The battered bus rattled forward, weaving through traffic and Gotham's East End fog, traveling from the eastern side of Uptown to the west.
"Thank God there wasn't a second shootout," Drake muttered. "And Old Jack wasn't hurt."
Marcus turned to stare at him. "…There can be a second one?"
"Usually no. But it's the East End. Sometimes a second group boards halfway pressure builds up, one bus isn't enough."
Nothing about this is normal, Marcus thought.
"What about the blood and bodies left behind?"
"Gone in fifteen minutes. Gotham cleanup crews are professionals."
"And if the driver dies?"
"They usually don't. Drivers are the 'atmosphere crew.' Someone has to serve first like badminton or tennis."
"Lots of people shoot guns. Not many are willing to drive this bus."
"So these shootouts are mostly for show. Only unlucky ricochets kill drivers."
Marcus's eyes lit up. "…How's the pay? Are they hiring?"
Drake grinned. "Old Jack changed three drivers last year. One got his neck shredded by grenade shrapnel. One went blind from a ricochet. The last tried to raise gun prices and got his balls blown off."
"High turnover. You've got a shot."
Marcus's eyes cleared instantly. "So Old Jack is the bus name? Drivers are just tools wait, wait people bring grenades?!"
"Usually no. Too expensive. Not worth it."
"But this is the East End."
"Here, there are more lunatics than normal people."
After saying that, Drake let out an unconscious sigh, as if some memories from his life in the East End had surfaced.
While they were talking, the bus had already entered the Otisburg District. Seeing this, Drake quickly pulled Marcus off the bus.
"Follow me. The place isn't far from the stop," Drake said, glancing at his watch. "We're really lucky it's only 8:20. At least you won't be late on your first day."
"You're right," Marcus replied, scrolling through the system shop to see if there was anything edible. "But on my very first commute to work, I almost got my head blown off, so my brain might have a slight disagreement with the word 'lucky.'"
Compared to the East End with its chaos, filth, cramped buildings, and decay Otisburg looked much better.
Clusters of tall buildings stood before them, gleaming corporate offices; farther away, massive factories loomed, thick black smoke pouring from their chimneys. Even the older residential areas looked clean and open messy, perhaps, but not poor or filthy.
"Don't stare too hard," Drake said with a mocking tone. "There's nothing good over there. Once a top tier pharmaceutical company now a hollow second rate outfit after one accident. Who knows how long that building will survive in Gotham."
Marcus immediately caught the implication. "Wayne Pharmaceuticals?"
"Wayne? No of course not. Why would you think that?" Drake asked, puzzled. "Sure, young Wayne's a playboy and a rich brat, but at least he still has a conscience."
"This is the company that worked with Dr. Victor. Since we're friends now, I won't hide it from you."
"I dug up some information. Dr. Victor's disappearance wasn't just an experimental accident. The company deliberately cut off his project his wife's life support system. That's what caused the incident."
Marcus nodded.
His knowledge of Victor Fries's origin wasn't perfect. In his memory, Wayne related companies had helped Mr. Freeze but maybe he was misremembering. Or maybe this universe had diverged.
DC's multiverse reboots things constantly. Half the time even editors don't know what exists in which timeline. A slightly altered origin for Mr. Freeze wasn't shocking.
"People should do what they can," Marcus muttered, comforting himself. "What's the point of worrying about this? You can't even use a gun yet you'd get stabbed by some random punk."
They continued walking through Otisburg's streets. Daylight had fully arrived, but the thick clouds over Gotham blocked the sun. The sky remained gray, and there was no warmth at all living here always felt like rain could start at any second.
Marcus casually scanned the surroundings. Stagg Industries. In the distance, Ace Chemicals. The Monarch Poker Lounge. And a variety of flashy clubs.
If he truly understood the "value" of these locations, he would've exclaimed on the spot how densely packed Gotham's legends were.
Then he noticed a towering Ferris wheel peeking out behind the buildings.
"Oh. The Killing Joke."
"What?" Drake asked.
"Nothing. Is that an amusement park?"
Drake followed his gaze, sighed softly. "Yeah. It's abandoned. After the Waynes were murdered, the theater shut down. Then security got worse no one dared bring their kids here anymore. The park just rotted away."
Marcus thought it was probably for the best. If that amusement park ever reopened, someone was definitely going to have a very bad time.
Commissioner Gordon had sacrificed everything for Gotham only for his son to become a villain, his daughter to be kidnapped by a lunatic, turned into a leather clad freak, and later shot through the spine and humiliated with photos.
If possible, Marcus really didn't want Gordon to be strapped to a Ferris wheel and forced to watch pictures of Barbara.
Just as he was thinking that, Drake stopped walking.
"Stop staring. We're here."