"Oh, nice. Prosciutto with melon."
Marco speared a slice and popped it into his mouth. The salty richness of the cured ham cut perfectly against the sweetness of the fruit, and for a moment, all the bullshit socializing felt worth it. This was good food.
At the front of the banquet hall, the stage lights gradually focused as the emcee announced that the charity donation ceremony was officially beginning. The crowd, which had been scattered throughout the hall in small conversational clusters, began drifting toward the stage.
Names were called. One by one, the wealthy and powerful of Star City stepped up to the microphone to announce their donations. Each one followed the same script: express gratitude for the opportunity, mention a personal connection to the cause, sign an oversized check, and bask in the applause.
"St. Joy Medical Center Foundation, five hundred thousand dollars!"
Polite applause.
"The Wilfred Family Foundation, eight hundred thousand dollars!"
Louder this time.
"Queen Consolidated, one million five hundred thousand dollars!"
Thunderous applause. Oliver stepped up to sign the check.
Marco stayed in his corner, loading up another plate with beef and shrimp, watching the whole spectacle. He mentally scored each performance: points for sincerity, deductions for obvious fakeness, bonus points for anyone who looked uncomfortable with the attention.
The ceremony was winding down. The emcee was preparing to transition to the next part of the evening when Oliver stepped back up to the microphone.
"Thank you all for your generosity. For the future of Star City."
His gaze swept across the room, then locked onto Marco.
"Tonight, we're honored to have a guest from out of town. He's traveled here from a city quite... different in character from Star City, but no less full of stories." His smile widened slightly. "Gotham City."
A ripple of murmurs went through the crowd. The spotlight operator, clearly caught off guard, fumbled for a moment before swinging the beam across the room. It landed directly on Marco, who had just been reaching for his third petit four.
Every head in the hall turned.
Marco's hand froze mid-reach. He slowly lowered it, wiped his fingers on a napkin even though they weren't dirty, and looked up to meet Oliver's eyes. There was something in that gaze that told him exactly what was about to happen.
"This is Mr. Marco Vitale," Oliver continued. "An officer with the Gotham City Police Department. And I'm sure that someone working on the front lines of law enforcement in a city known for its challenges must have unique insights into the topics we've been discussing tonight."
He made a gesture toward the stage.
"Officer Vitale, would you care to join us up here? Share your perspective with everyone? I think we'd all benefit from hearing the voice of Gotham."
Marco didn't move for a moment. He looked at the stage, then at the crowd, then back at Oliver, who was still smiling.
Déjà vu, he thought. This felt familiar. Like standing in front of Falcone, being tested and used for someone else's show.
He stood up slowly, brushed some imaginary crumbs off his jeans, and walked toward the stage. The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea. He could hear fragments of whispers:
"...is he really wearing a leather jacket..."
"...Gotham, can you imagine..."
"...probably doesn't even have money for a suit..."
Marco climbed the stairs to the stage. Oliver handed him the microphone, and he took it. He looked out at the sea of faces and tapped the microphone to test it.
SCREEEECH.
The feedback was sharp, making several people wince. A woman in the front row covered her ears.
"Sorry," he said.
A few suppressed laughs rippled through the crowd.
"Star City seems nice." His voice came out flat. "The food's good. And the streets are clean. Though the lighting's not great in some neighborhoods. I noticed that on the drive in."
More quiet laughter. Oliver's smile deepened. He stepped forward.
"I think Officer Vitale might be a bit overwhelmed. Not everyone's comfortable with public speaking, and that's perfectly fine." He turned to address the crowd. "To show our appreciation for our guest, and our support for the difficult work that law enforcement does every day, I'd like to make an additional contribution to tonight's charity fund. I pledge to donate five hundred thousand dollars in Officer Vitale's name."
He stood there under the spotlight, waiting for Marco to stammer out some grateful thank-you.
Marco stared at him for a long moment. Then he looked out at the crowd. Then back at Oliver.
