The bus rattled westward through Gotham's perpetual gloom, weaving between traffic and fog. Water dripped through the shot-out windows. The floor was sticky with something Jude didn't want to identify.
"Thank God." Drake exhaled. "At least there wasn't a second shootout."
Jude turned to look at him. "A second shootout?"
"Depends on the day. Usually no. But this is the East End route." Drake shrugged. "Sometimes another group boards halfway through. When the bus gets overloaded, people get creative about making space."
That's not normal, Jude thought. None of this is normal.
"What happens to all the bodies? The blood?"
"Gone in fifteen minutes. Gotham gangs have professional cleanup crews."
"And if the driver dies?"
"Drivers usually don't die." Drake said it like he was explaining basic physics. "They're there to set the tone, you know? Like in badminton. Someone has to serve first. Thing is, plenty of people can shoot, but not many want to drive this route. So the driver fights are mostly for show. They only die if they're unlucky. Stray bullet, ricochet, that kind of thing."
Jude's eyes lit up. "So... how's the pay? Are they hiring?"
Drake actually laughed. "Old Jack's gone through three drivers in the past year. One took grenade shrapnel through the neck. Another got blinded by a ricochet. The last one tried to price gouge on a gun sale and got his balls blown off." He paused. "But yeah, if you want the job, there's always an opening."
Jude's expression went carefully neutral. "Never mind."
"Smart man." Drake grinned.
"Wait, you said grenade shrapnel?" Jude asked.
"Nobody usually brings grenades. Way too expensive for a bus fight. But this is the East End. More crazy people than sane ones."
Drake sighed, staring out the broken window. Jude wondered what memories he was reviewing. A year in the East End left marks you couldn't wash off.
The bus lurched to a stop.
"Come on." Drake grabbed Jude's sleeve, pulling him toward the door. "We're here. Donald's isn't far from the station."
He checked his watch. "8:20. You won't be late on your first day."
"Lucky me," Jude said flatly, opening the system shop and scrolling through overpriced food items. "I only almost got shot in the head."
"That's the Gotham spirit."
Otisburg looked different.
Not good, exactly. But compared to the East End's open-air asylum atmosphere, this felt almost civilized. The buildings stood straight instead of sagging. Corporate towers gleamed in the distance. Factory smokestacks pumped black clouds into an already black sky. Even the older residential areas looked clean, if worn. Messy, maybe. Not actively decomposing.
Jude scanned the skyline. Recognizable names dotted the landscape. Stagg Industries. Some kind of chemical plant in the distance. A poker arena. Neon-lit clubs.
He didn't remember the significance of most of them. Probably for the best.
Then he spotted the Ferris wheel rising behind the buildings.
His stomach dropped.
Oh. The Killing Joke.
"What?" Drake followed his gaze.
"Nothing." Jude cleared his throat. "That an amusement park?"
"Was." Drake's voice went flat. "Got abandoned after the Wayne murders. Theater closed, area went downhill, parents stopped bringing kids. Now it just sits there."
Good, Jude thought. Stay abandoned. When it reopens, someone's going to have a very bad day.
Poor Commissioner Gordon. Worked himself to the bone for Gotham, and what did he get? A son who became a villain. A daughter who got shot, paralyzed, photographed, and used as psychological warfare by a clown with a god complex.
Jude really, really didn't want to think about Gordon tied to that Ferris wheel, forced to look at those photos.
He dragged his attention back to the present. Focused on the building Drake had been scowling at earlier. Pharmaceutical company. Tall, clean, corporate. The kind of place that looked legitimate on the outside.
"What was that about a pharmaceutical company?" Jude asked.
Drake's jaw tightened. "Used to be top-tier. Had an accident. Now they're circling the drain." His tone went bitter. "Wonder how long before someone buys them out."
"Wayne Pharmaceuticals?"
"What? No." Drake looked confused. "Why would you think Wayne? Bruce Wayne's a trust fund playboy, but at least he's not evil. Man throws charity galas like they're going out of style."
"Then who?"
"Company that worked with Dr. Fries." Drake's voice dropped. "We're friends now, so I'll tell you. I did some digging while I was waiting. Victor's accident wasn't random. That company pulled funding on his project. His wife's life support research. Cut him off mid-experiment."
Drake stared at the building. "That's what caused the accident. They killed his project, so he kept working anyway, and..." He gestured vaguely. "You know the rest."
Jude nodded.
He didn't know much about Mr. Freeze's origin. His memories suggested Wayne Pharmaceuticals should be involved somehow, but maybe he'd gotten it wrong. Or maybe this world's continuity diverged. DC's multiverse was a mess even on a good day. Reboots, retcons, alternate timelines. Even the editors couldn't keep track of every version.
Besides, he thought, what are you going to do about it? You can't even use a gun. Any random thug could gut you like a fish.
The sky pressed down, grey and heavy. No sun broke through. It never did in Gotham. The air felt damp, like rain was always sixty seconds away.
Jude kept walking, taking in the scenery. Stagg Industries. Ace Chemicals in the distance. King Poker Arena. Colorful clubs with names he didn't recognize.
If he'd known what happened at half these places, he'd have turned around immediately.
The Ferris wheel loomed behind everything, silent and waiting.
Drake stopped walking.
Jude nearly bumped into him.
"We're here."