After promising Clark he'd keep his mouth shut about the whole Superman thing, Marco stood up and headed out. It was still work hours, after all. He couldn't exactly expect someone to babysit him on company time. He walked out of the Daily Planet building with his hands in his pockets, taking his time on the sidewalk. The crowds around him moved with an easy flow. It felt good.
Nothing like walking the streets of Gotham, where you could feel eyes on your back and half-expected a stray bullet to come screaming out of nowhere.
"Almost lunchtime..."
As noon approached, Marco figured he should probably eat something better than cold pizza. He had money now, not rich, but enough that he didn't need to embarrass the GCPD by living like a broke college student. He shelled out ten bucks for two footlong sandwiches from a Subway and sat down on a bench next to a bright red phone booth.
"Not bad." He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Mua... mua... hm?"
Mid-chew, something Clark had mentioned earlier suddenly clicked in his head.
"S.T.A.R. Labs accident in Central City..."
He swallowed.
"Shit. That's the Flash origin, isn't it?"
He only knew the broad strokes. Barry Allen, forensic scientist, lightning bolt, chemicals, speed force, all that. Barry seemed like a solid guy from what he remembered. Though wasn't he kind of... stubborn sometimes? Maybe a little too earnest?
He thought about it for a moment, then pulled out his phone and dialed.
"Hey, chief."
"What's wrong?" Bob's voice sounded lazy on the other end, like he'd been napping. Then it sharpened immediately. "Did someone try to donate money again?"
"Uh... no. Not this time." Marco couldn't help but laugh. "I need you to do me a favor."
"Oh. Alright then." Bob relaxed again. "What kind of trouble did you get into?"
"No trouble. I just have a question. The speed limit in Gotham is forty miles per hour, right?"
"Yeah. Why? One of your buddies get a ticket?"
"No, I was thinking..." Marco hesitated, trying to figure out how to word this without sounding insane. "You should add 'and pedestrians' to that law."
There was a long silence.
"Pedestrians?" Bob repeated slowly, like he was trying to process whether Marco had lost his mind. "So... the maximum speed for vehicles and pedestrians in Gotham City shall not exceed forty miles per hour?"
"Yeah."
"Are you out of your fucking mind?!" Bob's voice exploded through the phone. "What pedestrian can run forty miles per hour?!"
"I can't really explain it to you right now," Marco said calmly. "Just trust me. You know I don't mess around with this stuff."
There was a long, heavy sigh on the other end.
"Fine. I'll look into it. The city council's going to laugh me out of the room for the rest of my life."
He hung up, clearly pissed. Marco shook his head and pocketed his phone. Better safe than sorry.
Only then did he notice the man sitting at the other end of the bench.
Short, middle-aged, clutching a large cardboard box. He wore a wrinkled khaki suit, his tie hanging loose and crooked. Inside the box were a few scattered documents, a faded coffee mug, and what looked like mechanical parts or half-finished toy prototypes. The guy kept his head down. Combined with his heavy build and the defeated slump of his shoulders, he looked exactly like someone who'd just been fired.
Marco slowed his chewing.
You saw plenty of people beaten down by life in Gotham. But here, on the clean, sunny streets of Metropolis, it felt especially jarring. Like seeing a corpse at a wedding.
After a moment, maybe because Marco's presence was hard to ignore, or maybe because he just needed to talk to someone, the man slowly raised his head. Their eyes met. Marco lifted his sandwich in a greeting.
"Hey."
The man blinked, then forced out a smile that looked more painful than crying.
"Rough day, huh?" Marco nodded toward the cardboard box.
It was a pointless observation. But sometimes pointless observations had their place.
The man took a deep breath, his voice hoarse. "Yeah. It's over."
"Fired?"
"Yeah." The man gave a bitter smile and patted the box. "Ten years... and this is all I have to show for it."
Marco didn't say anything. He just picked up the second sandwich, and held it out.
"Want some? The sandwiches are pretty good. At least you don't have to worry about mystery meat."
The man looked at the food for a long moment. Finally, he took it and said quietly, "Thanks. My name's Winslow. Winslow Schott."
"Marco Vitale. Gotham PD."
Marco took another bite of his own sandwich, then gestured at the box. "The stuff in there looks interesting. What do you do?"
"Toy designer." Winslow bit into the sandwich, and for a second he seemed to recover a little energy. Then his tone turned sharp, almost angry. "Or I was. I designed the Super Rattler Track Car series for them. And the Thinker Logic Puzzle that won an award. You know what they gave me for it? A shitty bonus and a pat on the back. 'Good job, Schott.'"
His voice rose slightly, scaring off a few pigeons nearby.
"And then?" Marco took a sip of water, prompting him to continue. He'd heard stories like this a thousand times in Gotham.
"And then?" Winslow's face flushed red. "Then I spent six months developing a brand-new line of interactive dolls. I showed it to my boss. You know what happened?"
He didn't wait for Marco to answer.
"Today, he called me into his office and handed me a termination notice. He said my ideas didn't align with the company's future direction. Then HR handed me this box and watched me clean out my desk." He let out a short, bitter laugh. "Bullshit. He wanted my designs. He stole them, slapped a new label on them, turned them into his own project, and kicked me out."
Marco said nothing. He just kept eating. Only after he finished the last bite did he wipe his mouth.
"So... you're just going to let it go?"
Winslow's head snapped toward him. A flash of anger crossed his face. But it faded quickly.
"What choice do I have? Sue them? They've got lawyers. I can barely afford rent next month."
"Winslow, right?"
Marco stood up and brushed the crumbs off his pants. "I learned something in Gotham: as long as you're not dead, there's always a chance to turn things around. If you've really got talent, no one can take that from you."
He tossed the wrapper into a nearby trash can and pulled a business card from his bag.
"You know Bruce Wayne? From Gotham? About as rich as Lex Luthor. Maybe richer."
Winslow nodded slowly, confused about where this was going.
Marco held out the card. "I know him. Not well, but we've met. Take this and go see him. If you've really got the skills, he'll help you. Wayne Enterprises is always looking for talented people."
Winslow stared at the card.
"And if he doesn't help?"
Marco shrugged. "Then go to the East End Precinct in Gotham and ask for Chief Bob McGinnis. Tell him I sent you. He'll at least find you something to do while you get back on your feet."
Winslow took the card.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because I've seen what happens when good people give up." Marco turned to leave, then paused and looked back. "And because Metropolis is supposed to be the City of Tomorrow. But if tomorrow's just the same people getting screwed over by the same assholes, what's the point?"
He walked away, leaving Winslow sitting on the bench, staring at the business card in his hands.