Chapter 7: Huh?

Drake was a complete amateur at robbery, yet hearing gunshots over the phone didn't change his expression at all. He asked into the phone: "Donald, are you busy?"

That gruff male voice seemed very patient. He listened to Drake finish, then answered unhurriedly: "Not busy right now, just wrapping things up."

"Bang!" Another gunshot.

"Here's the thing — I have a friend, just arrived in Gotham, and everything he knows is just normal-people skills, totally useless in Gotham City."

"You want him to work for me?"

"Don't you have a restaurant? His face is perfect for drawing women in to eat. He can't fight, but he's not too scared either. Just an ordinary guy, but he's got a decent way with words, plenty of guts, won't get stage fright."

"Someone with a silver tongue won't keep his mouth shut."

"Bang!"

"Please, don't—"

"Bang!"

"I swear to you, his mouth is absolutely tight — he's just an ordinary person, no reason to throw his life away bragging."

"Bang! Bang!"

A few more gunshots came from the other end of the line. After a moment, that gruff male voice spoke again: "Drake, we're even."

"Of course."

"Is the kid with you?"

Ma Ma Zhaodi immediately took the phone: "I'm here."

"Be at work by nine tomorrow morning."

"Beep—beep—"

Staring at the hung-up phone, listening to the busy tone, Ma Ma Zhaodi turned to Drake with a completely blank look.

"?"

"Why are you looking at me? He said go to work, so that means he agreed."

"The location? The requirements? I don't even know what I'm supposed to wear."

"I'll drive you there, just remember the route. The restaurant has waiters' uniforms on hand. As for what to do — just the usual waiter stuff: greet customers, take orders, serve food, wipe tables, nothing else. Oh, right, you also need to bring a gun. Doesn't matter if you know how to use it, but you definitely have to bring one. I'll leave mine for you."

Ma Ma Zhaodi let out a dry laugh. Damn Gotham — the standard kit for going to work is a gun; nothing else matters.

"Oh, do you have a wallet?"

"No, I'm used to only bringing my phone when I go out — wait, shit, I don't even have a phone!"

"You can have my wallet, but I can't give you my phone. Still, Kamilla doesn't really contact people much, doesn't socialize much either. I'll talk to her and have her give you her phone — you do have a SIM card, right?"

"No problem, I've got that."

Ma Ma Zhaodi accepted everything Drake offered without hesitation, because damn it, it was all owed to him. Even setting aside the fact that he'd given up a life, just by the asset points alone, he'd handed over a life-restoration originally worth $9,999.

Ten thousand dollars for a wallet, a phone, and a gun — even adding a waiter job in Gotham, that's really a premium, isn't it.

Thinking of this, he couldn't help but silently praise the System's thoughtfulness. It provided several bank cards and a SIM card from common American banks, saving him a lot of trouble.

Drake didn't waste any time, first going to find Kamilla. Whatever they were up to in the room, Ma Ma Zhaodi had already laid out his bedding on the floor by the time Drake came out with a small phone and handed it to Ma Ma Zhaodi.

That night, Drake and Kamilla's room was surprisingly quiet, and Ma Ma Zhaodi slept soundly on the sofa.

The next morning.

Drake got up early and woke Ma Ma Zhaodi, who was still asleep.

"Let's go, I'll take you to work."

Groggy-eyed Ma Ma Zhaodi looked at the clock hanging in the living room — the hour and minute hands both pointed at seven — which left him a bit confused: "Why so early? Isn't it only seven?"

"We don't have a car."

"Huh?"

A moment later, a thoroughly resigned Ma Ma Zhaodi scrambled up, threw on his clothes, and was immediately dragged out the door by Drake. The two jogged along until they reached a battered iron pole nearby, covered in Kong Dong.

"Drake, I get that you don't want me to be late, but we should at least eat breakfast first."

"No time, we'll grab something on the way. Any later and we might not make it."

Drake explained as he wrapped a scarf around Ma Ma Zhaodi's neck.

"God, how far is this place you got me?"

"Olddisburg District, not close to the East End, but the route's decent. If we're lucky, about half an hour."

After the scarf, Drake pulled out a hat and plopped it on Ma Ma Zhaodi's head.

"Huh?"

Ma Ma Zhaodi's face was blank: "What do you mean, lucky—"

"Squeak—"

A bus pulled in, the doors opened, and Ma Ma Zhaodi's question was cut off. Drake pulled him onto the bus, and they found seats first.

Ma Ma Zhaodi dropped into the seat, about to keep asking, when he felt a howling wind on half his face. The cold air snapped him awake instantly. He turned to look — every single window on the bus was gone. The freezing air roared in through the empty space where the front windshield should have been, and the people around him had basically all wrapped their heads up tight.

"This?"

Before he could collect himself, he saw Drake sitting beside him pull a gun out of his pocket and hold it.

"What are you doing?"

Drake didn't answer him, but stood up and walked over to the bus driver and started chatting with him.

"Shit, you can't just bother—"

Ma Ma Zhaodi was about to pull Drake back when his gaze fell on his seat and he suddenly noticed something off — why were there Kong Dong in Drake's seat?

He'd wanted to ask when he first got on: why did the bus body have so many welded patches? Tiny pieces of sheet metal welded densely all over the body, patched together like a quilted coat sewn from scraps.

"Wait — are those bullet holes?"

He'd assumed there might be a few thugs, a few gangsters, a few prostitutes, a few junkies on board — but you're telling me there's a gunfight on the bus too?

Maybe I should just get out and walk to work — that might actually be safer?

Just then, Drake seemed to reach some kind of agreement with the driver — he opened his wallet, took out a few colorful bills, and handed them to the driver. The driver gave him a knowing grin and produced, from who knows where, a handgun and a few magazines, which he handed over.

"Huh?"

Drake came back holding the pistol as if to Claim Credit, sat down beside Ma Ma Zhaodi, noticed his mood seemed unsteady, and asked with concern.

"What's wrong with you? Are you feeling unwell somewhere?"

(End of chapter)