Marvel: The Super Player Chapter 147 148: Literally

What the hell?

I did it again? How co I didn't know?

If it were about so homicide from last night, Locke might have wondered if he'd had a sudden bout of amnesia. But tonight? He had a 100% solid alibi.

His thoughts shifted. A second later, Locke's fury flared.

If he were just so run-of-the-mill killer, maybe he really could be frad. But ordinary killers didn't have custom-made notification cards or bullets that vanished into thin air.

First, killing innocent civilians, then a police officer? This wasn't just a simple case of impersonation. This was looking for a death sentence with a spotlight.

Locke had just been standing outside the house feeling sympathetic. Then he walked in, only to find out that he—or rather, a fake version of him—was the one who caused the tragedy?

Doris froze. Her husband had been George's partner, so she had naturally heard of the notification cards. Her eyes widened. "How is that possible? George, you know Jeff better than anyone. How could he get a card? Doesn't Peerless only kill the guilty? How could Jeff be on that list?"

George sighed. "I know the kind of man Jeff was."

Doris's expression was one of pure agony. "Then why..."

She looked around their living room. So of the furniture was from their wedding, repaired over and over, never replaced. They lived on a detective's salary.

Locke and Gwen sat to the side, looking after Jeff and Doris's three children, the oldest of whom wasn't even ten. Two daughters and a son.

Gwen didn't turn back. Listening to the sobbing from the living room, she let out a heavy sigh.

Locke looked at Gwen. She shook her head. "Doris is a stay-at-ho mom. Their youngest daughter, Mandy, has a chronic illness and needs regular dication."

Locke understood. Most families in this country have very low risk tolerance, losing a paycheck ant the "holess tir" had started ticking.

What? The NYPD has a pension?

Don't be ridiculous. George's annual salary was only around $70,000 to $80,000. How much could the payout for a fallen officer really be?

This was exactly why Locke felt Peter Parker didn't deserve the title of hero. A true hero sacrifices himself for the safety of the masses. Tony Stark was a hero for that snap. Steve Rogers was a hero.

But Peter Parker? Every ti he "grows," soone else's family ends up destroyed even if unintentional.

Right now, Locke felt an unnaable fire burning in his chest. Soone was using his na to kill a cop. It felt bizarre and insulting.

*Fuck!*

...

A while later, Locke and the others left. The departnt's bereavent unit would be arriving soon.

As the four of them walked toward the parking lot, Helen spoke to George. "There will be a donation drive, right?"

George nodded. It was common knowledge that the NYPD's death benefits were ager. Whenever a colleague fell, they organized fundraisers. It wasn't a fortune, but it was enough to ensure the family didn't end up on the streets the following year because they couldn't pay the property taxes.

Every officer looked out for each other. Tickets and violations for the family beca non-existent, and close friends would frequently drop by to help. Every cop knew that one day, it could be them. Helping others was, in a way, helping themselves.

At the parking lot, Locke parted ways with the Stacy family. He drove his R8 back to the Star Tower.

Once inside, he tossed his coat aside, grabbed a bottle of Bourbon and a glass, and headed straight to his second-floor study.

Pour. Power on. Drink.

The movents were seamless.

Locke looked at his computer screen. Using his high-level hacking skills, he breached the backend of New York's city-wide surveillance system—nearly 7,000 caras. He pulled up the footage near the Lower East Side alleyway from the ti of the shooting.

But... that specific alley had no caras. And the nearby ones that could have caught a glimpse were either broken or had gum dried over the lenses. Out of the 7,000 caras, only about 5,000 were functional; the rest were perpetually "awaiting maintenance" due to budget cuts.

'A pro,' Locke noted.

Finding no leads, he leaned back, staring at the half-empty bottle of Bourbon. He let out a cold laugh.

"Of all the people to impersonate, you chose ?"

The living might not know who you are. But the dead? They're about to tell everything.

Locke stood up and drained the rest of his glass. He pulled out his sunglasses, donned them, and activated a "Substitute" clone to stay ho and provide an alibi. Then, he walked out the door.

Normal people can't make the dead speak. But Locke wasn't normal. His motto was simple: 'If you can't use cheats, the ga is aningless.'

Who wants to play detective? I'm going to see exactly how many lives you think you have, trying to fra .

...

NYPD Mortuary.

Using the Stealth skill he'd acquired from the Magneto-lookalike Callum Lynch—using it for the first ti today—Locke moved through the building like a ghost. He slipped past dozens of officers working overti to find clues and arrived at the dical examiner's office on the second basent level.

"Hmm?"

The lead dical examiner, who had just suited up for a late-night autopsy, turned around. He frowned as the door seed to swing slightly and then settle. "Who's there?"

Locke stood directly behind him. "Hi."

The jumped, but before he could shout, *Thwack!* Locke tapped him on the head. The man collapsed. As he fell, Locke caught his clipboard with a gloved hand.

He dragged the to his desk chair, propped him up in a natural sleeping position, and administered a Drowsiness Potion to ensure he stayed out until morning. Then, he stepped into the lab containing three exam tables.

All three tables were occupied.

A lab assistant had just wheeled the Brooklyn couple out of the freezer. He was tucked into a corner, finishing a phone call with his girlfriend, explaining why he couldn't co ho. As he hung up, he saw Locke—sunglasses and all—walking in boldly.

"Hey! Who are you? This is the—*Gack!*"

The assistant's words were cut short. A golden-textured pistol was pressed against his forehead.

*Gulp.*

The assistant swallowed hard, cold sweat pouring down his face. He raised his hands high. "I'm of French descent... *Thud!*"

Locke watched the unconscious assistant hit the floor and frowned.

'French descent? What does that an? Do the French have so kind of 'no-kill' immunity I didn't know about?'

He brushed the thought aside and walked to the center table. He pulled back the white sheet.

Detective Jeff Martin lay there. Shot and stabbed, his body was a map of brutality.

*Not bad,* Locke thought with a sigh of relief.

Jeff was a ss, but at least he was in one piece. No missing limbs, and his head was intact despite the bruising.

"This'll work," Locke muttered. With a flick of his wrist, he produced a Health Potion—the kind the system claid could pull a soul back even if it was in phisto's hands, provided the body was whole and the soul hadn't been eaten as a snack.

He looked at Jeff. "If you were in worse shape, or if I'd gotten here after the autopsy started, even this wouldn't save you."

Once the carves you up and weighs your organs one by one, there's no coming back. Or even if there was, how would you explain it? Resurrected zombie?

Locke chuckled, pried Jeff's mouth open, and poured the potion down his throat like he was stuffing a goose.

***

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