Chapter 11: See You in Hell, Cowboy

Ma Zhaodi stared at Derek with an expression that was 40% shock, 30% despair, 20% judgment, and… maybe 10% admiration.

"…Are you even human?"

"If I die, I'm taking someone with me."

"How did I not realize you were this—"

BANG! BANG! BANG!

"YOU MOTHER—! I'M GONNA SKIN YOU ALIVE! I'LL RIP YOUR—OFF AND STUFF THEM DOWN YOUR—! I SWEAR TO GOD IF I DON'T KILL YOU BOTH, I'LL SHOOT MY OWN DAMN HEAD OFF!"

The man's angry roars echoed down the alley as gunfire rained against the wall like firecrackers. His vocabulary got more graphic with every word. If his shooting hadn't made it obvious, his tone did—he was even more pissed off than before.

"…Yup. He's mad now," Derek muttered.

"I hate this about Gotham," he added casually, shaking his head. "Everyone's always so emotionally unstable. No one wants to talk things through anymore."

"Oh great, yeah, keep talking. Let's see how far you can keep that attitude right up to your funeral."

The two of them kept bickering—probably to keep themselves from panicking. But deep down, they were both silently wishing for divine intervention. A speeding dump truck. Maybe an airplane part falling from the sky.

…Or they could fight back. Technically, it was two against one.

Ma Zhaodi glanced at the Glock in his hand, which he was still fumbling with, trying to find the safety. He sighed—they weren't close.

He looked up at the rooftop—where the cat-like figure had stood moments ago. Gone now.

He sighed again—they weren't close either.

Looks like that save point in the system was about to get used.

"…Hey," Derek suddenly whispered. "Why did it go quiet?"

Good point. The gunshots had stopped. So had the screaming.

That silence could mean very good things…

Or very, very bad things.

Ma Zhaodi's heartbeat thundered in his chest. He stared at the corner, lips dry, throat tight. Swallowed hard.

Then—suddenly—a hulking man leapt out from the shadows, grinning wide, gun pointed right at them.

BANG! BANG!

Before Ma Zhaodi could even squeeze the trigger, the guy had already fired twice. His hand went numb—his Glock spun through the air and clattered to the pavement.

Derek's gun hit the ground a second later.

"Son of a—!"

BANG!

A third shot exploded past Ma Zhaodi's head, grazing his temple, the bullet tearing a small gash through his short-cropped hair. He instinctively squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the next shot…

But it didn't come.

Instead, there were more gunshots nearby—then the heavy thud of a body hitting pavement.

…Did Derek get him?

Ma Zhaodi cracked one eye open.

The gunman was on the ground. Out cold.

Derek was staring at him too, just as confused.

"…Was that… me?" his eyes seemed to ask.

Ma Zhaodi crouched and nudged the guy over. No blood. No wound. Still breathing.

"He's alive. Just unconscious."

"…How?"

"No clue. Maybe he passed out from his own stupidity."

Of course, Ma Zhaodi had a pretty good guess.

In a city where the farther you stayed from superpowered freaks, the safer you were—he had, unfortunately, been saved by one. And this kind of swift, silent takedown? Knocking out a gun-toting brute and vanishing without a trace?

That had "Catwoman" written all over it.

"Don't just stand there—strip him of every gun and bullet he's got," Derek said. "Tie him up. Tight."

Derek may not have had much fighting prowess, but he definitely had the Gotham survival instinct. He jumped into action, patting the guy down and tossing gear into a pile.

A Beretta.

A Colt revolver.

A Colt M2000 from Derek's hand.

Two mags. Two bags of loose rounds.

You'd think this guy was a walking armory.

"…Are we sure he's not with a gang?" Ma Zhaodi asked while tying him up. "Because I'd really prefer not to get invited to a 'friendly conversation' with some Gotham mob boss tomorrow."

"He's floated through a few gangs," Derek replied. "But he never lasted long. Look—see how some of his tattoos were laser-removed? Even gang leaders can't stand his temper."

"You've been riding the same bus as this psycho for six months and never noticed?"

"One of the key rules of staying alive on Gotham transit is: don't stare, don't ask questions. Guy looked ready to fight anyone who looked at him wrong. How was I supposed to know he had it out for me?"

As Derek spoke, he pulled the guy's wallet out… and hesitated.

"…Honestly, I don't want to let him walk away."

Ma Zhaodi looked at the unconscious brute. And yeah, he got it. The guy almost killed them both.

But after thinking for a moment, he asked quietly, "Does he know where you live?"

Derek froze.

"…I don't think he's ever been near my place."

"But if he wanted to find out, could he?"

"…Yeah."

Ma Zhaodi holstered the pistol and nodded.

"Then we do this by her rules. Whoever saved us chose not to kill him. So let's return the favor."

He glanced at the wallet. "Put it back. That money's useful, but it won't change our lives."

Derek looked at him, surprised. In that moment, he realized—this guy might actually survive in Gotham. Maybe even thrive.

Of course, Gotham's version of "right" could kill you just as fast. Letting this guy live might come back to bite them.

But still—

"Your call," Derek said, stuffing the wallet back in. "But I'm not taking this bus again. I'm not a damn cowboy."

Ma Zhaodi shrugged. Fair enough. Derek didn't have a save point.

"…He looks like a cowboy though. What's his name?"

"Banner. Clinton Banner."

"Good name. Long as it's not Bruce or Floyd, we're good."

BANG!

A gunshot rang out from down the street, followed by an elderly voice bellowing:

"Old Jack's rolling out! Last call for boarding!"

Ma Zhaodi turned to see Banner slumped against the wall, still out cold.

He walked over, slipped the revolver and some ammo back into his hands, even set his hat gently on his head.

"See you in hell, cowboy."

With that, he and Derek jogged off toward Old Jack's bullet-riddled deathtrap of a bus.

Behind them, Clinton Banner opened his eyes.

In one smooth motion, he flexed—shredding through the jacket sleeves they'd used to tie him up. Not the most secure knots.

He raised his revolver and pointed it at Ma Zhaodi's back.

But the trigger never moved.

"…Bang," he whispered, then tucked the gun away and turned to leave.

"Next time, bastard. Next time."