Honestly, Marco couldn't quite wrap his head around how these people's brains worked. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud right there at the table.
In Gotham, gangsters showing up with bags of cash to bribe cops? Normal.
Spraying down a police cruiser with an AK during a breakout? Monday.
But some random criminal openly inviting a cop to help him rob a bank? What the fuck kind of wiring do you need for that?
Central City seemed to have its own brand of insanity. After politely declining Leonard's enthusiastic recruitment pitch and promising he definitely wouldn't call the cops, Marco said his goodbyes. After all, whether the local banks balanced their books or got cleaned out had nothing to do with him. No point warning the local professionals about what was coming.
He drove around the streets for a while after parting ways with the two ambitious idiots, eventually choosing a hotel in Central City's old district. It looked like it had been there since the Eisenhower administration.
Time Station Hotel.
The name fit. Three stories, beige exterior with peeling paint, a neon sign missing half its letters. But the place looked clean enough. The owner was a grey-haired old man watching a soap opera on a tiny TV behind the desk. He didn't even look up while checking Marco in, just slid a physical key with a metal tag across the counter.
"207. Right at the top of the stairs."
The old man's voice matched the hotel. Marco climbed the stairs, found his room, and stepped inside. It was small and simply furnished, but the sheets were white and the carpet didn't have any suspicious stains. The window faced a quiet back street. Afternoon sunlight filtered through slightly dirty glass.
He tossed his backpack onto the chair and flopped onto the slightly-too-soft mattress. He let out a long breath.
There were no constant police sirens like in Gotham.
He could get used to this.
---
Central City turned out to be diverse in a way that felt free. He spent the entire afternoon wandering, checking out a futuristic exhibition hall at the S.T.A.R. Labs visitor center, then strolling through both main streets and narrow alleys.
Along the way, he saw a lot.
Young people in exaggerated costumes practicing monologues on street corners, completely unconcerned with anyone else. A guy pounding out fierce rhythms on discarded metal drums, a small crowd swaying to the beat around him. Same-sex couples walking hand in hand, unbothered by stares. On one corner, well-dressed office workers shared a long bench with tattooed skateboarders in baggy pants. They didn't talk to each other, but somehow the scene felt perfectly natural.
"As long as you don't mess with anyone else, do whatever you want."
In Gotham, standing out too much usually meant trouble. Either you were dangerous, or you were an easy target. But here, people seemed more focused on their own little worlds. They didn't care how others lived, and they were too busy with their own shit to judge. A kind of live-and-let-live tolerance. Or maybe just gentle indifference.
He liked it even more than Metropolis.
Especially after dinner.
He found a family-run Italian restaurant tucked into a side street and ordered meat sauce pasta with garlic bread. The portions were generous, the ingredients were solid, and the owner charged him a price that was not only fair but unusually kind for an out-of-towner. His goodwill toward the city peaked right there.
Stepping out of the restaurant, he stretched and started walking back toward the hotel. The street was lined with old oak trees, their branches forming a canopy overhead. Streetlights had come on.
He was crossing an intersection, his gaze drifting over a brightly lit shop window on the opposite corner, when something flickered across his vision.
It was like a glitch. A residual afterimage. As if someone had fired off an old-fashioned camera flash at maximum speed, there and gone in an instant.
He stopped instinctively, narrowing his eyes and focusing on the patch of air where he'd sensed something off. Nothing. The streetlights were still their usual dim yellow. The shop window still reflected colorful lights.
Did I just imagine that?
He wasn't even sure he'd actually seen anything. He stood there for a few more seconds, scanning the street, confirming there was nothing unusual. Then he shook his head with a smile.
If my eyes are going, there's nothing I can do about it.
He pushed the minor doubt to the back of his mind and turned into a relatively quiet alley, planning to take a shortcut back to the hotel. The alley was flanked by building back walls and tall fire escapes. A single lonely streetlamp stood in the middle. Along the base of the walls sat a row of bulging trash bags.
"This smell is nasty."
The deeper he went, the worse it got. He regretted the decision immediately but couldn't be bothered to turn around and take the long way. So he picked his way around puddles of murky water and unidentifiable slime.
He was almost halfway through when an extremely sudden gust of wind swept past him from behind.
