Chapter 7: Huh?

When Derek was out trying to mug someone, he looked every bit the clueless amateur. But now, listening to gunshots over the phone? He didn't even flinch.

He asked calmly, "Donald, you busy right now?"

The rough voice on the other end was surprisingly patient. After hearing Derek out, he replied casually, "Not really. Just finishing up."

Bang!

Another gunshot.

"It's like this," Derek continued. "I've got a friend—just arrived in Gotham. The kind of guy with average, civilian-level skills. Useless in a place like this."

"You want me to hire him?"

"You've got that restaurant, don't you? He's got a face that could pull in female customers. Not a fighter, but he's not a coward either. Regular guy. Decent talker. Keeps his nerve."

"Good talkers tend to have loose lips."

Bang!

"Please, don't—!"

Bang!

"I swear he can keep his mouth shut! He's not the type to die for bragging rights—just a normal dude."

Bang! Bang!

A few more shots cracked over the line. After a moment of silence, the gravelly voice came back.

"Derek, consider your debt paid."

"Of course."

"Is the kid there?"

Ma Zhaodi quickly grabbed the phone. "I'm here."

"Be at work. Tomorrow. 9 a.m."

Click.

Staring at the now-silent phone, Ma Zhaodi turned to Derek with a bewildered expression.

"…What?"

Derek shrugged. "Don't look at me like that. He said show up to work, so you're hired."

"Hired where? What kind of place is it? What am I supposed to wear?"

"I'll take you there. Just remember the route. Uniforms are provided at the restaurant. Your job's simple: wait tables. Greet customers, take orders, serve food, clean up. That's it."

He paused, then added matter-of-factly, "Oh, and bring a gun. Doesn't matter if you know how to use it—you need to carry one. I'll leave mine with you."

Ma Zhaodi laughed bitterly. Only in Gotham does "bring a gun to work" become standard protocol. Everything else? Optional.

"Oh right. Do you even have a wallet?"

"Nope. I was used to just carrying my phone—wait, I don't even have that anymore!"

"My wallet you can have. The phone? No. But Camila doesn't really go out or call anyone. I'll ask her to lend you hers. You've got a SIM card, right?"

"Yeah, I've got that covered."

And just like that, Ma Zhaodi accepted all of Derek's generous gifts. Not out of politeness—he figured he'd earned them. After all, he'd burned through a literal life-saving system feature to heal Camila. The system called it "Rapid Health Recovery," and it wasn't cheap—$9,999 worth of healing, gone in one use.

So, a wallet, a phone, a gun, and a waiter job in Gotham? He'd paid more than enough for that package deal.

As he thought about it, he mentally gave the system a thumbs-up. It had thoughtfully provided him with bank cards from several major U.S. banks, plus a ready-to-use SIM. Saved him a mountain of hassle.

Derek wasted no time. He went to talk to Camila—though from the sounds coming from behind the door, "talk" might not have been the only thing they were doing. By the time Ma Zhaodi had finished setting up his makeshift bed on the floor, Derek finally came out and handed him a compact phone.

That night, surprisingly, the apartment stayed quiet. Ma Zhaodi slept soundly on the couch.

---

The Next Morning

Derek was up early and shook Ma Zhaodi awake.

"Come on, time to get you to your new job."

Groggy, Ma Zhaodi blinked at the living room clock. Both hands pointed to seven.

"…Why are we up so early? It's only seven."

"We don't have a car."

"…Huh?"

Moments later, barely awake, Ma Zhaodi was yanked out the door by Derek. They jogged a few blocks to a bent, hole-riddled iron pole at a half-destroyed bus stop.

"Derek, I get that you don't want me to be late, but can't we eat first?"

"No time. We'll grab something on the way. Any later and we might not make it."

As he spoke, Derek started wrapping a scarf around Ma Zhaodi's neck.

"Good grief, how far is this place?"

"Otisburg. Not exactly close to the East Side, but if we're lucky with transfers, it'll take maybe thirty minutes."

He finished tying the scarf, then plopped a beanie on Ma Zhaodi's head.

"…What?"

"What do you mean 'lucky'—"

Creeeaaak.

A bus pulled up, interrupting him. Derek dragged him aboard and found them seats.

As soon as Ma Zhaodi sat down, he was slapped in the face by a rush of icy wind that jolted him fully awake. He looked around.

The bus had no windows.

None.

Cold air howled in through every missing pane, including where the windshield used to be. The other passengers were all bundled up like arctic explorers.

"…What is this?"

Before he could recover, he noticed Derek casually pulling a gun out of his pocket.

"…What are you doing?"

Derek didn't answer. Instead, he walked to the front and started chatting with the bus driver.

"Hey—don't distract the—"

Then he saw it. Derek's seat was riddled with bullet holes.

Now that he thought about it, he had been wondering why the bus looked like a patchwork of welded metal plates and steel scraps—like someone had stitched it together from battlefield leftovers.

"…Wait. Are these bullet holes?"

He'd expected maybe some rough passengers. A couple of gangsters, a few addicts, maybe a prostitute or two. But this? There was a full-blown gunfight history built into the bus.

Maybe walking to work really was the safer option.

Just then, Derek handed the driver a stack of colorful cash. The driver grinned, reached under his seat, and pulled out a handgun along with several magazines, which he passed to Derek like they were part of the bus fare.

"…Huh?"

Like he was proud of his little errand, Derek returned to his seat, gun in hand. He noticed Ma Zhaodi's increasingly distressed expression and asked, with genuine concern:

"You okay? Are you feeling sick or something?"