Night reclaimed Gotham like it always did. Marco drove the battered GCPD assault vehicle, heading toward Archie Goodwin International Airport with Oliver and his people riding in silence behind him.
The atmosphere inside the vehicle was completely different from the trip in.
Oliver leaned back in the rear seat, watching Gotham's bizarre streetscape flash past the window. The donation ceremony and its aftermath had gone well enough. Despite some initial friction, the East and West Coast delegations had reached several stable agreements.
"Captain."
He finally broke the silence.
Marco's eyes stayed on the road. "Yeah?"
"I've got a question."
"Hm? Go ahead, Mr. Queen."
Oliver hesitated, aware of Thea and John listening from the seats beside him. "You can call me Oliver, by the way. We're past formalities at this point."
"Fair enough."
"I went back and read about the books you mentioned. But I'm starting to wonder if people here think that's... I don't know. Naive? Ridiculous?"
Even asking made him feel ridiculous. He could feel Thea glancing at him with concern.
Marco let out a soft laugh.
He gathered his thoughts, trying to phrase it in a way that wouldn't sound harsh. "In Star City, or Seattle, or pretty much anywhere else in the country? It's something worth fighting for. But in Gotham..."
He trailed off, spinning the wheel to navigate around a double-parked car.
"The people here... they're not like people in other places."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the kind of people who pay their taxes on time and hope for a better neighborhood? The ones who show up to PTA meetings and vote in local elections? They exist here, sure. But they're outnumbered. In Gotham, 'the people' include, and this is not a complete list, junkies trying to figure out which convenience store to hit tonight so they can afford their next fix. Homeless guys who'll stab you in the back for five bucks. Gang members who think settling business disputes with rocket launchers is perfectly reasonable. And then there's the real fun ones..."
He glanced in the rearview mirror, catching Oliver's eye.
"You saw them. The cultists. People who worship things that shouldn't exist and would happily sacrifice their neighbors for a taste of power. That's Gotham.'"
As if on cue, someone sprinted out of a corner store ahead of them, arms loaded with boxes. Young guy, maybe early twenties, running like his life depended on it.
"Hey..." Oliver started forward instinctively. "That's robbery."
Marco shook his head, not slowing down. "Just watch."
A second later, an older man burst out of the store behind the thief with a shotgun in his hands. He raised the weapon, tracked his target for half a heartbeat, and pulled the trigger.
BOOM.
The blast echoed between the buildings.
The runner went down, sprawling face-first onto the pavement as the boxes scattered across the street. The shop owner approached at an unhurried pace and brought the butt of the shotgun down into the man's face while he groaned on the ground. Blood sprayed across the sidewalk. The owner reached into the man's pocket, retrieved a wad of cash that was probably taken from the register, gathered his merchandise, and walked back into the store without looking back.
Inside the assault vehicle, nobody said anything.
Thea's face had gone pale.
Marco drove past the bleeding man as if it were just another Monday in Gotham. In all likelihood, it was.
"That guy was an amateur," Marco said at last. "Probably from out of town. He thought he could pull off some smash-and-grab stunt like they do in other cities. It doesn't work that way here. In Gotham, you either rob someone properly or you don't rob them at all. If you cut corners, you die."
He gestured toward the buildings sliding past outside the window.
"See that apartment building? On the third floor there's probably an accountant worrying about layoffs. On the fifth, a guy forging documents for the mob. In the basement, maybe a former Arkham researcher running illegal experiments. They all live in the same place. They all count as 'the people.'"
Marco's voice softened slightly.
"Mr. Wayne knows what's buried at the bottom of this city. He's seen it up close, probably more than anyone. And in a strange way, Gotham already is a city of the people. It's just that the people here are…."
He gave a small shrug.
"Well. You've seen them."
Oliver stared out the window. In a nearby alley, he saw shapes moving. People fighting, maybe. Or something worse. No one intervened. And no one called for help. The entire city operated on a law-of-the-jungle mentality he had never truly understood until now.
Lian Yu had been hell. Five years of survival, combat, and moral compromises that still haunted him. But Lian Yu had been an island.
Gotham was different.
It was hell in the middle of civilization, sprawling, infectious, and somehow normalized. People lived here. They raised families here. They built lives here. And they all just accepted it.
He finally understood the look Bruce had given him earlier.
Bruce was not indifferent to Gotham's suffering. He simply saw it clearly. You could not save a city by pretending it was better than it was. You had to look at it as it truly existed, with all the ugliness, corruption, and violence laid bare, and choose to love it anyway.
He was beginning to understand.
