Click.
Axel reloaded his pistol as he walked, but the absence of gunfire wasn't a good sign.
Following the crowd toward the site of the earlier battle, he saw the gangs had fled.
Only Gotham Police officers remained, clearing the scene.
No wonder the citizens had gathered—Gothamites were morbidly curious, always flocking to murder scenes to gawk at corpses.
Seeing the area secure, Axel slid his gun back into his waistband and stripped off his bullet-riddled shirt, standing bare-chested.
He clapped a nearby citizen on the shoulder.
"What's your name?" Axel asked casually.
The man glanced at him, his gaze lingering a moment too long on Axel's chest.
"Hey, Buddy, I'm not into guys," he muttered.
"I asked your name. Not your sexual orientation. Do you want me to open your ears for you?"
Axel pressed his pistol discreetly against the man's waist.
Trembling, the man nodded.
"Okay, okay, I was joking! I mean… you look… strong. Really. I wasn't… trying to provoke you!"
"Be serious," Axel snapped, jabbing the gun butt into the man's kidney.
The man winced.
"I… I just ran out of condoms… my wife… please, I didn't mean to—"
"Enough!"
Axel leaned closer, keeping the gun trained.
"Which gangs were shooting just now?"
"This is Falcone territory, always controlled by his subordinate, Sabatini. Their opponents? Slavic trash from the Russian Mafia."
"And the gang strongholds?" Axel asked.
"How would I know? Falcone has the Iceberg Lounge, that's where the gangs hang. Beyond that? I'm nobody, damn it!"
"Iceberg Lounge. Got it."
Axel sheathed his gun and turned to leave.
With the gangs gone and the police busy measuring corpses, he had no quarrel with anyone.
His bare chest and tattered pants drew stares, but Gotham citizens parted for him instinctively.
Not twenty meters ahead, a loud shout cut through the air.
"Help! That gay shirtless Asian threatened me with a gun! He asked about Falcone and might be a Russian Mafia assassin!"
Axel spun, drawing his pistol.
The man he'd threatened was bolting toward the police.
Axel closed the distance in a few strides.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Three shots in quick succession dropped the man mid-crawl.
Axel grabbed him by the hair.
"Do you know why you got shot? Not because you ran to the cops, but because you lied about me, damn it! You think everything's about being gay? Can't stop talking about it, huh?"
He kicked the man in the crotch and threw him writhing to the ground.
Satisfied, Axel strode off, leaving the police stunned.
"Stop him! GCPD! Drop your weapon!"
"Wait, that guy's not right!"
"Crazy Asian who keeps respawning!"
Some officers recognized him; most did not.
Guns were raised, bullets sprayed, and civilians scattered screaming.
Axel grimaced.
If they were afraid, why had they gathered in the first place?
A lean older man, faster than anyone else, darted past the chaos to catch up.
"Stop!"
He fired two warning shots at Axel's sides, sand and gravel kicking up.
Axel frowned.
"You're fast," he muttered, aiming at the man.
Bang!
His right hand was seared with pain as a bullet tore through the back of it.
The old man fired again, breaking Axel's calf, forcing him to the ground.
Police ceased fire.
The man leapt, straddling Axel, pressing his muzzle to Axel's forehead.
"Cuff him! Back to the station!"
A female officer arrived with a first-aid kit.
She tore open Axel's pants and began bandaging his leg.
Axel laughed through the pain.
"Criminal foot massages, huh? Must be tough being a cop."
"Go to hell!" she snapped, pressing harder.
Other officers gathered around.
"Chief Gordon, that's the guy! He got riddled by Falcone's and Dimitrov's men twice and spontaneously combusted to nothing each time!"
"Then came back perfectly fine!"
Gordon's mustache twitched as he nodded solemnly.
"I don't disbelieve you. In Gotham, anything bizarre can happen."
Axel, still on the ground, waved.
"Chief Gordon, my heart skipped a beat seeing you. Normally, we'd chat, but my leg hurts like hell. Since bizarre is normal, even more bizarre must be possible, right? Goodbye, Chief Gordon! We'll meet again, or often, haha!"
Laughing, he closed his eyes.
When he opened them, he was perfectly fine somewhere unknown.
His instincts had already taught him the rules of his new talent:
Whenever he lost life, consciousness, or freedom—including freedom of thought—he could reset and appear randomly elsewhere, fully recovered.
"What a great ability," he muttered, grinning, tucking his pistol into his waistband.
The gangs that killed him before were gone, but he would track them down one by one.
Before that, he had debts to repay.
The gun shop owner's Desert Eagle was a marvel: accurate, reliable, deadly.
First, he needed cash from a lucky bank.
Then, new clothes, free of bullet holes.
He glanced left and chuckled.
Coincidentally, a clothing store was right there.
---