The patrol car stopped and started in the gloomy, endless stream of Gotham's traffic. Jay leaned back in his seat, his head tilted against the dust-covered window glass, feigning a nap with his eyes narrowed.
Waylon Jones. He didn't remember the name, but he finally remembered the appearance – probably the notorious Killer Croc.
Sure, the physique was there, but with that timid demeanor, did he look like a killer?
Alright, fine, he's still just a kid now.
He couldn't help but glance at his skill card and suddenly noticed he had gained another skill point. Moreover, at the very bottom of all the cards, there was a line of faintly glowing small text.
[Changed Waylon Jones's fate to a minor extent. Gained 1 Skill Point.]
He scrolled forward a bit and found another line of small text, probably one he hadn't noticed before.
[Changed Edward Nigma's fate to a minor extent. Gained 1 Skill Point.]
Change…
He didn't feel he had done much.
Just a hundred bucks. Maybe figure out a way to pocket Wilson's share next month? Heh heh heh…
This time, however, he didn't dare try anything fancy. The first card was clearly related to firearms, something he could actually use right now. Better to play it safe.
An invisible hammer seemed to strike the card. Ripples spread out, and the shell silently cracked and peeled away, dissipating into specks of light like drifting fireflies.
The lines of the revolver pattern became sharp and clear, the barrel gleaming with a cold metallic luster. New text appeared on it as if engraved line by line.
[Combat Shooting: Your knowledge and proficiency with most firearms has reached a fairly skilled level.
You draw faster, hold steadier, aim more accurately, and control recoil far better than the average person. You are no longer the rookie who can't even flick the safety off!]
[Upgrade Tasks: Firearm Disassembly/Maintenance: 0/1000. Firearm Shooting: 0/1000.]
[*Complete all tasks to upgrade skill level.]
[*The system only raises your upper limit. Your effort determines your lower limit. Have you ever seen the scene of Gotham at 4am?]
What the hell. Haven't I seen enough of Gotham at 4 am?
Although he'd only crossed over two days ago, his memories included plenty of night shifts.
Three or four in the morning was prime time for murder and body dumping. The things that happened in the dark corners were enough to give anyone nightmares just from the memory fragments.
But in Gotham, nightmares weren't just for nighttime. They could happen anytime.
Wilson slammed on the brakes. The patrol car's tires let out a sharp, short screech against the road.
Jay's head snapped forward, hitting the windshield pillar. If not for the seatbelt, he might have flown out of the car.
"Have you fucking lost it?"
But Wilson didn't answer, just stared dumbfounded outside.
"Holy shit! Did you see that? What the hell just rushed past the front of the car??"
"I wasn't paying attention," Jay hissed, clutching his head. "What did you see?"
"I saw a guy… with his bare hands… dragging an ATM machine across the intersection," Wilson swallowed hard. "Towards Coventry."
"What?" Jay looked at his partner, confused, then realized and slammed his hand on the dashboard.
The glove compartment door flipped open, spilling wrenches, screwdrivers, documents, tissues, and discarded wrappers everywhere. "FUCK! FUCK! Darnell, you swore you didn't do drugs! And you stuffed the trash here after eating pizza?"
"Damn it, I'm not on drugs! Forget the trash! I swear on my grandmother's skull, I haven't even smoked weed. I really saw it!"
"Seriously, you should go to school for a few days instead of messing with Voodoo. An ATM, with its anchor bolts, requires a pulling force of at least over one and a half tons.
If what you saw was real, a monster like that could just rip off a door handle and throw it, turning our brains into abstract art!" Jay rubbed his forehead, looking at his partner helplessly. "Are you sure you want a closer look?"
"Uh… no, I think I was mistaken." Wilson's eyes immediately cleared, and he shook his head quickly. "Didn't see anything."
"Turn right," Jay pointed. "Let's just get through today safely. Tomorrow's my day off. Let HQ handle this kind of thing."
