Five minutes of the strangest job interview in history, and Jude was officially employed at the Red Dragon Restaurant.
A supervisor appeared to walk him through orientation. Middle-aged, professional, the kind of calm that came from seeing too much.
"You start at 9 AM sharp. Change into uniform, clock in. You can come earlier if you want. Breakfast and lunch are free in the staff cafeteria." He walked as he talked, showing Jude through the restaurant's layout. "Two-hour break starting at 3 PM. You leave at 10 PM. Fifteen dollars an hour, five days a week."
Jude did the math. Eighty hours biweekly. Twelve hundred base, before tips.
Not bad. If he survived.
"Your job is simple," the supervisor continued. "Greet customers, take orders, serve food, clean tables. Standard waiter work." He paused at the top of the stairs, turned to face Jude directly. "Sometimes unexpected situations occur. When they do, you don't do anything. Stay calm. Try to keep the customer calm. Don't make it worse. Someone will handle it."
"What kind of situations?"
"The kind where staying calm keeps you alive."
They descended to the main floor. The supervisor gestured to the dining room. "Be sharp. Know the menu inside and out. If a guest asks questions, you answer. If they want something off-menu, you make it happen."
He stopped by one of the wine cabinets. Ran his finger along a bottle that probably cost more than Jude's monthly rent.
"Now, some guests are more important than others. If someone from the Maroni family walks in, or Falcone's people, or any other big player—you do exactly what they say. They want you to lick their shoes? You ask which shoe first." His tone stayed perfectly level. "But if some upstart nobody tries to throw weight around, tries to disrespect the establishment..." He smiled thinly. "You can shoot them. After they leave. And make sure the blood doesn't get on the carpet."
Jude's throat went dry.
The supervisor studied him. "You look nervous."
"Just processing the employee handbook."
"Relax. Most days are quiet." He pulled a business card from his pocket, handed it over. "Boss wanted me to give you this. Shooting range. Staff discount, fifty percent off. You need to learn to use that gun you're carrying."
Jude looked at the card. Bruno's Range & Tactical. A Gotham shooting range. Employee benefit: discounted weapons training.
Of course.
"You could also practice in the East End," the supervisor added. "Cheaper. If you're brave. Or stupid."
"I'll stick with the range."
"Smart." The supervisor started walking again. "One more thing. After your first paycheck, get yourself transportation. Different transportation."
"What's wrong with the bus?"
"The bus is fine if you're just some nobody. But you work here now. People who want to hurt this restaurant might start with you. The bus makes you an easy target."
Great, Jude thought. Employee benefit number two: increased chance of assassination.
"Can I get an advance on my salary?"
The supervisor raised an eyebrow. "You new to America? Pay is biweekly here. Boss approved advancing your first two paychecks. That's four weeks. Twenty-five hundred before tax, roughly two thousand after. You have a bank account?"
Jude nodded.
"Complete registration downstairs, we'll transfer it. Or cash, if you prefer."
Two thousand dollars. Not bad, actually. Gotham's dangers were legendary, but the pay wasn't terrible. The wealth gap was extreme—East End poverty versus Diamond District mansions—but the overall economy was strong. Top tier in the country.
And the two thousand was just base salary. Tips would come in cash, under the table, untaxed. For waiters at high-end restaurants, tips were where the real money lived.
Of course, there were minor downsides. Twelve hours at the restaurant. Ten hours working. Going home at 10 PM with a pocket full of cash through Gotham streets.
But otherwise, basically perfect.
For now.
Jude had another thought. "If I need to work late, can I stay here overnight? In the restaurant?"
The supervisor's expression shifted. Something between amusement and warning.
"We do have overnight accommodations. But you're not qualified for that yet."
His tone suggested Jude really, really didn't want to qualify.
"Understood."
Drake was waiting outside.
"How'd it go?"
"I'm employed." Jude showed him the shooting range card. "And I get discounts on learning to kill people."
"That's the Gotham spirit."
They started walking. Work didn't begin until tomorrow, so the priority now was transportation and housing. The bus from East End to Red Dragon was no longer an option.
Drake knew Otisburg well. He'd lived here when he first arrived in Gotham, back when he was still looking for Dr. Fries and the pharmaceutical company. Back when he could still afford it.
"There are apartments near the restaurant," Drake said. "Small, but close. Safe commute. You could probably find something in your budget."
Jude had already done the math. Rent here would eat his entire advance and then some. He'd be borrowing money for food.
But more than the cost, something else bothered him.
He looked around. At the Ferris wheel looming in the distance. At the pharmaceutical company that had destroyed Victor Fries' life and created Mr. Freeze. At Ace Chemicals, where he'd specifically confirmed someone had fallen into a vat.
He'd also learned there was a botanical garden nearby.
Perfect, he thought darkly.
The Joker's origin site. Mr. Freeze's vendetta target. Poison Ivy's eventual territory. The Maroni or Falcone family dining at the Red Dragon—he wasn't sure which, possibly both. Maybe the Penguin. Maybe worse.
This wasn't a neighborhood. It was a villain incubator.
When things went bad here—and they would—it would be catastrophic. The kind of catastrophic where normal people became collateral damage.
The system had gun skills in the shop. One-time saves. Useful items. They might not help against psychopaths in tights or supervillains with freeze rays, but they'd work fine against regular East End criminals.
Drug addicts he could handle. Muggers, thieves, gang members—all manageable with the right tools.
Supervillains and mob wars? Not so much.
Jude stopped walking.
"Actually, I've thought about it. Carefully." He turned to Drake, expression serious. "I think the East End is safer."
Drake blinked. "What?"
"The drug addicts, thugs, prostitutes, gangsters, thieves—I can work with that. That's predictable danger." He gestured at Otisburg. "This place is a powder keg. I'd rather take my chances with street crime than chemical accidents and supervillain origin stories."
"You're serious."
"Completely." Jude started walking back toward the bus stop. "I'm not living in Otisburg. Let's go."
Drake stared at him for a moment, then shrugged.
"Your funeral. Literally."