After leaving the precinct, Marco didn't waste a second. He drove straight to the slums, practically dragged Waylon out of that rotting apartment, and hit the gas before anyone could ask questions.
The seats and suspension on the Chevy G20 were absolute garbage, at least on this particular van. Even cruising along the smooth Bay Ring Road, he still felt like someone had stuffed a brick under his ass. Every bump and dip rattled through the frame like the whole thing was held together with duct tape and prayers.
He glanced over at Waylon, who was curled up in the passenger seat. He couldn't help but smirk. His attention drifted for half a second, and the van's front wheel slammed into a pothole. Both of them launched off their seats.
"Ah—!" Waylon's head smacked into the roof. He rubbed the sore spot, wincing, then asked quietly, "If we go to the team... will people really stop hating me?"
"Not a chance. The world's never been fair." Marco shrugged. "Pretty people get forgiveness. Ugly people get shit. That's just how it works."
"Then... what's the point of going to Metropolis?" Leaving the only environment he knew, even one that mocked him endlessly, filled him with a gnawing anxiety he couldn't shake.
"To show your value. A person's worth isn't just their face." Marco grinned. "No matter how handsome someone is, no face is as beautiful as Benjamin Franklin's. If one hundred-dollar bill isn't enough, get a stack. If a stack isn't enough, get a suitcase full. Hold on!"
He floored the accelerator and whipped around a BMW that had been crawling along like it was on a Sunday drive.
"Ha! Didn't think this van could still pass someone. What a pleasant surprise." Marco's grin widened. "Anyway, where was I? Right, money. There'll definitely be people on the team who look down on you. But as long as you create enough value for the coach and the owner, you won't need to lift a finger. They'll handle the assholes for you. And once you become a star, once the whole world is watching, those same people will line up to kiss your boots. That's the magic of money."
"A star... watched by the whole world..." Waylon repeated the words. He sat in silence for a long moment before speaking again. "But... even then... they'd only care about the money. Not about me."
"So what?" Marco snorted. "You think people become President of the United States because they've got a pretty face?"
He cranked the wheel, steering the van onto the highway that led to Metropolis. A couple of kicks to the gas pedal, and the engine roared as they burst free from Gotham's gloom and into the brilliant sunlight ahead.
"Look at that. Metropolis sunshine. I think your good days are about to start."
---
About half an hour later, the van pulled into the parking lot outside Metropolis Stadium. Marco and Waylon climbed out, and Clark and Lois were already waiting near the entrance.
"Sorry, are we late?" Marco called out.
"No, not at all. You're early." Clark smiled and waved them over. "We just got here ourselves."
"You two, this is Waylon, the guy I mentioned." Marco rubbed his hands together and pulled the timid Waylon out from behind him. "What do you think? Doesn't he look like Hercules? Waylon, this is Clark and Lois. We've got them to thank for making this happen."
"Th-thank you. Both of you." Waylon extended his hand. Lois beat Clark to the handshake, craning her neck to look up at Waylon.
"Wow. Standing next to you three, I feel like a flower surrounded by oak trees." She laughed and gestured behind her. "This way, please. Mr. Daines is waiting for us."
Clark fell into step beside Marco, quietly explaining the team's background and history, mostly for Waylon's benefit. Marco had heard of the Suns. They were upper-middle tier in the league, respectable but not legendary. That was fine. Waylon didn't need legendary. He just needed a shot.
Thanks to Lois leading the way, they made it inside without a single checkpoint or hold-up. There wasn't a game today, just two squads running drills on the field. Near the front row of the empty stands, an older man, maybe sixty, wearing a blue puffer jacket, stood up as they approached.
"Hello, Mr. Daines. I brought them," Lois said.
"Ms. Lane." The man opened his arms and gave her a brief hug before his gaze locked onto Waylon. "I thought I was just doing you a small favor today. But it looks like you've brought me a real prospect."
He grabbed Waylon's hand and clapped him hard on the back. "Hey, kid. You're Waylon, right? Good God, look at these muscles. I'd say your future is bright."
Waylon wasn't used to sudden enthusiasm. He looked completely flustered. "Th-thank you, sir. I... I..."
"Don't be shy. Let's see what you can do. Cole!"
One of the assistant coaches on the sideline jogged over at the call.
"Get him a uniform and show him where to line up. This one's a good kid."
