The grey loop of Metropolis' ring highway disappeared in the rearview mirror as the Cherokee headed west on I-76. Outside the window, the scenery shifted gradually from Metropolis' forest of glass and steel to the rolling hills and farmland of Pennsylvania. Country music came through the radio in broken snippets, and Marco felt like he was driving out of a world so bright it seemed fake and into something more resembling normal America.
After crossing most of the state, road signs bearing the name Central City started appearing with increasing frequency. He rolled his stiff neck, working out the kinks from hours behind the wheel, and took the exit.
When he'd left Metropolis, his first choice had been Star City. After all, Oliver Queen was loaded, probably had more money wrapped around one arm than Marco's entire net worth. If he could make a connection there, getting tossed a couple hundred grand would be pocket change for a guy like that.
But after studying the map for a while, he'd realized Star City was way out on the West Coast. Driving clear across the country would be exhausting, and he wasn't in the mood for a cross-country road trip. Besides, even though Green Arrow was basically a budget Batman, Star City was also a budget Gotham. He really didn't want to throw himself right back into that kind of environment. Not yet, anyway.
So his options had narrowed to two: Central City, where he wanted to see what Barry Allen was really like. And Florida, way down south, which had a reputation that was thunderous. You couldn't not visit Florida if you had the chance.
Central City won out. Mostly because it was closer.
---
Central City was like any mid-sized American city doing its best to keep the lights on without any grand ambitions beyond that. The place lacked Metropolis' outgoing enthusiasm and Gotham's constant edge-of-your-seat paranoia. What it had instead was a kind of mediocrity.
"Not the worst place to settle down, I guess," Marco muttered to himself as he navigated through the streets.
He'd asked around for directions to S.T.A.R. Labs. After all, anything that could get Lois to personally come out for an interview probably wasn't small-time.
But when he finally found it, he had to do a double-take.
"This is it?"
He slowed the Cherokee and drove a slow lap around the laboratory's perimeter. The catastrophic devastation he'd imagined was nowhere to be seen. Only a small section along the side of the main building was blocked off with construction barriers. A handful of work trucks sat idle nearby, and a few workers moved materials around at a pace that suggested they were being paid by the hour, not by the job.
The surface of the building inside the barriers looked scorched, darkened by soot and smoke damage, but the structure itself was completely intact. Not even one of the massive floor-to-ceiling windows was broken.
"They're calling this an accident?"
He found a spot at the curb where he wouldn't be in anyone's way, put the car in park, and leaned against the door. "Or do people in Central City just have a different definition of 'disaster' than we do in Gotham?"
From across the street, he studied the cordoned-off area more carefully. The only thing that looked unusual was a section of windows on an auxiliary building off to one side. They weren't shattered, they were warped. Like something inside had squeezed and twisted them from the interior, leaving irregular ripples in the glass. But even those frames were still solid.
This was nothing compared to the damage Black Mask had caused at Wayne Tower.
He watched for a while longer. Several people in lab coats or business suits moved in and out of the main building. Their expressions showed nothing out of the ordinary, just the kind of weary focus you'd expect from researchers pulling long hours.
The media, though, moved fast. He bought a newspaper from a vendor on the corner, and the front page laid everything out: a freak lightning strike a few days earlier had torn through the roof, causing close to a billion dollars in equipment damage and injuring a police forensic technician who'd been visiting at the time. As a key research institution, the lab had failed to adequately prioritize environmental safety measures. The paper promised to continue monitoring the situation.
"A billion dollars in damage and someone got hurt..." Marco muttered, scanning the article. "This is just insurance fraud with extra steps, isn't it?"
The newsstand vendor beside him perked up. "Oh, that's nothing. S.T.A.R. Labs actually..."
"Actually what?" Marco looked up, suddenly interested.
But the vendor didn't finish. Instead, he picked up a sandwich wrapped in plastic and held it up. "Want a sandwich? Five bucks."
Marco stared at him. "What?"
"Five dollars. You want it or not?"
"Five bucks for that?" Marco gestured at the sad-looking thing. "And what were you just saying about the lab?"
The vendor shrugged. "I didn't say anything."
"The hell you didn't—"
"I said," the vendor repeated slowly, like he was talking to a child, "that I didn't say anything. You want the sandwich or not?"
Marco was about to tell him exactly where he could shove his overpriced sandwich when someone nearby spoke up.
"Officer?"
