Damn it. Running into something like this first thing in the morning.
Isn't dropping dead at dawn tragic enough without dragging everyone else into it?
Marco watched the rusty Ford belch black smoke as it turned the corner. Just as his shoulders started to relax, someone slapped him hard on the back. He nearly jumped out of his skin, spinning around to find a figure grinning at him.
"Shift starts at eight. How come you're only showing up now?"
Darnell Wilson. Twenty years old, fresh out of the academy, and Marco's assigned partner for the past three months. The kid was enthusiastic, which was either going to get him killed or promoted, hard to say which would come first in Gotham. He had that movie-character energy: always cracking jokes, ready with a story, and moving like he had a soundtrack playing in his head. The most surprising thing about him? He seemed to give a shit about the job.
What more could you ask for? A partner who didn't steal from crime scenes?
"What do you expect, man? Fifteen hundred bucks a month before taxes. I'm not throwing my life away for that." Darnell flashed the cheap digital watch on his wrist. "We've still got twenty minutes before we're officially on the clock." He craned his neck toward the body inside the crime scene tape. The poor bastard was still lying naked on the pavement, covered only by a thin plastic sheet that did nothing to preserve his dignity. "What happened here?"
"You're surprised? Gotham's full of this shit." Marco grabbed his thermos from the car, unscrewed the lid slowly, and took a sip. The steam rose, warming his stiff face for a moment before the wind cut through and made everything feel colder. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and started walking toward the coroner's van that had just pulled up, blue lights still flashing. A stocky man with an aggressive beard jumped down from the driver's seat, his expression already set to pissed off.
"We're from the East End Precinct—"
"I'm the chief medical examiner from Gotham Central." The man cut him off. "Which one of you two saw that lunatic Nygma? Did he touch the body?"
Oh, great.
Marco kept his face neutral, but inside he was rolling his eyes so hard they almost fell out of his skull.
"He finished his on-scene analysis and left a while ago. Why would he mess with the body?" He turned and called over his shoulder. "Darnell, did you see the forensic analyst from Central touching the corpse?"
"Nope. Wasn't here when I showed up." Darnell was fishing a breakfast sandwich out of his jacket, unwrapping it as he talked. "Must've left early. Why, Doc? You looking for tips on how to fondle dead guys properly?"
Gora's face went red. His eyes bulged like someone had just squeezed his head. He glared at both of them, but Marco and Darnell just stared back with the kind of dead-eyed expression that came from too many early mornings and not enough coffee. After a few seconds of silence, probably realizing the transport crew was watching this whole embarrassing exchange, he gave up. He turned sharply, ducked under the crime scene tape, snapped on a pair of latex gloves, and got to work.
"Hey." Darnell shuffled closer, lowering his voice. "What's his problem? You need backup, I got you."
"Don't worry about it," Marco said flatly. "Once he's done, we're out of here."
He couldn't have cared less about Gora's angry rant afterward, something about filing a formal complaint with the precinct captain. The words slid right off him. His mind was stuck on one name.
Edward Nygma.
Even though he wasn't exactly a die-hard comic book nerd in his old life, he knew who the Riddler was. When the internet had been flooded with memes, he'd looked up the context. He'd read the stories, and watched the animated series. He knew what Edward eventually became.
What he hadn't expected was to know the guy. Not well, sure. But still. They had history.
The question was: what timeline was this?
Edward clearly hadn't put on the green suit yet, or started leaving cryptic clues at crime scenes. He was still working at Gotham Central, still borderline obsessed with puzzles, but not yet over the edge.
Marco rubbed his cold, stiff fingers together and climbed back into the patrol car. The door shut, cutting off the wind. The sudden warmth was a relief. He grabbed the old newspaper from earlier and flipped to the front page again, scanning the headlines more carefully this time.
"Wayne Enterprises heir Bruce Wayne has missed several consecutive board meetings, conducting business via video conference. Speculation continues regarding his prolonged absence..."
He read the article twice. Then three times. No mention of a vigilante, urban legends about a dark figure prowling rooftops, or bat-signal cutting through the night sky.
No Batman.
But Carmine Falcone? Oh, he was everywhere. The "philanthropist" appeared in both the society pages and the entertainment section, smiling in his tailored suits.
Bruce Wayne probably hadn't debuted yet. Gotham was still under the Roman's control. Which meant the Joker hadn't started yet.
Maybe that was good news?
But what was he supposed to do? The mortality rate for cops in Gotham was sky-high. The only reason he'd gotten into the department in the first place, aside from the blood money compensation package, was because the recent list of GCPD casualties had been so horrifically long that they'd lowered recruitment standards three times in two years. They were scraping the bottom of the barrel, and he had been part of that barrel.
