Two days after his resurrection, Marcus was summoned to the police station.
Not arrested—Detective Bullock had made that clear on the phone. Just "needed to come in and clear some things up." Which in Gotham police speak meant "we have questions and you're going to answer them whether you like it or not."
Marcus stood outside the Gotham Central Police Station, staring up at the brutalist concrete building. Rain drizzled down, because of course it did. He'd borrowed an umbrella from Jackson but it wasn't helping much.
"Just stick to the story," he muttered to himself. "Medical anomaly. Don't remember much. Confused about the whole being dead thing."
He walked in.
The station was exactly as depressing as he'd imagined. Fluorescent lights that flickered. Linoleum floors that had seen better decades. The smell of burnt coffee and defeated dreams. Cops moving through with the exhausted efficiency of people who'd seen too much.
"Marcus Reid?" A officer at the front desk looked up. "Detective Bullock's expecting you. Second floor, third door on the right."
"Thanks."
Marcus climbed the stairs, his enhanced hearing picking up dozens of conversations. A domestic dispute being reported. Someone filing a stolen car claim. A junkie being processed. The usual Gotham symphony.
He found Bullock's office. The door was open.
Detective Harvey Bullock sat behind a desk drowning in paperwork, a coffee mug the size of a small bucket in one hand. He looked like he'd been chain-smoking for forty years and sleeping for none of them. Rumpled suit. Tired eyes. The kind of cop who'd seen everything Gotham had to offer and hadn't liked any of it.
"Reid. Come in. Sit."
Marcus entered, sat in the chair across from Bullock's desk. It creaked ominously.
Bullock studied him with those tired cop eyes. "So. You died."
"Apparently."
"And now you're not dead."
"Also apparently."
"Want to explain that?"
"I would if I could." Marcus spread his hands. "I got shot. I remember that part. Then nothing until I woke up in the morgue. Everything in between is blank."
Bullock took a long drink of coffee. "Medical examiner is very confused. Had you marked as deceased. Bullet wound to the chest. No heartbeat. No brain activity. Dead as dead gets."
"I know. I saw the paperwork."
"And then you just... woke up. Three days later. Healed up nice and neat." Bullock leaned forward. "That's not how bodies work, kid. So either you're lying about being dead, or something very weird happened."
"I'm not lying. I wish I was."
"Yeah, I believe you. Which is the problem." Bullock rubbed his face. "Because if you actually died and came back, that opens up a whole can of worms I don't want to deal with. Medical anomalies. Gotham being Gotham. Weird science. Weirder magic. None of it good."
Marcus stayed quiet. Let Bullock talk.
"You're a college student. Engineering major. No criminal record. No gang affiliations. No reason anyone would target you specifically." Bullock pulled out a file. "The three guys who robbed you? We picked them up yesterday. Low-level thugs. They confirmed it was random. Wrong place, wrong time."
"Great. So I got randomly murdered."
"And randomly un-murdered." Bullock's expression was skeptical. "Forgive me if I find that suspicious."
"I'm not hiding anything. I don't know what happened. I just know I'm alive now and I'd like to stay that way."
Bullock studied him for a long moment. Then he sighed, closed the file. "Okay. Here's how this plays out. Officially, there was a medical error. You weren't as dead as we thought. Misdiagnosis. Rare but it happens."
"Does it?"
"No. But that's the story we're going with because the alternative is paperwork I don't have time for." Bullock leaned back. "Unofficially? Kid, you be careful. Gotham eats people alive. And people who survive impossible things? They tend to attract attention. Bad attention."
"I'm not looking for attention."
"Doesn't matter. Attention finds you anyway." Bullock took another drink of coffee. "You got lucky. Don't waste it. Keep your head down. Finish school. Get out of Gotham if you're smart."
"That's it? No more questions?"
"Oh, I have questions. Lots of questions. But I know I'm not getting answers." Bullock waved a hand. "Go. Get out of here. Try not to die again. It's annoying."
Marcus stood up. "Thanks. I think."
"Don't thank me. Just don't make me regret this."
Marcus turned to leave.
And then he felt it.
Click.
Something shifted. Like a lock tumbling into place inside his head. A sensation of gaining something, of suddenly knowing something he hadn't known a moment before.
Marcus stopped, hand on the doorframe. What was that?
"You okay, kid?" Bullock asked.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Just..." Marcus tried to identify what had changed. "Have you been a cop long?"
"Twenty-three years. Why?"
"No reason." But Marcus could suddenly feel it. An intuition he hadn't had before. When Bullock had said the three guys confirmed it was random—Marcus knew, instinctively, that Bullock believed it. Could sense the truth in the statement. Not mind reading, just... a cop's instinct for truth and lies.
He'd just copied something from Bullock.
What the hell?
"You sure you're okay?" Bullock was watching him with concern now.
"Yeah. Sorry. Just tired. Haven't been sleeping well since..." Marcus gestured vaguely. "You know. The dying thing."
