Jude thought he'd adapted to Gotham.
One week working at the Red Dragon. He'd witnessed gunfights, met criminals and gangsters, encountered a superhero and a future supervillain. Served both destitute slum dwellers and wealthy elites. Even gotten used to falling asleep while watching criminals dangle from gargoyles.
Honestly, he thought, the way they hang there is almost hypnotic.
Apart from the occasional creepy customer his face attracted, he felt adapted. Maybe not thriving, but surviving. Getting comfortable with the city's baseline madness.
He clocked out at the usual time, walked through the alley toward home, folded wheelchair under his arm.
A voice stopped him at the building entrance.
"Hey. Give me the wheelchair."
Jude's brain buffered for several seconds.
Robberies were common in the East End. He'd seen plenty. The process was always the same—gun out, wallet over, everyone goes home.
But this guy's methodology was unique.
"Sorry." Jude pointed at the wheelchair. "You want to take my wheelchair?"
The robber grinned, gun steady in his hand. "Yeah! Hand it over! I know about you. Everyone in the East End knows. Every night some maniac on a glowing wheelchair racing through the streets. I know that's how you get home so fast. That thing's a treasure!"
Jude blinked. "You... could just steal a car? Why are you fixated on my wheelchair?"
The robber's expression cycled through emotions. Fierce. Thoughtful. Confused.
"Just—shut up! Give me the wheelchair!"
"From a safety perspective, I should warn you that ordinary people might not be able to—"
BANG.
The bullet whined past Jude's shoulder, punched into brick. Inches from his head.
His tenth shooting incident this week.
Sensitivity training, basically. The first few times, he'd been paralyzed with terror. Now? Still scared, but functionally so. He'd built up a tolerance.
"Here." He held out the wheelchair. "Take it. Please don't shoot me."
Not cowardice. Just risk assessment. Previous shootings, he'd had cover. Darkness. Distance. This time, the gun was pointed directly at his face, loaded and ready.
Much more dangerous.
"Money too. And your clothes. All of it."
"The money, sure, but can I keep my—"
"STRIP."
You're pushing it, Jude thought, anger flaring. Then he quickly stripped off his jacket, leaving just a shirt and pants. Pulled his driver's license from the jacket pocket. Popped the SIM card from his phone.
"Okay. Two pieces of clothing left. Here's my cash. Now leave."
"Gun too."
BANG.
The shot came from behind the robber.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out of the shadows, gun raised. Spat on the ground.
"That's my gun, asshole."
The robber clutched his hand, screaming. The bullet had shattered his pistol and opened his palm in the process.
Jude recognized the newcomer immediately.
Clinton Banner. The cowboy from the bus. The one they'd tied up and left alive.
Banner's eyes promised violence. The robber, reading the situation correctly, abandoned all thoughts of resistance. Scrambled onto the wheelchair. Didn't even try for the wallet or phone.
Found the controls. Hit the throttle.
Rainbow lights activated.
The wheelchair shot forward, vanished around the corner.
"He's got talent," Jude observed. "But I really don't recommend going that fast without proper—"
"Give me my gun back." Banner's tone cut through Jude's commentary. "Stop talking. If you don't have the guts to use it, don't carry it."
"It's just a regular Beretta." Jude pulled the pistol from his waistband, handed it over. "Unmodified. You're acting like it's some kind of legendary weapon."
"Shut up." Banner holstered both the Beretta and his revolver. Didn't ask about the Colt—probably assumed Jude had lost or sold it. He spat at Jude's feet. "I've been riding Old Jack's bus for a week waiting for you. You didn't show. Then I hear you're racing around the East End in a wheelchair like some Arkham escapee."
Damn it.
Jude pulled his jacket back on, pocketed his license and phone. Turned and walked toward the stairs.
No point arguing with a man that reckless. A few insults wouldn't kill him. Fighting back? That might.
Last time someone argued with Clinton, they'd gotten shot at.
Clinton watched him go with obvious contempt.
"Gotham's full of cowards."
"Gotham's full of idiots and lunatics," Jude muttered, climbing the stairs.
"I got robbed," Jude announced, storming into Drake's apartment.
Drake looked up from the newspaper. "Again?"
"Some asshole stole my wheelchair. At gunpoint. Because apparently wheelchairs are more valuable than cars now."
"Based on your commute times, your wheelchair is faster than ninety percent of Gotham's drivers." Drake checked his watch without expression. "It's 10:14. You went upstairs at 10:13. Assuming the robbery took three minutes, you made it home in ten minutes total."
"Nine," Jude corrected, slightly smug. "Nine minutes."
"What are you proud of?"
Drake shook his head. "That's twenty-five percent faster than last week. I'm genuinely worried I'll see a headline: 'Speeding Ghost-Fire Wheelchair Rear-Ends Supercar, Driver Reduced to Paste.'"
"Doesn't matter now." Jude dropped into a chair, dejected. "It's gone anyway. I spent so much time modifying that thing. Top speed one hundred miles per hour."
Five hundred asset points on Advanced Wheelchair Driving Proficiency, gone.
All that effort, wasted.
Somewhere in the East End, rainbow lights streaked through darkness.
"STOP! STOP THIS DAMN THING!"
The thief's screams dopplered past confused pedestrians.
The wheelchair showed no signs of slowing.
Next morning.
Jude left for work early. Drake stayed home, reading the Gotham Gazette over breakfast.
A headline caught his eye.
URBAN LEGEND CONFIRMED: 'GHOST-FIRE WHEELCHAIR' REAR-ENDS WAYNE ENTERPRISES EXECUTIVE
Driver Hospitalized with Multiple Fractures
Wheelchair Impounded as Evidence
Drake stared at the article for a long moment.
Set down his coffee.
Started laughing.
Couldn't stop.