Then... CRASH.
A human figure popped out of thin air, screaming, and slammed headfirst into the pile of garbage.
Marco's heart kicked into overdrive. His right hand went instinctively to his waist. He spun around, expecting to see an out-of-control motorcycle or someone getting thrown from a window, but there was nothing behind him.
His gaze snapped toward the source of the noise.
A few meters away, beside a scattered pile of trash bags, a figure was scrambling clumsily to get up, only to lose his balance and flop back down onto the ground.
It was a young guy, early twenties, fairly tall but on the slender side. He was wearing a red tracksuit and a pair of running shoes. His hair had been blown into a chaotic mess. His tracksuit was smeared with dust and what looked suspiciously like vegetable scraps. Several black streaks marked his face, making him look utterly bedraggled. He was grimacing, rubbing his ankle, hissing sharply in pain.
"So," Marco said slowly. "What's your deal?"
"Hey... hey, good evening, officer." The young guy waved awkwardly, trying to force a smile that came out twisted because of the pain in his ankle. "I didn't hit you, did I? I'm really sorry!"
Marco's eyebrows went up. "Officer? How do you know I'm a cop?"
"Uh... I-I don't... wait, wait, sir, I'm not a bad guy..."
The kid's face took on the look of someone who was very bad at lying. Marco wasn't buying it. He pulled out his gun, keeping it low but visible.
"Tell the truth. How did you know I'm a cop?"
"Don't... don't shoot! I'm a cop too!"
The young guy patted himself down frantically with his filthy hands, clearly searching for ID that wasn't there.
"Believe me... please believe me, sir... I'm a forensic technician from the Central City Police Department. Barry Allen. But I didn't bring my ID..."
Marco holstered the gun. "Forensics? Huh. I've got a colleague in forensics too." He studied the kid more carefully. "What were you doing just now? I saw a gust of wind, and then you crashed into the garbage. And you still haven't answered my question, how did you know I'm a cop?"
Barry's face turned red at a rapid pace, the flush spreading from his forehead all the way down his neck. He scratched at his messy hair, his eyes darting around in embarrassment.
"I was... I was exercising."
He seemed to latch onto the explanation. "Yeah, exercising. Running. You know, high-intensity interval training? Sudden starts, explosive speed... um... if I said I figured out your identity through... police intuition, would you believe me?"
Marco didn't reply. He just gave the kid the kind of flat, disapproving stare he'd learned from watching Bob interrogate suspects. The silent treatment.
"Okay... okay..."
Under Marco's gaze, Barry grew more and more flustered. "I don't want to lie. I just accidentally ran into... into that place and saw you there... but I'm not very good at controlling it yet, so I fell back out here... damn it, what am I even saying!"
He shook his head in frustration. "I'm not crazy. But I'm afraid you won't understand what I'm saying."
Marco considered him for a moment, then said, "So you were spying on me?"
"What?! No!"
Barry looked like he wanted to slap his forehead in frustration, then remembered how filthy his hands were and stopped himself. "I swear this is all a misunderstanding."
"Alright." Marco reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of tissues, and tossed it over. "Clean yourself up first. You smell like a dumpster."
"Thank you!"
Barry's face flushed red again as he pulled out tissues and started wiping his hands and face.
Marco watched him for a moment, then grinned. "Are all you Central City people this weird? At noon, someone tried to recruit me for a bank robbery. Now at night, someone goes for a run and falls into a pile of garbage."
"No, sir, Central City isn't weird. This is just a me problem..." Barry paused, then suddenly perked up. "Wait... you said someone wants to rob a bank?"
"Yeah. Guy named Leonard or something. I didn't agree, though." Marco shrugged. Then something occurred to him, and he added, "You know him?"
"No. I don't." Barry shook his head, looking confused. "But I should warn the department to be on alert."
Suddenly, Barry pointed behind Marco. "What's that?!"
Marco turned his head slightly, pretending to look. Sure enough, there was a soft tssst sound, like a faint electrical discharge. When he turned back around, Barry had vanished without a trace.
He stood there for a moment in the empty alley, then couldn't help but laugh.
He called out toward the street, "Run, Barry! Run!"
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