This life was getting impossible to live.
He'd woken up that morning feeling like he could take on the world. After all, he'd just gotten back from Metropolis yesterday, called the landlord and finally got the heating fixed, and then, right before bed, the system had hit him with a message:
[You have altered the fate of Waylon Jones in a significant way. Skill Point +2.]
Holy shit. Two points.
He'd jumped out of bed right then and there. He'd never been this rich in his life. But then came the hard part: how should he spend them?
Based on his old gaming experience, the smart move was to deepen one skill tree first, then branch out later. But he couldn't resist looking at the other two skill cards. After agonizing over it for what felt like hours, he finally let out a frustrated yell, "Fuck it! I'm throwing my common sense to the wolves!"
He gritted his teeth and activated the two cards, one with a fist, the other with a meteor.
The fist card wasn't surprising. Just like he'd expected, it was combat-related.
[All-Rounder:
Your understanding and proficiency with most melee weapons and hand-to-hand combat techniques has reached a fairly skilled level.]
[Progress Missions:
Straight Punch: 0/5000
Kicking: 0/5000
Horse Stance: 0/5000
Footwork: 0/5000
Hook Punch: 0/5000
Swing Punch: 0/5000
Slashing: 0/5000
Stabbing: 0/5000]
[Complete all missions to increase skill level. A critical weapon cannot replace a critical hit from a weapon!]
But the meteor card wasn't what he'd imagined. Instead of some flashy magic spell, it unlocked something... bizarre.
[Precision Strike: Hammer of God
Rains down justice from above in various forms, heavily damaging your enemy.
Cooldown: 720 hours.
This skill cannot be upgraded.]
He didn't really understand what it meant, but it seemed like a good thing. Still, for some reason, the moment he stepped into the precinct that morning, he felt like he was walking into a funeral.
Marco leaned lazily against the car window, watching Bob's vehicle slowly pull into the parking lot. The door opened, belly first, then the rest of the man squeezed through. Marco climbed out of his own car and followed him silently to an old Ford parked in a corner of the lot.
"Well? You ready?"
"That's not up to me. Depends on how ready you are." Marco yawned. "I got up even earlier than yesterday. Don't tell me you don't have good news."
"I did my best. This is what I got." Bob grinned and flipped open the Ford's trunk. Inside were three black hard-plastic cases, each stamped with a faded police property code.
"One AR-15, one Remington 1100, two level-III ballistic vests, and some extras."
"You actually got this?"
Marco reached out, unlatched the first case, and lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in black protective foam, was a matte-gray AR-15 semi-automatic rifle. It was so new it practically smelled of gun oil. Next to it were four loaded magazines, a tactical red-dot sight, and two olive-green stun grenades.
"Mamma Mia. A brand-new rifle."
The cold metal of the barrel sent a thrill through his body. The second case contained two dark tactical vests, the ceramic plates clearly outlined inside the ballistic pockets. The third case held a compact-barreled Remington 1100 shotgun, radiating menace even just sitting there.
"Damn... how many favors did you cash in to get all this?" he shook his head in disbelief. "What else?"
"That's it. Everything's here." Bob lit a cigarette and replied calmly.
"Don't give me that. If you gave this to me, you must've secured at least twice its value for yourself." Marco's eyes narrowed. "What about the operating budget?"
"Uh... the budget... we'll talk about that later. But the gear really is just this." Bob scratched his head awkwardly. "The rest is personnel approvals and other bureaucratic bullshit, not really relevant to you."
"Listen to yourself, Chief. This is good equipment, but nowhere near enough. And no, don't tell me this is already worth several thousand dollars." Marco waved his hand, cutting off Bob's incoming argument. "This gear keeps me alive, but it's not a reason for me to risk my life. You wouldn't plow someone's field just because they handed you a new shovel, would you?"
"You're haggling with me now?"
Bob took several harsh drags, head lowered. After a while, he tossed the cigarette butt and crushed it under his heel.
"How much do you want?"
Marco didn't answer. He simply held up one finger.
"One thousand? No problem! Done!" Bob instantly brightened and spread his arms for a hug, only for Marco to shove him back.
