco the keys and climbed into the back seat.
"You'd better keep your wits about you today," he continued, lighting another cigarette. "Brown is bringing people too. Last time you... hey! Hey! Shift gears gently! This is a new car!"
He cracked the window, letting the smoke drift out.
"Anyway. Since you refused Falcone's invitation last time, I'm guessing he wants to embarrass you in front of the entire department."
"Whatever." Marco turned the steering wheel sharply, pulling out of the lot. "It's not like I'm some big shot. He's not gonna argue publicly with a patrol officer... right?"
Traffic was brutal at this hour. It took almost an hour before they finally rolled up to Gotham Central's front entrance.
He parked and followed Bob closely. The chief was in his element here, belly pushed forward, shaking hands and hugging everyone he saw. Captains, commanders, inspectors, squad sergeants, Bob could chat warmly with all of them for several minutes.
"Hey! Gillian!"
"Hey! Bob!"
Loeb and Bob shook hands enthusiastically.
"Let me see, this is the officer Falcone personally asked to meet." Loeb looked Marco up and down. Marco snapped to attention, giving a crisp salute.
"Officer Marco Vitale, East End Precinct, GCPD, reporting, sir!"
"No need to be so formal. Not yet, anyway." Loeb patted his arm, then turned back to Bob. "Good kid, right?"
"Damn right," Bob said, lighting another cigarette. He lowered his voice slightly. "So what's the Roman making such a big scene for?"
"Nothing major. He's donating five hundred thousand to the department in recognition of our excellent service." Loeb grinned, looking smug. "Hey, Arthur!"
Brown joined them, and the three walked toward the lobby together like old friends. But Marco noticed Bob's expression had gone sour.
He could guess why.
After months of maneuvering, Bob had managed to skim maybe two hundred thousand. Now headquarters, which had done nothing, was about to receive half a million out of nowhere. And at least half of that would go straight into Loeb's pocket.
In the world of corruption, that kind of gap was enough to make a proud man like Bob choke.
---
In the center of the lobby, a small stage had been set up. Chairs were arranged in a semicircle in front of it. Most of the department had been called in, standing scattered around the back. Marco spotted Edward coming down the stairs with a stack of files. They exchanged a distant greeting and a smile. Gordon was standing near a pillar on the first floor. Marco waved at him.
Gordon ignored him.
The tech division was still adjusting the microphone, which crackled with intermittent static. Marco stepped back a couple paces behind Bob, trying to minimize the height difference between himself and the three chiefs.
Then the crowd near the doors stirred, and people parted.
Zsasz walked in first. Behind him came Falcone in an expensive suit, flanked by four bodyguards.
"Don Falcone!"
Most officers in the hall immediately showed fear. Loeb, Bob, and Brown hurried forward to greet them, all smiles and handshakes. While they exchanged pleasantries, Zsasz's eyes locked onto Marco.
Fortunately, Loeb and Falcone stepped onto the stage before things got weirder.
"Alright, let's begin! Thank you, Don Falcone, for coming to the GCPD..."
Loeb kept his remarks short. He and Falcone held up an oversized envelope containing the five-hundred-thousand-dollar donation check, smiling for the flashing cameras. Applause rippled through the crowd.
Then Falcone took the microphone.
"I also want to recognize a particular officer. Although he's only been with the department a short time, he has already surpassed many veterans. He single-handedly held back an elite squad of armed criminals during a recent incident. To commend his bravery, I'm personally awarding him fifty thousand dollars."
"That officer is Marco Vitale of the East End Precinct."
Silence.
Marco felt dozens of hostile gazes stabbing into him from every direction. He slowly stood. Only after Loeb and Bob led the applause did scattered, grudging clapping spread through the crowd.
So that's the game.
He stepped onto the stage, posed with Falcone and the prepared check for the photographers. Then Falcone handed him the microphone.
"We'll now hear from our young hero."
He smiled, walked down the stage, and sat beside Loeb.
Whether Marco accepted the gift or refused it, the damage was done. From here on out, getting support from within the department would be harder.
Marco cleared his throat.
"First, I'd like to thank the leadership and my colleagues at the GCPD, as well as Don Falcone, for this opportunity."
He looked around the room.
"It's true that I achieved something. But it wasn't something I did alone. First, I want to thank Commissioner Loeb and Chief McGinnis. Without their leadership and decisive command, we never could have achieved these results. In day-to-day work, they always emphasize teamwork, preparation, and discipline, qualities that made the difference when it mattered most."
"Second, I want to thank every member of headquarters, the district stations, and SWAT. Your efforts are my strongest support. You gave me the courage to face armed criminals without backing down. I especially want to thank Detective Gordon, who charged in first, and opened the path for reinforcements. I also thank SWAT for arriving in time to secure every suspect and ensure no one else got hurt."
"Third, I want to thank the citizens of Gotham. Without their help, calling for aid, protecting others, evacuating the wounded, the casualties could have been much worse. This proves the importance of police-community cooperation that our leaders always emphasize."
"And finally, I want to thank the renowned philanthropist, Don Falcone. His generosity has greatly supported Gotham's stability. He's always been someone I respect and try to learn from."
"Therefore, following his example, I'll be donating the fifty thousand dollars I received today to a fund supporting the families of officers injured or killed in the line of duty. And I hope more good-hearted people will join us in bringing comfort to those who suffer while fighting against crime. Thank you."
For a moment, no one moved.
Then someone started clapping. Then another. Then the entire room erupted in applause. Camera flashes went off like strobes.
Falcone sat frozen. After a long moment, he shook his head, clapping along slowly.
