Chapter 2: If I Stay Broke, No One Can Rob Me
"So where did these seven dollars of starter funds even come from? I don't have any US dollars on me."
Marcus Dean patted down his pockets and suddenly realized—the fifty-plus yuan he had leftover from buying cigarettes was gone.
"Oh, great. I thought this was a free starter bonus. Turns out, the wool's still being pulled from my own back."
On the bright side, at least his outfit—shirt, pants, jacket—looked pretty average for Gotham. Nothing eye-catching or weird enough to stand out.
He let out a sigh and bought Basic English Proficiency and Local Identity Access from the system. Without those, his English level would've left him helpless around here. He also picked up Rapid Health Recovery and Save Point Access.
Special Tip: Save points can be repositioned in future quests. Don't be stingy—use them often.
You can distribute your 20 save point activations across 5 different timestamps. Use them wisely.
Current moment is a safe period—no danger for the next 30 minutes, but you also cannot save. No worries.
He looked up at the sky. Thick clouds smothered any light, and while he could tell it was night, he had no idea what time it was. With no better option, Marcus headed out of the station. He vaguely recalled seeing a clock tower while on the train—maybe he'd spot it once he stepped outside.
A few steps later, his pace slowed. Just moments ago, the chaotic noise in the station had sounded like garbled gibberish. But the instant he acquired Basic English Proficiency, it all shifted—like background chatter in a familiar city. The fragmented conversations now slid seamlessly into his mind, no translation needed.
It was an oddly novel feeling. Marcus, whose English had barely scraped past Level 6 back home, found it fascinating. He mentally tested himself on a few English phrases. His once-patchy skills now felt like a rickety bicycle that, while clearly janky, could still zoom like a demon on wheels thanks to the system's magical duct tape.
In reality, it wasn't just patched. His accent and grammar were already pretty solid—standard American English. Once he got used to it, this busted old bike would turn into a zippy little electric scooter.
Right—he should also have a Gotham local identity now. He checked his pockets again, but like his bank account, they were squeaky clean.
Digging deeper, he discovered that his documents—driver's license, social security card, other ID—were stored in a mental inventory. To access or stow them, all he had to do was think about it.
"At least that's kinda user-friendly."
Never having seen an American driver's license before, Marcus slipped a hand into his coat pocket, waited a few seconds, then pulled it out. He examined it with curiosity, flipping it back and forth, before tucking it away again.
What he really needed now was a job. Otherwise, forget being killed by gangs, terrorists, assassins, or supervillains—he'd starve to death or freeze on the sidewalk long before any of them got to him.
And it's not like he had any clue how American homeless people survived. This was Gotham—there was no such thing as a harmless hobo here.
Then again, he'd probably learn the ropes soon enough. It's not like he owned property around here. Becoming homeless wouldn't exactly be shocking.
Though, worth noting—some homeless folks could qualify for welfare if they filed federal tax returns and had a valid bank account. Unfortunately, Marcus had neither worked nor paid taxes yet. So he was out of luck.
Stepping out of the bustling platform, Marcus finally got his first proper look at the city.
A fine drizzle fell steadily from the sky, veiling Gotham in a damp, ghostly haze. Down below, neon-lit streets flickered as cars and motorcycles roared past. Towering skyscrapers loomed overhead—their lower halves bathed in the glow of city lights, their upper stories swallowed by the night. A few spotlights barely illuminated the sharp edges of the buildings.
In the distance, thick plumes of smoke billowed from factory stacks beside a low-lying slum. The shoddy tenements there were mostly dark, save for the occasional sobbing, the thuds of fists, or sharp cracks of gunfire from the alleys.
That was also where the homeless camps were. Huddled under bridges or in abandoned warehouses, dirty clusters of people burned newspapers and torn-up books in rusted oil drums for warmth.
Marcus looked toward the distant skyline. Between glowing billboards and flickering signs, the clock tower blinked "9 PM." Clearly, no way he'd find a job tonight. He'd have to survive until morning.
"This start is absolutely f***ed."
A gust of evening wind blew past, carrying icy mist that hit him like a slap. Marcus staggered, chilled to the bone, and instinctively shoved his hands back into his coat pockets. Hunching over, he racked his brain, trying to think of where he could crash for the night. The busy areas would chase him off. The quiet ones? Probably dangerous.
"There's gotta be some other option, right?"
He browsed the system more carefully and discovered a store. It had everything—and nothing. From food and basic tools to weapons, special abilities, even supernatural items. He didn't bother looking too deep; he couldn't afford any of it anyway.
He only had three bucks left in the system. All signs pointed to him sleeping on the street tonight.
As he walked, he scrolled through the cheapest items in the store—until something hit him. His driver's license... was missing.
"...?"
He was sure he hadn't put it back into the inventory. It should still be in his coat pocket.
"Still there?"
Marcus flipped his coat inside out, checking every seam and fold—but no sign of it. He was seconds away from cursing out loud when his fingers brushed against something in his pants pocket.
"...?"
"Wait—here?"
It took him a few more seconds to piece it together.
In just the short distance from the station exit to where he was standing now—barely a hundred meters—he'd been pickpocketed by a local.
And then... the thief, upon discovering his pockets were as empty as his expression, had thoughtfully returned his license to his pants pocket.
He nearly laughed out loud. The whole theft-and-return process had been so smooth, he hadn't felt a thing.
Then again, it taught him something important: a skilled thief might be able to snatch your wallet, your watch, even your phone. But what he can't steal... is money that doesn't exist.
As long as Marcus stayed broke, he was invincible.
Hell, if he ran into a mugger, the guy might even give him a few bucks out of pity.
(End of Chapter)