"Thanks, but no."
Oliver's smile flickered.
Marco turned to one of the waiters standing near the stage. "Hey, you. I need you to do me a favor." He pulled his car keys out of his pocket and tossed them over. The waiter caught them awkwardly. "There's a duffel bag in the trunk of the Cherokee in the parking garage. Third level, spot twenty-seven. Bring it up here."
The waiter looked confused, but one glance at Oliver's frozen expression was enough to send him running.
Marco turned back to the microphone and set it in the stand on the podium.
"Maybe you've heard of Gotham. The city's got a reputation. Every day I finish patrol and make it back to the precinct, I'm grateful I survived another shift."
A few uncomfortable chuckles came from the crowd.
"I work for the East End precinct of the GCPD. We deal with a lot. A few days ago, right before I left on this trip, four hundred armed terrorists attacked downtown Gotham. You probably saw it on the news. The GCPD stopped them. A lot of officers died doing it. Some of them were torn apart. Pieces. That's not an exaggeration."
The hall was completely silent now.
"I killed a few people myself during that fight. So my department psychiatrist recommended I take some administrative leave. That's why I'm on this road trip."
He looked out at the crowd. The smiles were gone. Some people looked uncomfortable. Others looked skeptical. A few looked like they might cry.
"A couple months before that, my partner and I got a tip about a human trafficking operation. We raided the location and found two kids who were about to be shipped to Europe and sold. You know what the going rate is for a six-year-old on the black market? I didn't either, until I read the report. Now, normally, we'd turn kids like that over to Child Protective Services. But in Gotham, CPS loses more than two hundred children every year. They just disappear from the system. End up in shipping containers crossing the Atlantic, or worse. So if we'd followed procedure, those kids would've been right back where we found them in a month."
Marco gripped the podium.
"So the East End precinct started our own program. We bypass CPS entirely. We've set up a shelter for kids who have nowhere else to go. Kids the system's failed."
The waiter returned, slightly out of breath, carrying the duffel bag from Marco's trunk. He set it on the stage and quickly retreated.
"Thanks," Marco said. He grabbed the bag and set it on the podium. "I figured, since I was taking this trip across the country anyway, I'd ask for donations. From regular folks. The woman running a taco truck. Construction workers in Nevada. Hell, even a few working girls in Vegas who didn't have much to give but gave it anyway."
He unzipped the bag.
"Nobody said no. Not one person. They saw what we were trying to do and they helped."
He lifted the bag and dumped it onto the podium.
The money spilled out in a messy pile. Crumpled bills, mostly small denominations.
"There's about seventy or eighty thousand dollars here. Maybe a little more. I'm donating it to Star City's charity fund. For whatever cause you think needs it most."
He looked directly at Oliver.
"The kids in Gotham will be fine. The officers at the East End precinct will take care of them. We don't have wealth, but we can give our time. And our lives, if that's what it takes."
Silence.
Even the background music had stopped. The only sound was the faint rustle of bills settling on the podium.
Oliver's face had gone pale. How much of what Marco had just said was true? Was this all bullshit, or was it real? And more importantly: did it matter? Because whether it was true or not, there was no way to call him a liar without looking like a monster.
Someone in the crowd whispered, "Look at the money. It's all small bills."
"He really collected it one donation at a time."
A few of the younger women in the audience were dabbing at their eyes with cocktail napkins. Whether the tears were real or performative didn't really matter, the optics were what counted.
Then, from somewhere in the middle of the crowd, a hand shot up.
"I'll donate five hundred thousand dollars to the East End precinct!"
It was the girl from the bar. The one who'd run away earlier. Now she was standing in the crowd.
"On behalf of Queen Consolidated," she added.
Every head turned to look at her. Then everyone turned to look at Oliver. The billionaire started clapping.
"What a wonderful gesture. Let's give Officer Vitale a round of applause for his dedication and service."
The crowd erupted into applause.