Feeling unwell? How the hell do you even ask that?! You've lived in Gotham for a year and completely lost any sense of what "normal life" looks like, haven't you?!
Marcus had a thousand complaints but no idea where to start. His gaze finally settled on the gun in Drake's hand. Drake laughed modestly.
"I was going to give you mine, but I remembered Old Jack was dumping stock today, so I asked him. You're lucky he had a barely used Glock 17 left. Gun, magazines, and 9mm ammo three hundred bucks."
"Hold on. Dumping stock? Glock 17? The bus driver's side hustle is arms dealing?!"
"Relax. Plenty of locals buy these. Quality depends on luck, and they're light cop guns. A lot come straight from police departments, so they sometimes cause trouble."
"But this one's solid. Old Jack won't screw me."
As they spoke, several tattooed brutes boarded the bus. Marcus accepted the gun in a daze as Drake tucked extra magazines into his jacket pocket. He glanced at the driver again. A small line had formed beside him. Old Jack casually steered with one hand, chatted now and then, and passed out guns with the other taking cash in return.
The bastard even drifted one handed through an intersection.
"Oh right, I still haven't asked!" Marcus stared at the empty windshield. "Why doesn't the bus have glass?"
Several leather jacketed thugs boarded.
"It used to," Drake replied. "After it shattered a dozen times, the company stopped fixing it."
"…A dozen times?"
"Well, this bus starts in the East End. Minor frictions happen."
"Wait wait." Marcus clutched his forehead. "You're saying we live in the East End?"
Scantily dressed women laughed as they boarded. Marcus wasn't a hardcore Batman lore expert but even he knew the East End. Fame is hard to earn. Infamy is easy. Gotham's East End was exactly that.
Gotham was already America's crime capital. And the East End was its most notorious district. The least developed area. Packed with poverty, crime, prostitution, drugs, and weapons trade. Beggar gangs, criminals, sex workers, addicts, enforcers, arms dealers everywhere.
Its most infamous alley was once called Park Row. It was here that Thomas Wayne and Martha Wayne were shot dead. After that, it was renamed Crime Alley. If you didn't know who they were just remember the Wayne family founded Gotham.
"Yeah," Drake replied. "Where else would I live? The Diamond District?"
"…"
Pale, hollow eyed addicts staggered in and collapsed into the back seats. Marcus felt despair well up. No wonder so many "talents" had boarded. This bus was like stuffing sulfur, saltpeter, charcoal, and shrapnel into a metal shell and sealing it shut. It might not explode. But if it saw fire it absolutely could.
All Marcus could do was pray Drake knew what he was doing.
Screech BOOM!
The bus slammed its brakes. Before everyone could steady themselves, it smashed into another bus cutting in from the side. Passengers tumbled like bowling pins.
"F***! You blind bastard! Can't drive for s***?! Driving this fast in the East End trying to rush to hell?!"
"Say one more word and I'll shove a bullet up your a**! Get the f*** outta here!"
The other driver a middle aged Black man fired back with equal ferocity, rapping insults at West Coast rapper speed. Surprisingly, traffic didn't jam. Gotham citizens had evolved both driving skills and mental resilience. Also a mindset that prioritized survival over morality.
In short, the two drivers started trash talking. Everyone else floored it past them crossing solid lines, driving into oncoming lanes. People were busy. In one morning, a citizen might sell a few dozen grams, take six clients, or dispose of three bodies. Gotta live, after all.
"You son of a b****!" Old Jack's rage peaked. "I'll teach you how Gotham people reason things out!"
He reached under his seat and pulled out a black, yawning shotgun.
BOOM!
Section 6
"Holy f***, it actually went hot!"
Marcus Reed looked utterly hopeless. Trembling, he hugged the handgun tightly to his chest. It had only been in his hands for barely ten minutes, but from the moment Old Jack fired that shot, the gun had officially become one of his sworn brothers in life and death.
Yet everyone around him looked calm. They had already drawn their weapons. Even Drake patted him on the shoulder.
"It's fine. In a moment, we'll get off the bus and hide somewhere safe. Once Old Jack finishes shooting, he'll keep driving. You'll still make it to work on time."
What the hell does "finish shooting and keep driving" even mean?!