The Apex Hotel was exactly what Marco had expected from a four-star establishment: spacious rooms, floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of downtown Star City, a bed large enough to fit three people comfortably.
He dropped his duffel on the luggage rack, kicked off his boots, and collapsed face-first onto the mattress. It was soft. Too soft, actually, like sleeping on a cloud made of marshmallows. But despite the comfort, something felt wrong.
Gotham's chaos was a boiling pot of poison that never stopped churning. You could feel it in the air, taste it on your tongue. Star City's oppression felt different. It was like the sediment at the bottom of stagnant water: calm on the surface, slowly rotting underneath.
He buried his face in the pillow and forced himself to sleep. Three hours. That was all he allowed himself. When he woke up, the pressure was still there, but at least he felt human again.
He changed into lighter clothes, and left the hotel.
---
Star City at night confirmed his first impression.
The streets were nearly empty. The few pedestrians Marco passed moved quickly. The neon signs flickered weakly, half of them dead or dying.
Graffiti covered most of the walls. On one corner, someone had stenciled a figure in a hood with a bow. Underneath: THE HOOD SEES WHAT YOU DO.
There were flyers too, stapled to telephone poles and pasted on construction barriers. Cheap photocopies with bold text condemning Queen Consolidated for shutting down a factory in the Glades.
"If this were Gotham," he muttered to himself, "someone would already be dead for putting up that poster."
Not that Bruce would care about flyers. But the politicians who relied on his donations? They'd shut that shit down fast, citing "public safety concerns" or "maintaining a stable business environment" or whatever euphemism let them sleep at night.
Star City's corruption was quieter than Gotham's. But it was there.
He kept walking until he found a bar.
---
The Wildcat was packed.
The contrast hit him the moment he pushed through the door. Outside, the city felt dead. Inside, music thumped hard enough to feel in his chest, voices shouted over the noise, and bodies pressed together in booths and around tables.
Behind the bar, a middle-aged guy with a shaved head and a scar running down his left cheek worked the taps. Booths lined the walls, packed with groups of young people drinking, laughing, playing drinking games. A few couples were making out in the darker corners.
Marco slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar.
The bartender glanced at him, nodded once, and came over. "What'll it be?"
"Whiskey. Neat. Whatever you've got the most of."
The drink arrived fast, amber liquid in a rocks glass, no ice. Marco took a sip, felt the burn slide down his throat, and let his shoulders relax slightly.
He'd barely set the glass down when a voice called out.
"Hey. You here alone?"
Marco turned his head.
A young woman stood next to him, wearing makeup that was trying way too hard to make her look older. Glittery dress, nervous smile, eyes darting between him and somewhere behind her.
"Yeah," Marco said, following her gaze.
About ten meters away, a group of seven or eight young men and women were crammed into a booth, all watching this interaction. One of them, a guy in a backwards baseball cap, gave an exaggerated thumbs-up. Another girl covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.
Truth or Dare. Of course.
Marco had seen this game play out in Gotham bars plenty of times, though the Gotham version usually involved higher stakes. Like "go steal that guy's wallet" or "punch the bouncer."
The girl cleared her throat. Then she asked, "So, um... can I get your number?"
Her face turned red the moment the words left her mouth.
Marco looked at her for a long moment. She couldn't have been older than twenty-two. Probably a college student.
He took another sip of whiskey, set the glass down, and spoke quietly.
"You're playing a game. That's fine. But sometimes games have consequences you don't expect." He nodded toward the booth. "Go back to your table."
His tone wasn't mean. It wasn't even particularly harsh. But there was something in it that made the girl's smile freeze. She mumbled an apology, turned, and ran back to her friends.
He shook his head and turned back to his drink. Then the noise at the entrance changed.
"It's him!"
"Robin Hood's out there!"
"He just strung up some guys outside City Hall!"
Conversations stopped. People started crowding toward the windows and the door, craning their necks to see outside.
"Where?"
"Two blocks north! He hung these mob guys from a streetlight!"
