Captain Boomerang was still stewing in his thoughts when Adam walked in with a small crew trailing behind him.
"You cheated," Boomerang blurted the moment he saw him. "You can't just punch someone in the middle of a game! That's against the rules. Which means I won. So let me out of here, yeah?"
Deadshot's jaw tightened. The Central City loudmouth had already tried a cheap shot during their dart match earlier—aimed at his eyes, no less. Deadshot had caught the dart in midair, then knocked him out with one clean punch. Hearing Boomerang now, acting like the victim, was almost enough to make him throw another one.
Adam caught Deadshot's look and gave a subtle hand signal for restraint. Then, as if nothing were out of the ordinary, he took out a pack of cigarettes, slid one out, and offered it to Boomerang.
The Aussie took it without hesitation, grinning like nothing had happened.
From the corner, the snoring Mr. Sleep stirred at the scent of tobacco, lumbered over, and mumbled for one. Adam handed him a cigarette too. The rest? He flicked over his shoulder into the cell block without looking. The other inmates—starved for anything different—lunged for them like hyenas on meat.
Adam lit the cig and said, "You keep talking down on Gotham's rogues. My man here," he nodded at Deadshot, "isn't just a dart thrower. He's a marksman—one shot, one kill. Hundred percent accuracy, under any conditions. Never once calls himself 'the strongest in Gotham.' Your best trick doesn't match his worst day. So… how do you figure you've got the right to look down on anyone here?"
For once, Boomerang had no comeback. His smirk slipped, and his shoulders sank.
Adam said, "Tell you what. Since you're so unimpressed by Gotham, maybe we should bunk you in with a few of its… finest. Spend some quality time up close. Surely you wouldn't mind, would you?"
The color drained from Boomerang's face. The jab he'd made about Gotham villains was now public, and he knew what that meant: drop him in gen-pop here and he wouldn't last five seconds.
"I was just joking," he blurted, grinning nervously. "Misunderstanding, mate. No offense meant, eh? Besides… your guy already clocked me earlier. We'll call it a draw, yeah? No need to hold a grudge…"
Adam didn't reply. He just waved a hand, and two officers moved in. Boomerang's protests turned into pleading as they hauled him out and dragged him down the hall.
Instead of throwing him to the wolves, they dumped him into a smaller, cleaner room. Moments later, Adam walked in holding a cup of steaming coffee and set it in Boomerang's hand.
"Relax," Adam said calmly. "Regulations say you're in here forty-eight hours minimum. Get comfortable."
Between the earlier scare and the unexpected kindness, Boomerang was caught off-balance. He muttered thanks and gulped the coffee.
Adam leaned against the wall, cigarette in hand. "So, tell me… how'd you end up working as muscle in my city?"
Boomerang sighed through the steam rising from his cup. "Didn't have much choice. I don't know anyone in Gotham. Some bloke offered me a gig—said I just had to tag along, yell when told, maybe throw a punch if things got rough. Forty bucks flat, a hundred if I really got stuck in." He grimaced. "Guess I'm not getting paid now, huh?"
Adam stayed quiet, watching him. Then, he asked, "What's next? Heading back to Central City? Or you planning to try and make it here?"
Boomerang didn't answer right away. His usual bluster was gone. "Don't think I'm cut out for Gotham," he admitted finally. "Once I'm out, I'll try to catch the tram back… maybe convince Wiggins to take me back at the toy factory."
Adam knew Wiggins—Boomerang's father—had already tossed him aside once before, unpaid and unwanted. In Gotham, abandonment stories like that were just background noise. But wanting to crawl back to a man who'd discarded you? That told Adam just how much Gotham had shaken him.
"And what would you do there?" Adam asked, voice low. "That place is a joke, the city laughs at you, and anywhere else you'll be swallowed whole. Central City made you a mascot, not a man."
He could see the crack in Boomerang's expression at that—his pride teetering. Time to press in.
"You go to another city, you're just another drifter with an accent. But here—" Adam's grin had no warmth "—I know what you can do. I know your actual skills. Stick with me, and those won't go to waste."
Boomerang asked, "Stick with you? As in… wearing a badge?"
Adam shook his head. "Not your style. You'd hate the uniform. But I've got a bar. Needs someone to keep an eye on things. Three grand a month, cash. Tips are yours. No paperwork."