Behind the thick glass of the ICU, Barnes lay motionless on the hospital bed. Tubes ran from his arms, chest, and throat. The ventilator breathed for him. His face, which had always been set in that hard, uncompromising expression, was slack now.
He wasn't a threat anymore. Just a body, slowly withering, trapped in a shell that refused to die.
Marco and Bob stood side by side outside the observation window, watching in silence for several minutes. The machines beeped steadily. Nurses moved past them without making eye contact. This was just another day in Gotham General's ICU... another cop who'd gotten too close to something that bit back.
"Life's fragile, isn't it?" Bob finally broke the silence. He didn't look at Marco when he said it. "Still gotta follow procedure, though."
They turned and walked toward the adjacent family waiting room. Barnes' wife sat in one of the plastic chairs, staring at nothing. She was maybe forty, but she looked sixty. Her eyes were sunken, her face drawn, and her hands folded in her lap like she'd forgotten what to do with them. When she saw the two men in police uniforms enter, a flicker of instinctive wariness passed through her eyes.
Bob stepped forward, rearranging his face into something resembling official sympathy. He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and held it out with both hands.
"Please accept our condolences. And please, take care of yourself." He paused, searching for the right words and not quite finding them. "This is from all of us at the GCPD and the East End Precinct. Commissioner Barnes was a fighter."
The woman didn't look at the envelope's contents or ask how much was inside. She just took it mechanically, murmured a quiet "thank you," and let her gaze drift past them, back toward the ward where the machines kept her husband's heart beating.
Marco stood slightly behind Bob, watching her. His mouth opened like he was about to say something, but nothing came out. What was there to say?
The whole thing took less than three minutes. They left and walked back through the busy hospital lobby, past gurneys and wheelchair-bound patients and doctors too tired to look up. He opened the revolving door, and Gotham's noise and lead-grey daylight hit them both at once. The damp, cold air wrapped around them.
Bob pulled out a pack of cigarettes, stuck one between his lips, and lit it. Smoke curled into the air. He glanced sideways at Marco, who'd been unusually quiet the entire time.
"So. Still bothered by it?"
Marco let out a long breath. "Yeah. A little." He looked at Bob. "I just wanted him demoted or sent back to Internal Affairs where he couldn't fuck things up. I didn't want this. He had guts. He shouldn't have ended up like that."
"Guts?" Bob snorted. "Useless guts are just stupidity with a badge. Government procedures don't move fast. If Barnes had slowed down, taken his time, maybe he would've ended up the way you wanted." He took a drag, exhaled slowly. "But he didn't. He pushed. And Gotham pushed back harder."
Marco rubbed his face with both hands. "I thought being there would change something. Maybe I shouldn't have gone at all."
"Don't be an idiot." Bob flicked ash onto the pavement. "At least you made sure everyone knew Zsasz was the killer. Otherwise, Gordon and his crew would still be running around... A lot of shit went down these past two months. You're under pressure. People make all kinds of choices when they're under pressure. You're not stupid enough to think you're some comic book hero who never changes, are you?"
Marco didn't answer.
Bob tossed the half-finished cigarette onto the ground and crushed it under his heel. "Falcone's out of the picture now. So starting the day after tomorrow, I'm giving you a month of administrative leave. Go somewhere. Get your head straight."
"Yeah. Thanks, chief." Marco blinked. "Wait. Why the day after tomorrow?"
Bob's face lit up with a grin. "Because yesterday, some guy named Victor Fries called the precinct. He wants to donate a million dollars to the department in your name."
Marco stared at him. "What?"
"You heard me. Victor Fries." Bob looked way too pleased with himself. "Ring any bells?"
Marco thought for a second, then it clicked. "Wait. The guy who froze his wife?"
"How the hell should I know? I don't know the guy." Bob shrugged. "Point is, you've gotta stick around until tomorrow so we can process the donation. After that, you're free."
"Fine. Whatever." Marco shook his head. Then he frowned. "But shouldn't you be getting promoted by now? Acting commissioner, maybe?"