The assistant coach gave a thumbs-up and extended his hand toward Waylon. The kid instinctively turned to Marco, who gave him a small nod. Only then did he follow Cole onto the field.
Daines turned back to Marco and Clark. "Gentlemen, please, have a seat. Ms. Lane told me the whole story. Officer, thank you for your effort on Waylon's behalf."
The tone in Daines' voice, like he'd already mentally filed Waylon under "my asset," rubbed Marco the wrong way. But since it wasn't his fight, he let it slide. He exchanged a few polite words with Daines before shrinking into the background like a ghost.
Clark got about the same treatment. Daines greeted him briefly, then immediately turned to chat with Lois about international affairs, economic policy, upper-level politics, topics that made Clark shift uncomfortably in his seat. Bored out of his mind, the big guy inched closer to Marco and whispered, "Can I ask you something? Why didn't you recommend Waylon to a team in Gotham? The Gotham Crocodiles are pretty strong. They just have consistency issues."
Why?
Because I'm afraid one day he'll kill them all.
Marco kept that thought to himself. He glanced at Daines, then leaned toward Clark's ear. "The Gotham teams don't get their results from talent. They get them from bookies and point spreads."
The shock on Clark's face was priceless. Just then, a cheer erupted from the field.
"Touchdown!"
Everyone in the stands turned toward the field. Several defensive players were scattered across the turf. Waylon had plowed through them, unstoppable, and crashed straight into the end zone.
"Beautiful!" Daines' eyes lit up instantly. He vaulted out of the stands and ran toward the field. Lois and Clark applauded along with him.
Marco watched for a moment, then frowned. "Hey... what does 'touchdown' mean?"
"A touchdown is when a player—" Clark started to explain reflexively, then stopped. He turned to Marco with a hurt expression. "Wait. Seriously. Have you ever actually read any of my articles?"
"Uh... ha! Well... maybe?" Marco scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "But your kindness is real. None of this would've worked without you, right?"
The compliment did its job. Clark's face lit up immediately, the fake-fan accusation forgotten. "No, no, I didn't do much. It was mostly Lois—"
"No, Clark. This wouldn't have happened without your efforts." Lois stepped forward and stood beside him, smiling. "Officer, maybe don't joke like that next time. Losing a fan would break his heart. He was excited about it for days."
"It's fine, I... ow!"
Lois shifted her weight and gave Clark a discreet kick from behind. Watching the two of them flirt, Marco felt like he was drowning in secondhand romance.
"Well, looks like everything's settled. I should head back." he had zero interest in watching Clark's emotionally oblivious rom-com routine play out in real time. "One more thing, could you two help check Waylon's contract? Make sure there aren't any trap clauses buried in the fine print."
"No problem." Clark immediately stood up, eager to help. Lois rolled her eyes behind him. "You're leaving now? Let me call Waylon over."
"No. Don't." Marco shook his head, watching Waylon run drills on the field. "Look at him. First time I've ever seen him smile. Though... damn, he somehow looks even uglier when he smiles."
"Judging people by their appearance isn't right."
"You're absolutely correct. Thank you, Dad. You've saved my corrupted soul." Marco shook hands with both of them. "Goodbye, Clark. Goodbye, Ms. Lane."
He turned and walked out of the stadium alone.
"One big weight off my chest," he muttered, heading toward the parking lot. Suddenly, the ground behind him trembled. A deep, booming voice called out.
"Officer—!"
He spun around. A mountain of a man was charging straight at him. Before he could react, Waylon pulled him into a crushing hug.
"Thank you."
Marco felt something hot and wet soak through the back of his shirt. Mixed with ragged breathing and the smell of sweat.
"Hey. Don't get all sentimental on me. You're gonna be a star."
Waylon let go, wiping tears from his face. "Officer Marco... thank you. If it weren't for you..." He grabbed Marco's hand between his palms. "I swear... in the future... I'll pay you back..."
Marco pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the tears and dirt from Waylon's face. Then he pressed the cloth into Waylon's palm and patted his hand gently.
"No, Waylon. Listen to me. If you succeed, if the world starts watching, forget me. Forget Gotham. Forget everything you used to be. Enjoy your new life. And never come back."
---
When the Chevy turned onto the main highway, Waylon's silhouette stood motionless beneath the trees, bathed in the fading sunset. He watched the van drive away in silence.
Marco took a deep breath, stared at the darkening horizon ahead, and floored the gas.
Gotham. I'm back.