Jude stared at Drake.
His expression must have said it all, because Drake actually looked offended.
"What?"
"Are you—" Jude's voice cracked slightly. "Are you actually trying to get us killed?"
"We're already dying. Might as well go together."
"That's not the—"
BANG! BANG! BANG!
"I'M GONNA SKIN YOU ALIVE!" The shooter's voice cracked with rage. "GONNA CUT OFF YOUR DICKS AND SHOVE 'EM DOWN YOUR THROATS! YOU HEAR ME? YOU TWO ARE DEAD! DEAD! I'M GONNA FUCK YOU UP SO BAD—"
The bullets stopped being suppressive fire. Now they came like firecrackers, chewing through brick and concrete, sending chips flying past their heads.
Jude pressed himself flatter against the wall. "See? Look what you did."
Drake shook his head, almost philosophical. "This is what I hate most about Gotham. Everyone's so emotional. Nobody wants to have a reasonable conversation anymore."
"Oh, sure. Keep talking. That's great. Die with a quip on your lips."
They glared at each other. Jude briefly fantasized about Drake getting hit by a dump truck. Or maybe some orbital debris. Gotham had weird luck with falling objects.
He looked down at the Glock in his hands. He'd been searching for the safety for the last thirty seconds. Still hadn't found it.
We barely know each other, he thought grimly.
His gaze drifted to the rooftop where the cat-like figure had been perched. Empty now.
Don't know you either, but thanks for earlier.
The thought came unbidden: Might need to use that save point after all.
Drake froze beside him. "Hey. Why'd he stop?"
Jude's heart stuttered.
The shooting had stopped. So had the screaming.
Two possibilities crystallized in his mind, equal and opposite. Either they'd gotten impossibly lucky, or they were about to die.
His pulse hammered in his ears. He stared at the corner of the wall, throat dry, unable to look away.
A man stepped into view.
Broad shoulders. Scarred knuckles. A smile that promised violence. The gun in his hand looked steady as a rock, barrel trained directly on them.
Jude's finger found the trigger.
Too slow.
Two shots, faster than thought.
The Glock kicked out of Jude's hand, torn away by the impact. Drake's pistol clattered to the ground.
Jude felt the third bullet before he heard it—a line of fire across his scalp, the heat of it parting his hair. He flinched, eyes slamming shut.
This is it.
He waited for the fourth shot.
It didn't come.
Around them, the ambient gunfire continued. Old Jack versus whoever. Someone's bus versus someone else's grudge. Business as usual.
But here, in their corner, silence.
Jude cracked one eye open.
The man lay on the ground, gun still in his hand, completely still.
Drake stared at him. Then at Jude. Then back at the man.
"Did... did I shoot him?"
"You didn't shoot him."
"Did you shoot him?"
"Pretty sure I didn't shoot him either."
They looked at each other, then at their empty hands.
Jude moved first, dropping to a crouch. He rolled the man over carefully, checking for wounds. Nothing. Pulse strong. Breathing steady.
"He's alive. Just knocked out."
"How?"
"Hell if I know." Jude kept his voice neutral. "Maybe he had a stroke."
The lie tasted thin. He knew exactly what—or who—had intervened. That cat-like figure on the rooftop. Probably same one who'd pickpocketed him on his first day, then mysteriously returned his ID.
Even in this world, the farther from superheroes the better. But... she saved my life. I owe her one.
The style fit. Knocked unconscious in seconds, no permanent damage, vanished without a word. Very Catwoman.
"Stop staring," Drake said. "Help me search him."
Drake's hands moved with practiced efficiency, emptying pockets and holsters. A Beretta. A Colt revolver. The Colt M2000 he'd been shooting. Three guns total, plus two spare magazines and loose ammunition.
Jude whistled low. "Either he's very paranoid or very connected."
"Both, probably." Drake examined a faded tattoo on the man's forearm. "Pretty sure he's been in half a dozen gangs. Never stuck with any of them. See? Most of his tattoos are laser-removed. The ones left don't mean anything anymore. Even gang bosses couldn't stand his temper."
"And you rode the bus with this psycho for six months?"
"One of the most important survival rules in Gotham: don't look around, don't ask questions." Drake shrugged. "Besides, he always looked ready to kill everyone. How was I supposed to know he specifically wanted to kill me?"
Drake pulled out the man's wallet. Paused.
His jaw tightened. "Honestly? Part of me wants to just... not let him wake up."
Jude looked at the unconscious man. At the gun in his own hand.
Murder was wrong. Obviously. But this guy had almost killed him. Almost put a bullet through Drake's head. Would definitely try again if given the chance.
He thought about it. Really thought about it.
Then looked at Drake.
"Does he know where you live?"
Drake blinked. His expression shifted. "Actually... no. He never shows up near my place."
"But if he wanted to find out, he could?"
Drake thought about it. Slowly nodded.
Jude tucked the gun into his waistband. "The person who saved us didn't kill him. We should respect that."
He picked up the wallet, held it out. "Put it back. The money would help, sure, but it's not worth the complication."
Drake stared at him. Something changed in his expression, surprise mixing with... respect?
"You know what? You might actually make it here." He took the wallet, shoved it back in the man's pocket. "Of course, Gotham being Gotham, letting him live today might mean he shoots us tomorrow."
"Your call either way." Jude kept his tone neutral.
"Nah. You're right." Drake stood, brushing dust off his knees. "But I'm definitely not taking this bus again. I'm not some kind of cowboy."
Jude glanced at the unconscious shooter. "Pretty sure he's the cowboy. What's his name?"
"Banner. Clinton Banner."
"Good name." Jude almost smiled. "At least it's not Bruce or Floyd."
A gunshot cracked from the street. Old Jack's voice boomed through the chaos: "LAST CALL! GET YOUR ASSES ON THE BUS!"
Jude looked at Banner one more time. Still out cold.
He placed the revolver back in the man's hand. Tucked the bullets into his pocket. Set his hat on his chest.
"See you around, cowboy."
They ran for the bus.
Behind them, Banner's eyes opened.
The jacket they'd used as rope fell away with a single tug. The knots had been amateur work at best.
He pulled the revolver from his lap. Extended his arm. Lined up the sights on Jude's back.
Twenty yards. Easy shot. The kid wouldn't even know what hit him.
His finger rested on the trigger.
Didn't pull.
Banner lowered the gun. Made a soft click with his tongue.
"Bang," he whispered.
He holstered the weapon, stood, and walked away in the opposite direction.
"See you next time, asshole."