"Yeah, the mayor talked to me about it." Bob lit another cigarette. "I told him things are running pretty smoothly at headquarters with Essen acting as commissioner. I said I didn't have any interest in moving to Central right now."
Marco stopped walking. "What?"
"You heard me."
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Marco stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "That is not something you would ever say."
"Why not?" Bob held up a finger to his lips. "I figured it out. Wherever you are, rich people throw money at the department. Why would I go to headquarters and miss out on that?"
Marco opened his mouth, and closed it. Then he just started laughing.
---
"Master Bruce, I don't believe I scheduled a motivational speech for the disabled on today's agenda."
Alfred stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching Bruce attempt to force himself up out of the wheelchair. "I must also point out that standing does not, in fact, accelerate bone healing. Quite the opposite, actually."
"I heard that..." Bruce gritted his teeth, muscles straining. "Victor Zsasz is dead. And Falcone... Falcone left Gotham?"
"That is correct, Master Bruce." Alfred stepped forward and gently pushed the pill bottle and glass of water across the table toward him. "It's said that Mr. Falcone voluntarily embarked on a journey from which he will not return. Going to see him off now would be... rather poor timing."
"And the vacuum he left behind..."
"The power vacuum, yes. It's been largely inherited by Mr. Cobblepot, who, ironically, was the one doing the seeing-off." Alfred watched as Bruce failed to stand fully and collapsed heavily back into the wheelchair, letting out a soft sigh. "However, Mr. Cobblepot does not seem to be having an easy time of it. In addition to losing some fingers, he's been visited by the IRS, the power company, the labor board, food safety inspectors, the anti-discrimination commission, and the EPA. He's been rather busy."
Bruce took a few heavy breaths, grabbed the pills, and tossed them into his mouth. "I can understand most of that. But the anti-discrimination commission? What did he do?"
"Apparently, there are too few minorities on the front lines of Mr. Cobblepot's organization carrying guns on street corners. Which constitutes racial discrimination in employment practices."
Bruce blinked. "Oh."
He had no idea how to respond to that. He just shook his head.
The brief moment of absurdity passed.
"No matter what happens with Cobblepot, Gotham's nights won't become peaceful because of this. The Roman is gone, but something worse will breed in the shadows... Alfred."
"Yes, Master Bruce."
"Accelerate the physical therapy. Push the bone-healing protocols to their limit. We can't just stand on the sidelines forever. This vacuum needs to be filled. And it's going to be us."
Alfred looked into Bruce's eyes and saw that familiar fire. Any advice about rest or caution would be wasted breath. He bowed slightly.
"As you wish, Master Bruce. However, I must remind you that even the most advanced medical technology cannot violate basic biological laws. Your bones will heal when they heal. And your best course of action remains proper preparation. You cannot rely on an internal morphine injector to suppress pain every time you engage creatures of that scale. The body has limits, sir."
Bruce nodded slowly. "You're right. I'll talk to Lucius. The Batmobile needs better stabilization, stronger restraint systems... and more firepower for dealing with giants."
Alfred didn't respond. He simply inclined his head and turned to leave, already dreading the conversation he'd need to have with Fox about whatever insane modifications Bruce was planning next.
---
"Hey, man! You get a whole month off!" Darnell looked at Marco with pure envy written across his face. "That's just... that's just..."
"Stop with the 'just' already. Weren't you the one who spent two months lying in a hospital bed pissing into a catheter?"
Marco tossed several duffel bags full of clothes into the trunk of his Cherokee, then waved Darnell closer. "While I'm gone, do not, and I mean do not, let Dr. Quinzel have any contact with Ed. You got that?"
"I know, I know. The free therapy sessions plus complimentary pasta routine, right?" Darnell gave him a thumbs-up. "Don't worry. I got it."
"Good."
Marco climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door. Darnell leaned against the window frame.
"So, you figure out where you're headed yet?"
Marco started the engine, rolled down the window, and shrugged.
"No idea. I'll just wander and see where I end up."