Chapter 12: Otisburg

The battered old bus rattled and groaned down the road, pushing through the mist-choked streets of Gotham's East End. After weaving through traffic and broken alleys, it finally made its way from the eastern edge of Uptown to the west side of Otisburg.

"Thank God," Derek muttered, slouched in his seat, the cold wind slicing through every crack in the bullet-ridden vehicle. "At least there wasn't a second shootout. And Old Jack made it out fine."

Ma Zhaodi turned to him, eyebrows climbing. "Second shootout?"

"Depends. Usually there's not, but you know the East End… Sometimes a second group hops on mid-route. A full bus just isn't enough to contain the amount of stress this city's packing."

That's not normal at all, Ma Zhaodi thought.

"…What happens to all the blood and bodies on the street?"

"Gone within fifteen minutes. Gotham's cleanup crews are pros. Mob-affiliated, of course."

"…And if the driver dies?"

"Unlikely. Bus drivers are part of the atmosphere team, you know? Like the guy who serves the first shot in tennis. There are tons of shooters out there, but not many willing to drive this kind of bus. So most shootouts are just for show. They only get killed when they're really unlucky—like catching a ricochet."

Ma Zhaodi's eyes lit up.

"How's the pay? Are they hiring?"

Derek snorted. "Old Jack's route went through three drivers last year. One got a grenade shard to the neck, another caught a stray and lost both eyes, and the third tried to raise gun prices and got… well, shot in the goods. The turnover's insane. If you want the job, there's always an opening."

Ma Zhaodi's expression turned crystal clear. Enlightened.

"Wait… Old Jack is the name of the bus, not the driver? He's just the tool behind the wheel? Also—who the hell brings grenades?!"

"Normally? No one. Too expensive to waste. But this is East End. More lunatics than rational people."

Derek sighed, probably flashing back to his own time surviving the district.

As they chatted, the bus rolled into Otisburg. Derek quickly pulled Ma Zhaodi off at their stop.

"Follow me. The place isn't far. And hey, lucky us—8:20 a.m. You'll make it to your first day of work on time."

"You're right," Ma Zhaodi muttered, scrolling through the system's store, trying to find anything edible. "Though considering I nearly got my head blown off just trying to commute to work, I feel like my brain would respectfully disagree with your use of the word lucky."

Compared to the filthy, chaotic, and dilapidated East End, Otisburg was a noticeable improvement.

Ahead were sleek commercial towers, corporate offices that still gleamed—at least on the outside. Farther out, factory complexes loomed, black smoke rising from their chimneys. Even the aging residential blocks looked decent: not sparkling, but at least livable. Not poor. Just… cluttered.

"Don't get your hopes up," Derek said dryly, seeing where Ma Zhaodi was looking. "That one over there? Used to be one of the top pharmaceutical companies in Gotham. Then came the 'incident.' Now it's all show and no substance. I'm not even sure that building'll survive the year."

Ma Zhaodi caught the implication. "Let me guess… Was that Wayne Pharmaceuticals?"

"Wayne? Nah." Derek gave him a confused glance. "Bruce Wayne's a rich playboy, sure—but he's still got a conscience."

"No, that place over there is the one that partnered with Victor Fries. We're friends now, so I'll be straight with you."

He leaned in slightly. "I've dug into it. Victor's disappearance? It wasn't just an experiment gone wrong. That company pulled the plug on his research project. On his wife's life support. That's what caused the accident."

Ma Zhaodi nodded, taking it in. He didn't know the full story of Victor Fries—Mr. Freeze—but remembered it vaguely. He always thought Wayne Enterprises backed him. But this could easily be a different timeline… or a different universe altogether.

After all, between DC's multiverse resets and soft reboots, not even the editors could keep track of every alternate continuity. So what if this version of Mr. Freeze had a different origin?

"Yeah, well…" Ma Zhaodi muttered to himself, "Even if you care, what can you do about it? I don't even know how to use a gun. A street thug could end me with a plastic spork."

He followed Derek through Otisburg's gray-lit streets. Though it was already morning, the sun couldn't pierce Gotham's oppressive sky. A heavy shroud of clouds hung overhead, cold and foreboding. It felt like rain could fall at any moment.

As they walked, Ma Zhaodi absentmindedly read the building signs around them: Stagg Industries, the distant Ace Chemicals plant, a seedy-looking place called Royal Flush Social Club, and a rainbow of sketchy nightclubs in between.

He didn't fully grasp the significance of these names. If he had, he'd have probably gasped right then and there—because in Gotham, these weren't just signs.

They were omens.

Then his eyes caught something else: peeking from behind a distant tower, the silhouette of a ferris wheel.

It clicked in his head.

"…Oh. The Killing Joke."

"Huh?" Derek blinked.

"Nothing," Ma Zhaodi shook his head. "That a theme park?"

Derek followed his gaze and let out a soft sigh.

"Yeah… Used to be, anyway. Got shut down years ago. They say when the Waynes were murdered, the nearby theater closed. Crime kept rising. No one dared bring kids around here anymore. Amusement park shut down soon after."

Ma Zhaodi quietly thought to himself, Good. Let it stay abandoned. The moment someone tries to reopen that place, someone's getting killed.

He thought of poor Commissioner Gordon, trying so hard for Gotham. Only to have his son fall to darkness. His daughter abducted and corrupted by psychopaths. Then paralyzed by a bullet and left with photographic evidence of her trauma.

If he could help it, Ma Zhaodi really didn't want that poor man strapped to a ferris wheel, forced to look at those photos again.

While he was lost in thought, Derek came to a halt.

"Quit daydreaming. We're here."