"Quit dreaming. We want ten thousand. Each."
"Don't even think about it! Are you insane?!" Bob's face collapsed. "That's twenty thousand dollars total! Why the hell would I give you twenty thousand?! That's... that's the money I clawed back!"
"For a job this dangerous, street thugs charge three grand. Gang enforcers charge five. Veteran cops charge twenty-five to thirty thousand per person." Marco stared at the precinct chief. "So go send your money to pick up the suspect. Or I'm sure someone else in the precinct will work cheap."
"Fuck! Fuck!" Bob spun in place twice, then glared at Marco like he wanted to bite him.
"Five thousand!"
Marco didn't respond. He just closed the trunk and started walking away.
"Six! Wait, seven! Seven thousand!"
"Fuck! Seventy-five hundred! Each, seventy-five hundred! Not a dollar more!" Bob ran after him, grabbing his arm, face red as a tomato. "I won't pay another cent. If you're still not happy, I'll put on a vest and go myself!"
"Seventy-five hundred. And from now on, all ammo, fuel, and equipment maintenance costs go through reimbursement. No holding it up, at least not by you." Marco stopped walking and returned to the Ford.
"Fine! Deal!"
Hearing that expenses would go through reimbursement made Bob feel slightly better. But the thought of losing $7,500 still made his chest ache like someone was digging a knife into it. He punched the car hard, then hissed in pain and clutched his wrist.
"Come on, don't be dramatic. With budget control, delegated authority, and Falcone's future gratitude, you'll net at least a hundred grand off this whole thing." Marco stacked the three cases and hefted them up. "So what about the assault vehicle?"
"Falcone... we'll discuss that after you finish the job. And, uh... the assault vehicle request was rejected. Too expensive, no way it'll get approved." Bob crossed his arms and rotated his wrist. "Not lying. It's impossible."
"If you ask me, it's just that you didn't cry hard enough. Forget it. Police car won't work, let's use mine." Marco loaded the cases into his van. "But let's get this straight, if it gets torn up, you're paying for a new one."
"Alright... uh... we'll talk about that when it happens... huh? You bought back that old fossil from headquarters?" Bob fiddled with the latch on the window partition, and with a bang the panel dropped down into a food-prep counter. "Damn, scared me, are you seriously cooking in your car?!"
"Blame Darnell. He's the one who modified it. I couldn't just waste it." Marco flipped on the electric stove. "You can also approve me a legal business permit while you're at it. So? Want to try something? My treat."
"I knew that kid was unreliable. Thank God I didn't tell him about the mission early, otherwise the whole city would know by now. You can explain it to him yourself later." Bob sighed. "No charge, right? Then I want extra meat and extra eggs. Two servings!"
---
"Holy shit, new guns!"
Darnell opened the case and rubbed his hands together excitedly. "Look at this beautiful baby, and two whole boxes of slugs! How did you get this out of him?" He suddenly narrowed his eyes and stared suspiciously at Marco's ass. "Don't tell me you—"
"Fuck off." Marco tossed the receipt form at him. "We've got a dangerous assignment this afternoon. We're heading to HQ to pick up the surviving suspect from the prisoner transport case. Mooney may try to intercept us on the way. If you're scared, there's still time to back out."
"Bullshit, why would I be scared? Why would Mooney intercept a prisoner?" Darnell grabbed one of the vests. "She's afraid the case implicates her? No wonder her leave got suspended. I'm gonna get Bob to give me a few hundred bucks for hazard pay."
"I already negotiated with him, seventy-five hundred each." Marco spread the vest out. "You sure your ass can carry this?"
"How much—??" Darnell jumped straight up. "Sev... mmmph..."
"Don't yell, damn it!" Marco clamped his hand over Darnell's mouth. He'd originally planned to tell him about Mooney's plan to betray Falcone, but with Darnell's big mouth, the whole city would know by noon. "Just keep it to yourself."
"Fuck... getting seventy-five hundred out of Bob's pocket is harder than landing on the moon." Darnell pressed a hand to his chest, gasping. "Is there anything you Italians can't negotiate? I wouldn't be surprised if you became President someday."