"Don't say things like that! It's too dangerous!" Wilson yelled, turning the wheel. "Let's go check out Cathedral Square. We can grab lunch from a food truck there too."
"Donald's pretzels with pepper-salt chili sauce? Even dogs wouldn't eat that!"
…
"I'll eat it! If the dog won't, I will! Limited time half-price plus buy-one-get-one-free, only a fool wouldn't eat it!"
Jay held a large pretzel slathered in special cheese chili sauce, eating until sweat covered his forehead.
"Don, your stuff is getting worse," Wilson sat on the leeward steps by the fountain and shouted to the vendor. "Its only merit left is being cheap."
"Don't like it? Then piss off." The vendor, Donald Francis, waved his small spatula without looking up. "If it was good, why do you think it's so cheap? It's because the cheese and flour are about to expire."
"…You're a real asshole."
Wilson laughed, stuffing the pretzel into his mouth while speaking unclearly to Jay, "This place is usually quiet. Maybe we can catch a quick nap after lunch."
"Maybe."
Jay pulled out a napkin, wiped his mouth, and stuffed the remaining piece of pretzel into the wrapper, balling it up.
After the initial ravenous few bites, the pretzel tasted too spicy and greasy to swallow.
"Unless someone's stealing little boys from the Bishop's room."
"Man, I think even God would get cursed out by you if he passed by. Hey, what's that?" He followed Jay's jump-shot towards the trash bin and saw a prison transport vehicle speeding from the direction of Land Bridge.
"Blackgate Prison transport. How much do those guys make a year?"
"Fifty to seventy thousand, not counting extra from fines," Wilson said with envy, watching the prison truck pass by not far away and disappear behind a block. "I want to apply for a transfer there too. Just watching monitors and playing whack-a-mole for easy money."
Yeah, yeah. After all, those world-shattering heavy hitters haven't really appeared yet, right? In a few years, you might not say that so easily.
Jay pulled out a tissue to blow his nose, then heard a series of dull booms from the direction the prison truck had disappeared. It made him jolt.
"M870? Damn, something's happened."
Both men sprang up.
Jay slid over the still-warm hood, flipped into the driver's seat, and turned the key, clutch, stall – all in one fluid motion!
"You motherf—!"
"Stop bitching, stop bitching!" Jay wiped his sweat.
Luckily, the second attempt went smoothly. The patrol car, belching black smoke, tires screeching, shot forward.
…
A burly bald man in a dark leather jacket looked at the guard still twitching on the ground, blew the lock off the prison truck's door, then a accomplice behind him fired a follow-up shot, and the ambushed guard inside fell.
He dragged the body down and tossed it on the ground, shouting into the compartment:
"Hargrove!"
A timid black man stood up from the corner of the compartment. The bald man smiled. "Come on out. We need you."
He suddenly felt something behind him, turned sharply, gun raised.
A police car had appeared!
He raised his gun to shoot, but the driver just floored it, and the patrol car vanished behind a wall with a swoosh.
"The cops in this city are something else," a few of them laughed. "If they're all this chicken-hearted, we should really thank God."
…
"If my neck's broken, it's all thanks to you!" Wilson ripped off his seatbelt and jumped out of the car. "What the hell are you doing!"
"If I hadn't reacted fast, we'd be sieves! Didn't you see they had Uzis?"
Jay grabbed the radio handset, banged it a few times, and shouted, "Emergency call! All units, Signal 33! Signal 33! Officer down!
Shots fired between Cathedral Square and Adams Dock! Four suspects with automatic weapons hijacking a Blackgate Prison transport. Officers down. Adam-12 is dismounting and intervening! Need all available units Code 3 response!
Repeat, multiple officers down!"
The car radio crackled twice, as if complaining.
He threw the handset aside and jumped out, his hands slightly trembling.
His right hand drew the 1911, he racked the slide to check, his left hand opened the trunk.