He rubbed his temples, and out of habit checked his cheat again. Just as his consciousness sank into the familiar darkness, a tiny point of light appeared above the four lifeless cards.
It glowed softly, like a firefly in summer, floating in the void of his mind.
His heart slammed against his ribs so hard he thought it might break through. He held his breath, afraid that even thinking too loud might make it disappear. Carefully, he tried to reach for it with his thoughts. The moment he focused, the glowing point responded, sliding smoothly back and forth above the four gray cards like a cursor on a screen.
"It's working. I might not be completely fucked after all."
Okay. Okay. Don't screw this up. Which card should he pick?
The first one? No. No, the first slot in gacha games never had anything good. It was always bait. The second? Maybe. The third? He hesitated. Then he grinned to himself.
"Screw it. Let's check the last one."
He focused his will and guided the glowing point onto the card with the stick-figure silhouette.
A faint crackling sound echoed through his skull, like static electricity discharging. The selected card shuddered. The dull gray shell covering it began to crack, thin fractures spreading across the surface. The shell shattered and dissolved into nothing. The glowing selection point vanished the moment the card activated, as if its job was done.
"Wait. Wait, hold on, I was just looking. Why can't I undo this? Oh, shit. What if I picked wrong?"
Too late now.
He took a long sip from his thermos, trying to calm himself down. The hot tea burned his tongue, but it helped. A little.
Alright. Damage control. Let's see what this thing actually does.
He focused on the card, magnifying it in his mind's eye. Several lines of text appeared, glowing faintly:
[Higher-Dimensional Construct:
Your existence was shaped from a higher dimension. The Will of this world has no authority over you. All conceptual, causal, soul-based, reality-altering, and memory-modifying abilities have no effect on you.]
[Coordinate Anchor:
Your existence is observed from a higher dimension. While you exist, this world cannot be merged or rebooted.]
[Origin Constant:
You are both a variable and a constant. The worldline fluctuates around you.]
[V1.0 Trial Version.]
He stared at the text.
Then he stared harder.
"Okay. So... maybe I didn't pick wrong? But what does this actually do? And why is mine a trial version?"
He tapped the card again with his thoughts. It flipped over, revealing the reverse side: a star map shrouded in thick fog, impossible to make out. The other three inactive cards remained completely unresponsive, no matter how hard he mentally prodded them. They were locked.
So the glowing point wasn't a cursor. It was a skill point. One use. No refunds. And he had no idea how he'd gotten it or when, if ever, he'd get another one.
While he was tugging at his hair, Darnell opened the passenger door and climbed in, bringing a gust of cold air with him.
"You're acting weird today." He poured himself half a cup of tea from Marco's thermos into a disposable paper cup. "Something on your mind?"
Marco hesitated. He couldn't exactly explain the whole "I'm from another dimension and I just activated a cosmic cheat system" thing. So he went with the next best option.
"I just don't like the way that medical examiner talked to us."
"Forget that asshole. His complaint won't go anywhere." Darnell slurped his tea loudly. "Besides, we've got bigger problems than one pissed-off bureaucrat. You see the news? They're trying to cut our budget again. Like we're not already running on fumes."
"Yeah, I saw." Marco twisted the key in the ignition. The engine coughed to life, and he eased the cruiser forward a few meters until it stopped in a sliver of sunlight breaking through the clouds. He stared at the light reflecting off the dashboard, lost in thought.
Darnell kept talking. "You know what kills me? These charity foundations. They rake in millions every time there's a disaster. Hurricane tears through the Midwest? Boom, donations flood in. And how much reaches people? Maybe ten percent if they're feeling generous. The rest goes to 'administrative costs.'" He made air quotes with his fingers, almost spilling his tea. "One day someone's gonna string those bastards up from a lamppost."
Marco blinked. "Are you secretly a commu—"
The radio crackled to life, cutting him off.
"...Zzzt... Officer Vitale, please respond."
Marco reached for the handset. "Go ahead. I'm listening."
"...Zzzt... We've got a call from 331 15th Street. Neighbor reports what sounds like a domestic dispute. Possible domestic violence." The dispatcher sighed, sounding as tired as Marco felt. "You should check it out."
Marco frowned. "Aren't you supposed to dispatch the nearest unit? Why are you assigning this directly to me? I'm not a pizza delivery guy."
"Well, last week's domestic call you handled got... zzzt ...glowing reviews. Maybe you two should start a domestic response unit." The dispatcher let out a dry chuckle. "Quit complaining. Maybe there's a hot housewife waiting for you to rescue her."
"Yeah, right. I'm betting whoever's in there weighs two hundred kilos and hits like a train." Marco hung up the radio and turned to Darnell with a sigh. "We've got a call. Buckle up, we're rolling."