The assault vehicle rolled into the airport departure zone and came to a stop, the engine rumbling softly as it idled down.
Oliver climbed out first, followed by Thea and John. The clerks from their delegation headed off to handle the paperwork and coordinate with the private jet crew. Oliver stood next to the vehicle for a moment, looking back at the city skyline.
Two days in Gotham had changed something in him. He was not sure what it was yet, but he could feel it.
"Marco." He turned and extended his hand. "Thank you. The process wasn't what I expected, but I learned a lot."
"Gotham should be thanking you." Marco clasped his hand firmly and grinned. "You're welcome back anytime. For business, charity, or just sightseeing, if that's your thing."
Oliver let out a quiet, wry laugh. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a small package wrapped in dark paper and carefully sealed. He had picked it out before leaving Star City, back when this trip had seemed straightforward.
"A gift. I hope someday you'll visit Star City again. The sunlight's nicer there."
"I'll hold you to that." Marco took the package, testing the weight in his hands.
"Safe travels."
"You too. All of you."
Marco stood there and watched as they passed through the security checkpoint. He did not turn away until they had completely disappeared from view. Only then did he climb back into the driver's seat. The package rested on the passenger seat beside him. Oliver did not give cheap gifts, and he had earned this one.
He tore open the wrapping paper.
Inside was a book. It was a hardcover bound in dark red leather, and it looked expensive. He picked it up and tilted it toward the overhead light to read the cover.
[Das Kapital
Kritik der politischen Ökonomie
Von Karl Marx]
He stared at it. Then he flipped it open. Dense German text filled every page.
He closed it and opened it again.
Still German.
"What the fuck am I supposed to do with this? I can't read a single word of this shit."
He tossed it onto the passenger seat and started the engine.
---
Wayne Manor, Study.
Heavy velvet curtains shut out Gotham's cold night. The room was warm, quiet, and insulated from the city's noise.
Bruce sank into the leather chair behind his desk and let the "Brucie" persona slide off him.
Alfred set a cup of black tea on the table beside him. It was at the perfect temperature, brewed to the exact strength Bruce preferred. The butler did not believe in imperfect.
"The preliminary findings on our visitor from Star City are ready," he said, placing a file folder on the desk. "Mr. Queen's early history shows signs of editing, but we have reconstructed the broad outline."
Bruce picked up the tea but did not drink. "Go on."
"Wealthy childhood. A boating accident that killed his father and left him stranded at sea. Five years missing and presumed dead. Then a dramatic return to Star City, where he inherited Queen Industries and transformed from a notorious playboy into a surprisingly competent executive."
He paused, then continued, "A familiar pattern, except for the missing years."
Bruce's eyes lifted slightly. "The five years."
"Official records from that period are conveniently vague, and the popular accounts are mostly fiction. They describe deserted islands and fishing villages, colorful stories that fall apart under scrutiny." He tapped the map lightly. "However, several unverified intelligence threads converge in this region. There are reports of an island that does not appear on standard navigation charts. It is said to be extremely isolated, with persistent rumors of a detention facility, a training compound, or possibly both."
He set down another document.
"And shortly after Mr. Queen returned to Star City, a vigilante appeared. He uses a bow and arrow, and focuses primarily on organized crime. The aesthetic is very Robin Hood." He smiled faintly as he glanced at Bruce. "It would seem that prowling rooftops at night may be a common affliction among the wealthy."
Bruce ignored the remark. "So he spends five years somewhere that transforms him from a spoiled rich kid into a man capable of running a major corporation while fighting crime on the side."
He took a measured sip of tea.
"I am not going to dig any deeper. Everyone is entitled to their secrets, provided those secrets do not threaten Gotham."
"Very magnanimous of you, sir."
Bruce set down the tea. "Now, about the incident at the East End precinct."
The temperature in the room seemed to shift with his tone.
"Demons, portals, possession. This goes well beyond the League of Assassins. It goes beyond what even Ra's deals with. And the cult Marco mentioned, the Church of Blood..."
Alfred's expression grew more serious. "What about the girl? Raven?"
"There is no solid intelligence. The East End appears to know more about her than we do, and they are not sharing."
Bruce rose from his chair and crossed to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the dark manor grounds.
"Magic and interdimensional threats are not problems I can solve with intimidation or brute force. We need expertise that I do not possess."
He was quiet for a moment.
"Alfred, I'm thinking of reaching out to... an old friend."
Alfred caught the subtle hesitation in Bruce's voice immediately. His eyebrow raised, and a knowing smile appeared.
"A female friend, sir?"
Bruce didn't answer directly. But the silence said enough.