"Four boxes of ammo, two hours of range time. Fifty-eight dollars."
Marco pulled out a few crumpled bills and slid them across the counter. The range cashier took the money without looking up, tapped at the register with grease-stained fingers, and the machine spat out a slightly blurred receipt that looked like it had been printed sometime in the previous decade.
"Thanks for your patronage. Hope you enjoyed today's shooting session. Come back soon."
Enjoyed? Sure. If you ignored the part where his wallet was crying.
Even though the old district marketplace still had some life in it during the day, wandering around Gotham after dark was never a smart move. Last night, he had strong-armed Darnell into selling off that death trap propane tank, but the bastard had guilt-tripped him into buying an electric griddle instead. After doing the math, he was somehow twenty bucks in the hole. Still, at least he'd made it home in one piece, and the van hadn't exploded.
A few nights ago, after getting home, he'd checked his skill progress and found that his new "American Quick-Draw Gunslinging" had jumped to 20/1000. Most likely, only the two shots that had actually hit something counted for 10 points each. All the other wild shots, the ones that had gone wide or slammed into dirt, hadn't registered at all. So this morning, he'd dragged himself to a shooting range with one goal in mind: find an exploit in the system. Some way to game the numbers.
He'd spent an hour testing every trick he could think of.
Random spray-and-pray? Didn't count.
Full-auto bursts where a few rounds miraculously connected? Still didn't count.
Tearing the target paper off the stand and holding it point-blank against the muzzle to blast perfect bullseyes at zero range? Also didn't count.
Apparently, the system wasn't stupid. Only shots fired within a reasonable effective range, with proper aim, that hit the target would add a single point of progress.
"Why does it have to go up one point at a time?" Marco muttered, staring at his sidearm like it had personally betrayed him. He'd spent two hours messing around, tried every angle he could think of, and his arms were sore as hell. Fifty-eight bucks down the drain, and all he had to show for it was thirty measly progress points.
The police department had its own range, but expecting them to reimburse training ammo was a joke. If he wanted to improve, he'd have to figure it out himself. He stuffed the receipt into his jacket pocket, shook out his aching arm, and headed for the exit. Outside, the Chevy G20 sat waiting like a white whale that had beached itself in the parking lot.
Without the flashing lights and the intimidation factor of a patrol car, the van looked like exactly what it was: an outsider that didn't belong. It was wider than a cruiser, bulkier, and way too conspicuous. When he parked it at the mouth of the alley and walked in on foot, shadowy figures started moving inside the crumbling stairwells on both sides. They gathered slowly, creeping forward and cutting off his exit, whispering in low tones.
Pairs of eyes watched him from the darkness.
He opened the front of his coat, letting his badge and the grip of his sidearm catch the dim light. The restless shadows retreated like roaches scattering when you flipped on a light, melting back into the dark corners they'd crawled out of.
"Physics beats philosophy every time," Marco muttered to himself.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor and stopped in front of a wooden door with peeling paint. He knocked firmly. From inside, a shrill voice immediately shrieked, "Open the damn door, you useless lump! Maybe it's a robber who'll put a bullet in your freakish skull and save me the trouble!"
No response. Just the sound of heavy, dragging footsteps. The door creaked open, and a wall of flesh in a threadbare jacket filled the entire doorframe. The smell hit Marco first, sweat, mildew, and something sour that made his nose wrinkle.
He took half a step back and tilted his head up slightly.
"Hey, Waylon."
The wall of flesh stood silent for a few seconds before a deep, rumbling voice emerged.
"Hello... Officer."
Marco reached out and tugged at the kid's jacket, too thin for the cold, stretched tight over his massive frame. Then he glanced past Waylon's shoulder into the apartment. The aunt was peeking out from her bedroom. The moment her eyes met Marco's, she recoiled like she'd touched a live wire and slammed the door. A string of muffled curses followed.
"She take your money?" he asked quietly, his gaze returning to Waylon's face.
"N-no." Waylon fumbled awkwardly in the tight pockets of his jacket, then pulled out the green bill and the crumpled business card.
"It's all here. All... all here."
"Why didn't you buy yourself some clothes?"
Marco tugged again at the jacket. The sleeves were way too short, and the fabric strained over Waylon's shoulders like it might split at any moment.
"I can manage," Waylon stammered. "S-sorry, officer."
"Don't apologize. You didn't do anything wrong." Marco patted his arm. "Come on. Follow me. I want to talk to you about something."