Jay pulled out a Mossberg with a wooden stock and steel handguard from atop a pile of warning signs, first aid kits, and toolboxes, tossing it to Wilson.
"We've got 'the good stuff' too. I'll draw fire from the front. You go from…" he pointed to a narrow alley filled with dumpsters beside the residential building, "…around the back. Get close and hit them hard."
"OK!" Wilson took six 12-gauge buckshot rounds from his belt and fumbled them into the shotgun's chamber. His face was already covered with a mix of ferocity and excitement.
Once ready, he sprinted towards the fire escape behind the building like an unchained wild dog.
Watching his partner disappear around the corner, Jay steadied himself and flicked off the pistol's safety.
This was his first time facing so many armed thugs.
He'd been support once before at a bank robbery, but back then, he just had to park on the perimeter and hold his gun up, aiming.
If negotiations failed, heavy firepower would eventually arrive. But this time, they probably only had themselves.
Three!
He counted silently in his mind, lowered his center of gravity, gripped the gun firmly, pointed forward, and moved quickly and silently in short steps along the wall to the edge of the alley entrance.
Then, he pressed his back tightly against the wall. His palms were sweaty.
The metal grip felt icy cold, freezing his fingers stiff as steel bars.
In theory, this kind of tactical movement required a bunch of assessments beforehand, but there was no time for that now.
The hard, rough texture of the brick wall through his uniform made him feel a bit safer.
Two!
The wind at the street corner brushed past lightly, carrying the mixed scents of gunpowder, blood, and Gotham's ever-present garbage and rust.
A deathly silence fell, broken only by the distant,muffled sound of traffic and his own drumming heartbeat.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It hammered against his eardrums, almost drowning out everything else.
I'm not going to die here, right?!
One!
He took a deep breath. The cold air stung his lungs like needles, but also sharpened his focus.
The Gotham cop tensed his muscles, then suddenly leaned out, exposing his left eye and half his forehead for a quick glance outside!
Immediately, he snapped back even faster! His body slammed back against the wall!
Whoa, I'm not dead! Nice!
The good news was, the other side seemed in a hurry to leave and wasn't maintaining tight security.
Four armed men. Three were already in the vehicle. The fourth was shoving a handcuffed black man into an SUV.
The bad news was, the moment he saw them, they saw him.
Just after his head pulled back, a burst of gunfire flew out from the alley entrance, hitting the brick wall opposite with a thump thump sound.
He stuck his hand out low, fired two shots, and quickly pulled back.
The .45 caliber recoil was significant, but for him with his improved proficiency, it wasn't a major issue.
The biggest problem now was if they got in the vehicle and forced a breakout. His handgun couldn't stop them, and he might get taken out by a burst if they passed by closely.
Sporadic test shots came from the opposite side, making it almost impossible for him to lean out.
But thankfully, around this time, from a second-floor window of a residential building not far down the alley, there was a crash, like glass being broken, followed by Wilson's shout:
"GCPD, drop your weapons!"
Seizing the moment when the opponents' (presumably?) attention was diverted, he sidestepped out from the cover of the wall, raised his aim, and pulled the trigger at the trench coat-wearing man holding the submachine gun outside the vehicle.
Wilson was probably following proper procedure by issuing a warning, but Jay firmly believed in the principle of He who strikes first gains the advantage.
As long as you take the other guy out first, whether a warning was given or not is my story to tell!
The skill card made handling the gun much smoother, but it didn't guarantee accuracy.
He'd aimed for the head, but the bullet drilled into the trench coat man's right shoulder.
The massive impact slammed him hard against the vehicle body, the Uzi in his hand flying far away.
Probably severed something like the subclavian artery. A glaring jet of blood sprayed from the bullet hole. The trench coat man's right arm immediately went limp and hung uselessly.
He let out a pained roar, his left hand instinctively clamping over the wound, but the scalding blood still gushed wildly between his fingers, dyeing the ground beneath him a bright red.