Marco turned. The guy standing next to him looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't quite place him. Then it clicked.
"You're that... the guy who got stripped naked and filed a report in Gotham. Hark... something."
"Harkness," the man said, his face flushing red with embarrassment. "George Harkness. And yeah. That was me. Gotham was memorable."
The way he said "memorable" carried enough resentment to fill a small stadium. Marco watched as Harkness pulled out a dollar and handed it to the vendor, who immediately handed over one of the sandwiches.
Marco blinked. "Hold on. Didn't you just say that sandwich was five bucks?"
"Five for outsiders," the vendor said matter-of-factly. "One dollar for locals. You're not local."
"Are you serious right now?" Marco stared at him in disbelief. "You're running a tourist tax on sandwiches?"
"Hey, Central City is Central City. I'm me. Don't go smearing the city's reputation because of my business model."
"Un-fucking-believable."
Marco grabbed Harkness by the arm before the guy could walk away. "Return the sandwich. Lunch is on me today. And remember, Gotham is Gotham. I'm me."
---
But once they were sitting at a table in a diner two blocks away, Marco started to regret the decision.
It wasn't the money. Ten, fifteen bucks for lunch wasn't going to break him. The problem was that he and Harkness had exactly zero connection beyond that one awkward interaction back in Gotham. Now they were sitting across from each other, desperately fishing for conversation topics to avoid the crushing weight of uncomfortable silence.
He poked at his food. "So... you said you used to be some kind of celebrity?"
Harkness swallowed a mouthful of spaghetti and nodded. "Yeah. Back when my father's sporting goods company was still doing well. I was the face of the brand for a while." He twirled more pasta onto his fork. "I've been good with boomerangs since I was a kid. That's what the company sold. They even gave me a nickname: Captain Boomerang."
"Huh." Marco nodded slowly. "That's... cool."
It wasn't cool. It was deeply uninteresting. But what else was he supposed to say?
The system's skill upgrades covered most cold weapons, but boomerangs weren't on the list. Any attempt to bond over shared combat knowledge died on the vine. He lowered his head and started shoveling food into his mouth faster, hoping he could finish and escape this social torture as quickly as possible.
The universe, as usual, had other plans.
"Hey! George!"
Someone burst into the diner like they owned the place, strode straight to their table, and slapped Harkness on the shoulder hard enough to make him flinch. Without asking, the newcomer yanked over a chair from a nearby table and sat down.
Marco looked up.
The guy was lean, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties, with sharp features. His clothes were casual but clean, just jeans, a jacket, nothing flashy.
"Leonard," Harkness said, clearly surprised. "What's up? You look like you're about to vibrate out of your skin."
"Good news," Leonard said, lowering his voice but unable to hide his excitement. "I've been casing a bank for the past few days. Perfect target. Security's a joke, cameras are ancient, and the response time in that neighborhood is terrible." He grinned. "So what do you say? Want to make some money together?"
He turned his head and noticed Marco for the first time. His gaze swept over Marco's build.
"This a friend of yours?" He reached out and clapped Marco on the shoulder like they were old buddies. "Damn, look at that build. You work out, man? What do you say, interested in getting rich? I guarantee it pays better than whatever you're doing now."
Marco and Harkness both went silent. In perfect synchronization, they both lowered their eyes and stared at their nearly empty plates.
Leonard frowned, impatient. "What's with you, George? I've already lined up a few other guys. Trust me, this is foolproof."
"Uh..." Harkness forced something that might charitably be called a smile. He pointed at Marco. "Let me introduce you. This is an officer from Gotham City."
"Officer?!"
Leonard shot out of his chair like someone had jabbed him with a cattle prod. The chair toppled backward with a crash. He took two quick steps toward the door, eyes darting toward the exit.
Then he stopped.
His expression shifted.
"You said Gotham City?" Leonard slowly walked back to the table, picked up the fallen chair, and sat down again. "Then you don't have jurisdiction here. Right?"
Marco nodded. "That's right. You've done your homework."
"Of course I have." Leonard's grin returned, wider than before. "I make it a point to know the law. Especially the parts that work in my favor."
He leaned back in his chair, completely relaxed now, and looked Marco straight in the eye.
"So here's the thing, friend. We rob the bank here in Central City, and you go right back to Gotham and keep being a cop. Everybody wins."
He spread his hands like he was presenting the most reasonable proposition in the world.
"What do you say?"