The moment Jay stepped back into the precinct lobby, he found the front desk officer locked in a heated argument with a civilian. The visitor seemed to be speaking French.
Wilson and several other colleagues, being the fine officers they were, hadn't lifted a finger to help. Instead, they had pulled up chairs and were watching the drama unfold with great interest.
Simply scandalous!
And they didn't even invite me!
Jay grabbed a chair, lined up behind them, and whispered, "What's the deal?"
"French guy got his wallet lifted. Came in to report it but wasn't exactly polite about it," Wilson replied without looking back. "Problem is, he ran right into D'Artagnan on duty—and that guy hates the French."
"With a name like D'Artagnan, he's prejudiced against the French?" Jay felt like there were too many layers of irony to even begin deconstructing. "I thought he was German. Or is he British?"
"Neither. He wasn't always like this. But after the World Cup last year, he bet his life savings on a team of the world's most expensive players who couldn't beat a bald guy wearing number 10. He lost a fortune, and he's held a grudge against the French ever since."
"Holy shit!"
Wilson scooted over to make some room. Just then, the main doors swung open and Bob hurried in, his face flickering between joy and deep concern. Seeing Jay, he beckoned him immediately: "We need to talk."
Jay nodded and signaled for Wilson and the others to deal with the mess at the front desk—either the problem or the person, he didn't care which—just to make it go away. He followed Bob into the office.
"How'd it go, Chief?"
He slumped sideways onto the guest sofa, but the angle made his wound throb even harder. He had to laboriously shift back into a straight-backed chair.
"You okay?"
"I'll live. Just need time. Probably a week or two," Jay waved it off, then asked again, "How was the turnout, Chief?"
"Tsk… how should I put this…"
Bob lit a cigarette, took a couple of drags, and thought for a moment. "The effect was actually quite good, but when the cameras were on me… I didn't say too much."
"Are you serious? Such a golden opportunity!"
Jay looked at him in confusion. "The conscience of society, the duty of an officer, the responsibility of leadership, the safety of the citizens, the resolve of the precinct… surely you know how to spin that crap?"
"Saying it is easy, but the bigger the interest, the higher the risk." Bob blew a smoke ring. "If I sounded too heroic and took over Loeb's burden, what happens if the Mayor sees the report and demands I take charge of the case?"
He pointed his thumb toward the blinds. "I couldn't carry that pressure alone; I'd have to force you guys to go out and get killed. If the East Precinct managed to keep a third of its people alive after that, we'd be lucky."
He flicked his ash and stared at Jay with a grin. "Of course, if there were a few hundred of you, maybe I'd put my life on the line and try it. But those guys out there… even if they all died, it wouldn't make a lick of difference."
"Wow! My Life Matters, okay?" Jay rolled his eyes. "But high risk, high reward. If you back off now, you might lose the race to someone else."
"Doesn't matter. Steady wins the race. There's something else you might not know. Last night, that 'Black Mask' fellow kidnapped a reporter, forced him to film the entire attack on the precinct, and then let him go.
Luckily, the reporter isn't a total idiot and hasn't published it yet, but it won't stay secret for long."
Bob sighed. "Things being what they are, let's call the meeting. We need to figure out what to do—mostly how to make sure this trouble stays far away from the East Precinct."
About twenty people filed into the conference room—inspectors, sergeants, and department heads from across the East Precinct. Jay took a quick look around. Aside from Albert, whose face looked conveniently bruised and battered (likely an attempt to dodge his betting debts), everyone else seemed to be in good spirits.
"Alright, everyone knows what happened at Headquarters last night."
Nygma: "We do. It looks like Albert got beaten up last night."
Everyone: "…"
Bob was the last to enter. He closed the door, sat at the head of the table, and looked around.
"This is a total disgrace for the GCPD. We cannot allow this to continue. I want everyone to brainstorm ways to help the police force save some face."
"But first, I want to emphasize a few principles…"
He felt around in his coat pocket, but it was empty.
He cast a pleading look at an officer who was currently smoking. The officer stared right through him and immediately looked the other way.
"Damn it, look at the attitude on these guys," Bob muttered, making a mental note of the officer's name. He licked his lips and continued.
"No one from the East Precinct is allowed to show false, exaggerated confidence or strong hostility toward the criminals in front of the media. No one is allowed to accept any 'assistance' orders from Headquarters without my authorization.
If anyone accidentally discovers the suspects, you report it and wait for instructions. No private charges, no lone-wolf heroics."
"Yes, sir!" came the immediate, unified response. The Chief had given this speech for almost every major case in the past; no one was surprised.
Bob scanned the room and pointed toward the corner.
"Gentlemen, I haven't had the chance to introduce him properly. Our newly established Forensics Lab is being headed by Edward Nygma, who transferred over from Central."
"He's a talent that Captain Jay went to great lengths to recruit. You could say he's the smartest man in Gotham. Without him, the GCPD would still be running around like headless chickens on that cult case."
The room erupted in warm applause. Nygma stood up with a shy smile and gave a little wave.
The applause got even louder.
Jay knew exactly why they were being so sincere. The East Precinct tradition had zero interest in titles like "genius" or "hero." Only practical benefits moved them.
What? You're the smartest man? Great, now I don't have to use my own brain!
What? You're the bravest? Fantastic, I don't have to be on the front lines!
What? You're the highest-ranking? Excellent, you're in charge of the paperwork!
What? You've got the biggest bonus? …Fuck you, I'll get you eventually.
Nygma, not understanding the subtext, was flushed with excitement. He opened his notebook and shared his thoughts on Black Mask and the investigation.
"…I've checked the identities of the mercenaries at Arkham. A second-tier European outfit. They were contacted via an anonymous burner card. If we could get the call logs and bank statements of those two inside men, we might find more. but for now…"
He shook his head helplessly. "The leads are incredibly thin."
Nygma genuinely felt it was a shame, but this conclusion was exactly what the East Precinct officers wanted to hear.
Aborting a dangerous operation due to 'insufficient leads'… this kid is a pro. He's one of us!
Bob used a cigarette he'd just "confiscated" to point at Nygma. "See? I told you his wisdom is unmatched. If we weren't so tight on funds, I'd build him the most advanced forensic lab in the country immediately. Anything less is a waste of his brain."
At the mention of "funds," every eye in the room pivoted toward Jay—the most notorious money-maker in the precinct. The zombie-like stares gave him a start.
Damn it, you guys only get motivated for this stuff.
He put on a deadpan expression, pretending not to notice a thing, as Bob continued.
"That's a solid conclusion. That's exactly how we'll report it to HQ and City Hall. One more thing: The Roman got hit again last night. He's currently on the warpath. This won't be easy to handle; his people will actually go out and start a bloodbath in the streets."
"I'll do it," Jay sighed. He knew he couldn't dodge this; it would land on him anyway. "I'll pay another visit to the estate."
The others let out collective sighs of relief, their faces breaking into relaxed smiles.
"And there is a third thing." The worry on Bob's face deepened. "Keep this internal, but during the government meetings, several council members mentioned they've received inside intel… that the world is ending."
"What?!"
The sentence was like a bomb. The conference room exploded into chaos.
"Quiet! Quiet!!" Bob slammed his hand on the table. "According to them, a global nuclear war might break out in less than a year because of something called… called… what was it?"
He scratched his thinning hair for a moment. "Right, does anyone here know what the hell this 'Y2K Bug' is?"
——————
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