SYSTEM NOTIFICATION
Mission: Winter in Gotham City
Description: Gotham experiences ten months of rain and two months of snow. For some, winter is an inconvenience. For others, a minor annoyance. But for some, winter is a death sentence that requires every ounce of strength to survive. For them, a bowl of porridge can mean the difference between living and dying.
Even the tragic heroes in novels usually have a roof over their heads. Sometimes you cannot imagine how cruel fate can be.
Status: In Progress (0%)
Rewards: Scale with task completion
Special Effect: All food you prepare gains the "Festival" attribute. Each orphan fed strengthens this effect by 0.001%.
Additional Reward: $100 asset points per 0.001% completion
Completion Rate: 1% = $1,000 | 10% = $10,000 | 100% = $100,000
Jude read the notification three times.
One hundred thousand dollars in asset points. Even at fifty percent completion, that was fifty grand. The most generous mission the system had ever offered.
He waited for the catch.
"Why so generous this time?" he asked the empty air.
The system didn't respond. Which meant either there was no catch, or the catch was so obvious it didn't need explaining.
Jude suspected the latter.
Still, the danger level had to be lower than his previous missions. Nobody was trying to bomb anyone. Nobody was hunting Holiday Killers. This was just... cooking. Feeding kids.
How bad could it be?
He dismissed the notification and turned the corner toward where he'd left his car.
The street was empty.
Jude stopped walking. Blinked. Looked again.
Still empty.
"Where the hell is my car?"
He walked to the exact spot where he'd parked the Death Car two days ago. Nothing. The heavy snow had buried even the tire tracks. The entire corner looked like it had never seen a vehicle.
His brain stuttered.
"No. No fucking way." He turned in a slow circle, scanning the street. "Who stole it? My car's been parked here for weeks. Gangs won't touch it. Thieves won't touch it. I use it as a damn security system. What kind of suicidal materialist stole my cursed car?"
Aren't they afraid of dying horribly?
Movement caught his eye. Down the block, a familiar shape turned the corner. Grey paint, boxy frame, unmistakable silhouette.
His car.
"You've GOT to be kidding me!"
Jude broke into a run. The car seemed to hesitate at the intersection, engine idling. Then it spotted him charging forward and the accelerator roared.
The Death Car fled.
"Get back here!"
Man chased car through the snowy streets of Gotham. Passersby watched with blank expressions. Some even smirked.
Welcome to Gotham. Population: No One Gives a Shit.
Jude logged every smirking face into the system's notepad while running. If any of these assholes showed up at the cruise party, they'd learn exactly how powerful system-grade laxatives could be.
The chase lasted fifteen minutes.
Jude's lungs burned. His legs screamed. The Death Car's tires spun uselessly on the icy pavement, unable to gain real speed, which was the only reason he could keep up at all. The Horn of Plenty had been restoring his health steadily, filling out his frame, clearing his vision, but cardiovascular fitness took time.
Time he apparently didn't have.
The car turned into an alley and stopped.
Jude followed the tire tracks through the snow, stumbling into the narrow space while gasping for air. Not half-dead, exactly. Just thoroughly, catastrophically exhausted.
His athletic ability had peaked in middle school, declined in high school, and died completely in college. Running reminded him of this in excruciating detail.
He collapsed against the car's hood, wheezing. Slapped the window weakly.
"Great," he panted. "The most useful thing in my apartment knows to drag the most useless thing out for exercise. Am I supposed to thank you?"
The car didn't answer.
Jude caught his breath and straightened. Something felt wrong. He glanced down at the alley floor. The snow had been disturbed, hastily swept or brushed aside. Amateur work. Obvious if you knew to look.
His car wasn't possessed. Someone had stolen it.
He opened the driver's door. Wires hung from beneath the steering column, crudely twisted together.
"Amateur hour." Jude studied the work. "Newbie thief. Probably young."
The anger drained away, replaced by calculation. He pulled up the system shop, scrolled through options, and made two purchases.
Intermediate Tracking Mastery - $3,500
Basic Car Repair Kit - $10
The tracking knowledge flooded his brain immediately—footprint analysis, trail reading, urban pursuit patterns. Combined with his basic driving skill's vehicle repair knowledge, fixing the ignition was simple.
Five minutes later, the car purred to life properly.
Jude studied the snow. Small footprints leading deeper into the alley. Child-sized. Running.
"Let's see who's brave enough to steal from me," he murmured, and followed the trail.
Jason Todd hammered on the iron door with both fists, breath misting in the freezing air. He kept glancing over his shoulder at the alley entrance.
"Open up! It's Jason! Open the door!"
"Jason? Jason's back!"
Cheers erupted from inside. Chains rattled. The door's locking mechanism was more elaborate than the door itself—three separate chains, two padlocks, one wooden crossbar.
Ten seconds later, the door cracked open. A dirty face peered out.
Jason shoved past him immediately.
"Move! Someone's following me!"
"Following you? Wait, didn't you go out to sell the—"
The other kid watched Jason fumble with the rusty chain, expression bright with hope. Then he looked past Jason at the empty alley behind him.
The hope died.
"The car didn't sell?"
Jason's hands froze on the chain. He didn't answer. Didn't look back. Just locked the door with shaking fingers and walked inside.
Two steps in, he stopped.
The orphanage was a ruin held together by newspaper, scrap wood, and desperation. Snow dripped through holes in the ceiling. Water pooled in corners. Twenty children huddled around a pathetic fire, faces hollow, bodies skeletal beneath tattered clothes.
They all turned to look at him.
Another kid rushed forward and grabbed Jason in a hug. "Jason! Did you sell that car we stole?"
Jason stared at the expectant faces. His hands clenched until his nails cut into his palms. His lips trembled.
They hadn't eaten in three days. Everyone was counting on him. On this sale. On the money that would buy food, fuel, maybe medicine for the sick ones coughing in the corner.
He'd failed them.
A man's voice called from outside the door.
"Please help me open the door. I'm the cook he hired."