Waylon glanced back toward the apartment. The bedroom door stayed shut, no light leaking through the gap. The cursing had stopped. He hesitated, then lowered his head and followed Marco to a sheltered corner at the end of the stairwell.
Marco motioned for him to sit on the dusty cement steps. Waylon tried to make himself smaller, curling his massive frame as much as he could. Marco got straight to the point.
"Do you like the life you're living right now?"
Waylon didn't speak. He just shook his head.
"Then how about a change of scenery?"
"Change...?" Waylon looked up. "N-no, sir. I have nowhere to go. I don't have any other family..."
"I'm not talking about family. I'm talking about supporting yourself." Marco cut him off. "Working for your own living. Not having to put up with someone else's bullshit just to survive."
"Support myself...?" Waylon repeated the words slowly, like they were foreign. For the first time, a faint glimmer of light appeared in his eyes. "You mean... give me a job? But... I'm probably too old for that..."
"Close enough. I'll be blunt." Marco lowered his voice. "I've got a friend who can connect you with a football team. Room and board included. You ever play football?"
"I played a little when I was a kid... But... that was a long time ago..."
"Doesn't matter. The rules don't change. Just the size of the players, and nobody's changed as much as you." Marco slapped his palm with his fist. "So? Interested?"
"But my aunt..." Waylon glanced toward the apartment again, like the door might burst open any second.
"Why do you care what she thinks? She's always talking about kicking you out anyway. You'd just be making her dream come true." Marco shrugged. "Just keep this a secret. Once I make contact with the team, I'll take you there myself. If they want you, they'll handle everything after that. And trust me, your aunt can't compete with the kind of people involved in professional football."
The words hit Waylon like a shot of adrenaline. He looked up sharply, and for the first time, the confusion and fear in his eyes burned away, replaced by something clear. His lips moved, but no words came out. In the end, he just nodded with everything he had.
"Then it's settled. When things are ready, you leave with me." Marco pushed himself upright, using Waylon's thick leg for support, and brushed the dust off his pants. "Remember, keep it secret. Act like nothing happened. If your aunt asks, tell her I was just here for a follow-up visit to check if she's still abusing you. Got it?"
"G... got it."
Seeing Waylon's nod, Marco turned to leave. But after one step, he paused and glanced back.
"By the way. You eat breakfast yet?"
"I did." Waylon's eyes darted away.
"Bullshit. I can tell you're lying just by looking at you." Marco waved him over. "Come on. Let me show you something."
The two of them retraced their steps through the hostile alley, past the watchful eyes, until they reached the Chevy. He climbed into the back, lowered the tailgate, and fired up the electric griddle. While it heated, he pulled out a container of dough he'd prepped the night before.
"Ever seen this?" Marco asked, rolling out a portion of dough into a flat disc. He tossed it onto the hot griddle with a satisfying sizzle, the edges crisping up almost immediately.
Waylon stood frozen under the truck, staring like him had just performed a magic trick.
"Probably not," Marco continued, cracking an egg one-handed along the edge of the griddle. The yolk spread across the dough as it puffed up from the heat. With his other hand, he flipped the whole thing. The golden underside landed back on the griddle with a louder hiss. "You might've seen my partner last time, though. Yeah, the idiot who turned my truck into this. Damn it. This is my car."
He didn't slow down. He brushed olive oil over the surface, added some fresh arugula, a few slices of prosciutto, and a generous helping of mozzarella that started melting immediately.
"Want some pesto and hot sauce?"
"Uh... uh... okay..." Waylon was still processing the surreal image of a cop suddenly moonlighting as a street food vendor. The heat from the griddle washed over him, and he nodded dazedly.
A moment later, after the sound of paper rustling, something warm was pressed into his hands.
"This is called a piadina. Basically, flatbread. Give it a try." Marco tossed the spatula onto the greasy countertop and poured more dough onto the griddle with another hiss. "You're the first customer of this setup. So it's on the house."
"Officer... really... one is enough..."
Waylon looked down at the food in his hands. It smelled incredible. Then he looked up at Marco, who was already cooking through clouds of steam, and instinctively tried to hand the paper bag back.
"One? What do you mean, one?" Marco didn't even look up. He was focused on spreading the next round of dough. "I haven't had breakfast myself yet." He cracked a few more eggs onto the griddle, watching them sizzle and pop.