"Fuck yeah! About time someone did something!"
"Let's go watch!"
The energy in the bar shifted instantly. What had been a low-key Friday night crowd turned into a mob of excited spectators, all rushing to get a glimpse of the vigilante everyone had been talking about. Even the bartender leaned over to look out the window.
Marco didn't move. He just tilted his head slightly and looked through the glass.
Out on the street, people were running in one direction. Police sirens wailed in the distance, getting closer. Red and blue lights flickered across the buildings.
He finished his whiskey in one swallow, dropped a twenty on the bar, and stood up.
---
Outside, the temperature had dropped. Marco pulled his jacket tighter and started walking back toward the hotel, moving against the flow of people heading toward the commotion.
The streets were in worse shape than he'd realized during the drive in. Most of the streetlights were broken, either smashed by vandals or just never repaired. The few that still worked gave off weak light that barely reached the ground. Potholes pockmarked the asphalt.
"Even Gotham keeps the streetlights on," Marco said under his breath.
He passed a boarded-up storefront. Then another. Then a strip club with a flickering neon sign. A homeless guy slept in a doorway, wrapped in a filthy blanket. The deeper he went into the side streets, the quieter it got.
He was about halfway back to the hotel when two figures stepped out of an alley.
They moved to block his path, cutting off the sidewalk. Both young, early twenties, wearing cheap hoodies and jeans. The taller one on the left had a patchy beard and jittery eyes. The shorter, stockier one on the right looked like he hadn't slept in a week.
"Hey, man," the tall one said. "You got the time?"
Marco stopped walking.
The stocky one shifted his weight, growing impatient. "Yo. I asked you a question. You deaf?"
The tall one licked his lips, his hand drifting toward the small of his back. "We don't want trouble. It's just... we're short on cash right now. Thought maybe you could spare some. You know. Lend us a little."
He emphasized the word lend like it was supposed to make this sound reasonable.
The stocky one pulled a switchblade from his pocket.
Click.
The blade snapped out. "Wallet and phone. Hand 'em over."
Marco stared at the knife.
These two were the most wholesome, innocent criminals he'd seen in months. They were even using euphemisms. In Gotham, muggers didn't bother with speeches. They just hit you, took your shit, and left you bleeding on the pavement if you gave them any trouble.
"Alright," he said quietly.
Then he snapped a kick into the stocky one's knee.
The sound of bone breaking was sharp, followed immediately by a scream. The stocky mugger crumpled, clutching his leg, the switchblade clattering to the ground.
The tall one froze, hand still halfway to his back. For a second, he looked like he might run. Then he glanced at his friend writhing on the pavement and made a decision.
He pulled out what he'd been reaching for.
A rusted screwdriver.
"Gotta say," Marco said, "you're loyal. I'll give you that."
The tall one let out a shout and lunged forward, swinging the screwdriver.
Marco stepped inside the swing, drove a straight punch into the center of the guy's face, and felt cartilage crunch under his knuckles. Blood exploded from the mugger's nose, mixing with tears and snot as he staggered backward.
Both of them were down now.
He shook out his hand, and was about to wipe the blood off on his jeans when he heard a faint sound.
Shhhhhk.
His instincts kicked in. He stepped back, looked up, and saw a dark green figure descending from a nearby rooftop, landing silently on the metal fire escape above him.
The man crouched there, balanced on the railing. He wore a deep green hooded costume, most of his face hidden in shadow. Only his strong jawline and neatly trimmed beard were visible. He carried a recurve bow in one hand, a quiver of arrows slung across his back.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The man's eyes shifted from Marco to the two groaning muggers on the ground. He looked like he'd been about to say something dramatic, but now he wasn't sure how to proceed.
Finally, he spoke, "You've failed this..."
He stopped mid-sentence.
Marco raised an eyebrow. "Failed what? I'm not from here. I just got into town this afternoon. Whatever's wrong with this city isn't my problem. Besides..." He nodded toward the two muggers. "Looks like I handled it just fine."