"Quit the bullshit. Check the equipment. We leave at noon sharp to pick up the prisoner."
"Copy that. Hehe!" Darnell grinned so wide he could barely close his mouth. "I have a sister. Want to meet her? Nice body—"
"Get lost!"
"Got it!"
---
Standing in the main lobby of Gotham Central, Marco looked at the crowds moving through the honeycomb of cubicles and couldn't help sighing.
"This place is huge."
"Ha! Look at you, all wide-eyed. Haven't been here before?" Darnell laughed. "I've been here plenty of times."
"Nope. Never done business at HQ." Marco scratched his head. Darnell had been on the force less than two months and had been patrolling with him the whole time. "When were you here?"
"Before I became a cop." Darnell shrugged. "Got arrested a bunch of times. Hey, Montoya, you know which officer handles transfer paperwork for detainees?"
The Latina officer passing by shot him a cold glance. She didn't seem to recognize him, but for the sake of the uniform, she pointed toward the center of the hall.
"Go find Alvarez."
"Thanks!"
Marco didn't expect Darnell to know people here. "You know her?"
"She arrested me once. Looks even better now after a few years." Darnell walked toward the officer Montoya had pointed out. "Hi, Alvarez. We're here for transfer paperwork."
The officer took the form from Darnell with a blank expression, looked it over, then told them to wait while he headed upstairs.
This place was about four times the size of the East End precinct, filled with all kinds of personnel. The voices, fluorescent buzzing, and ringing phones merged into a massive noise cloud that made Marco's head buzz.
The two of them carefully avoided officers escorting suspects and retreated to a corner. Bored, Marco suddenly heard a voice not far away:
"Mr. Nygma, you left this on my desk."
Marco's eyes lit up.
"Quick!" He yanked Darnell with him. They sneakily hid behind a pillar and pricked up their ears.
"This is a riddle." That was Edward's voice.
"A riddle? It's a cupcake with bullets sticking out of it." The woman's voice sounded impatient. Marco peeked out, it was a woman in her mid-twenties. Simple outfit, decent looks, like the type of girl in school who always got slightly-above-average grades.
"It... it's a riddle. Cupcakes are sweet... bullets are deadly..."
Edward was still insisting, but the woman had lost her patience. "This is not a riddle. It's creepy, and inedible." She shook her head and walked away, leaving Edward standing there awkward and deflated.
He looked around, hoping no one noticed, but then:
Slurp slurp slurp.
He turned and saw two guys behind a pillar wiggling their eyebrows and frantically waving him over. His face immediately turned bright red.
"Ed, your flirting technique is god-awful." Marco pulled him behind the pillar and raised an eyebrow. "You're talking way over her head. Women don't go for that."
"Marco... you're here... Ms. Kringle and I are just coworkers. And that was just a very simple riddle."
"Ed, that's only simple to you. It's like a calculus professor giving a problem set to elementary school kids. You're one of the smartest people in this city, you can't assume everyone thinks like you." Marco shook his head. "Cupcake sweet and bullet deadly... if it were me, I'd guess the answer was 'a diabetic chugging extra-sugar Coke.'"
"At least I know you're not normal. I can never guess your answers." Edward shook his head helplessly. "But Ms. Kringle... she's different."
"Not really. She's cautious, ordinary, and easily impressed by people who grab attention." Marco thought for a moment. "Show her something that stands out."
"Something that stands out? But you just said—"
"Something she can understand. For example, Edward Nygma analyzes evidence, solves a big case, and gets praised and promoted. She may not understand how you analyzed the evidence, but she understands that you were praised and promoted. Therefore, you must be impressive."
Marco patted him on the shoulder. "Make her admire you in ways that normal people value, not in ways only professional specialists can understand."
He turned to Darnell. "Well? Am I right?"
"If it were me," Darnell said. "I'd go sleep with two women with great asses and realize the world is full of better options. Hi, Darnell Wilson, East End precinct. His partner."
"Hi." Edward shook his hand, then turned to Marco. "What about you? How do you pursue women?"
"Him? Ha! You believe him?" Darnell burst out laughing at Marco's embarrassed expression. "He's probably still a virgin."