"Get some rest. And Reid? Be careful. Whatever happened to you, it's not over. Things like this in Gotham never are."
Marcus left the office, his mind racing.
He'd copied something from Bullock. He was sure of it. That click sensation, that shift in his awareness—it hadn't been random. It had been an ability transferring from Bullock to him.
Cop's intuition for truth and lies. That's what I got. That's what changed.
Marcus walked through the station in a daze, barely noticing where he was going. His enhanced senses were on autopilot while his brain tried to process this new development.
He'd been around Sarah, Jackson, and Uncle Mike for days since waking up. If he'd copied anything from them, he hadn't noticed. Maybe because their skills were too familiar, too subtle. Or maybe he'd just dismissed the sensation as part of his resurrection weirdness.
But this was unmistakable. A new ability he definitely hadn't had before. Gained from a brief interaction with someone.
Is this part of what happened to me? Can I copy abilities from people?
Marcus pushed through the station's front doors, out into the rain.
Test it. I need to test it.
He walked down the street, passed a hot dog vendor. The man was doing that thing where he spun the tongs while waiting for customers—little flourish, probably done it a million times.
Marcus stopped. Looked at the vendor. Waited.
Nothing. No click. No shift.
Maybe it doesn't work on everyone? Or maybe I already copied from him somehow? Or maybe there's a limit?
He kept walking, passing dozens of people. Office workers. Students. Homeless people. Random Gotham citizens going about their day.
No click from any of them.
Marcus stopped at a small electronics shop, looked through the window. Inside, a technician was repairing a laptop, his movements quick and practiced.
The door chimed as Marcus entered.
"Help you?" The technician didn't look up, focused on the delicate circuit board.
"Just browsing."
Marcus moved closer, watching the technician work. Soldering iron in hand, magnifying glass positioned perfectly, fingers steady as he repaired some tiny component Marcus couldn't identify.
Click.
There it was again. That shift. That sense of gaining something.
Marcus blinked. He knew, suddenly, how to solder. Not perfectly, not like an expert. But the basics. How to hold the iron, how to apply heat, how to make a clean connection. Knowledge he definitely hadn't possessed five seconds ago.
Holy shit. I just copied his soldering skill.
"Can I help you with something?" The technician looked up, slightly annoyed at being watched.
"No. Sorry. I was just—never mind." Marcus backed toward the door. "Thanks."
He left quickly, heart pounding.
It's real. I can copy abilities from people. Not from everyone—maybe there's a cooldown? Or maybe only certain people? Or maybe it's random?
But I can do it. That's my power. Not just the physical enhancements.
I can copy abilities.
Marcus stood on the rainy Gotham street, people flowing past him, and felt his understanding of his resurrection shift.
He hadn't just come back stronger and faster. He'd come back with something else. Something potentially incredible or potentially terrifying depending on how he used it.
Every person I meet is a potential ability. A potential skill. A potential—
"Watch it!" Someone shoved past him, breaking his reverie.
Marcus stumbled, caught himself with his enhanced balance. The person—young guy in a hoodie—kept walking without apologizing.
Click.
Marcus felt it again. But this time it was different. Not a useful skill. Something else. A nervous energy. A jittery restlessness.
Oh no.
Marcus's hands started trembling slightly. His knee bounced. He felt the sudden urge to move, to pace, to do something with the anxious energy building in his chest.
I just copied anxiety from that guy. Or hyperactivity. Or caffeine jitters. Something I definitely don't want.
The copying is random. I can't control what I get.
Marcus forced himself to breathe, to center. The sensation faded after a few minutes but didn't disappear completely. A low-level restlessness that hadn't been there before.
So that's the catch. I copy abilities but I don't choose which ones. Could be useful. Could be useless. Could be actively bad.
Great. My superpower comes with a gacha mechanic.
Marcus started walking back toward his apartment, mind churning through implications.
He could copy abilities from people. Randomly. Once per person, maybe? He'd need to test that. And there seemed to be some kind of requirement—proximity? Interaction? He wasn't sure yet.
But this changed everything.
The physical enhancements were one thing. But this? This was something else entirely.
Every person in Gotham is a potential ability. There are millions of people here. Millions of potential powers, skills, traits.
I could become... anything. Everything.
The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying.
Marcus pulled out his phone, texted Sarah and Jackson.
Marcus:Need to talk. Discovered something about the resurrection. Not life-threatening but important.
Sarah:Coming over. 20 minutes.
Jackson:Already here. Skipped class. Making coffee.
Marcus picked up his pace, eager to get home and tell them what he'd discovered.
He had a copying ability. Random, uncontrollable, potentially unlimited.
And he had absolutely no idea what to do with it.
But in Gotham, that was basically standard operating procedure.
Figure it out as you go. Just like everything else.
Marcus turned the corner toward his apartment building.
Behind him, Gotham continued its endless motion. Millions of people with millions of abilities.
And Marcus Reid, walking among them, unknowingly building a collection of random powers one encounter at a time.
This was going to get interesting.
Or complicated.
Probably both.