"You son of a bitch! Let's see how you talk in Gotham NOW!"
"You old bastard! You're not the only one with a gun!"
The drivers opened fire.
No warning. No countdown. Just immediate, enthusiastic violence.
And the passengers?
They moved like a choreographed dance troupe.
People poured out of windows with practiced efficiency. Some dove behind cars. Others slipped into doorways. A few unlucky souls caught by stray bullets—not fatally, just winged—found cover, drew their own weapons, and joined the firefight. Those who weren't hit simply waited, scrolling through phones or checking watches.
The whole process was smooth. Orderly. You couldn't call it well-trained, exactly.
But you could definitely call it practiced.
Jude watched the chaos unfold around him and felt tears prick his eyes.
"Drake," he said, voice thick with emotion. "If you want me dead, just say so. You don't need to be subtle about it."
"This bus is the fastest and safest option in the East End," Drake insisted, pulling Jude behind a concrete corner. "Any other route, we'd be stuck in traffic behind someone with a gun, or your wallet would get stolen, or worse. In Gotham, every week someone gets raped on a bus. Or they just disappear when they get off."
CRACK.
A bullet punched through the concrete inches from Jude's head. Dust and fragments exploded into the air.
"How," Jude said carefully, "is this the safe option?"
Drake grinned like he'd been waiting for this question.
"Trust me. This bus is different. Most people here have grudges. Old vendettas. In Gotham, when you've got beef but it's inconvenient to settle it the normal way—or when there is no normal way—you make plans."
He gestured at the ongoing shootout like a tour guide pointing out landmarks.
"Maybe you robbed my customer. Maybe I sold you fake product. Maybe we just bumped into each other on the street wrong. Doesn't matter. We both know those aren't the real reasons we're pulling guns. We're just tired. Angry. Done with all of it."
More gunfire. Someone screamed. Glass shattered.
"So if you can't deal with it elsewhere, you come here. A bus full of desperate men. Weapons available for purchase. Everyone's got nothing but their life and a mountain of problems. You and your enemy draw guns, shoot it out, settle it. Winner breathes easier. Loser gets dumped in the harbor. End of story."
Drake's smile was almost proud.
"So unless some lunatic specifically hates us and chases us down, we're fine. We're just hitchhikers. Bystanders. And this corner?" He patted the concrete. "Prime real estate. I picked it carefully. Good sightlines, hidden, perfect distance. We can watch the show without drawing attention. When it's over, we catch up to the bus and keep going."
He leaned back, relaxed.
"I've been using this spot for six months. Worst injury I got was a sprained ankle from running too fast."
Jude stared at him.
That was actually... kind of clever? Drake had survived a year in Gotham by being smart, adaptable, and—
BANG.
A bullet hit the ground at Jude's feet.
"Hey! You little shit hiding in the corner!"
The voice came from the shootout. Loud, angry, focused.
On them.
"I've been WATCHING you for half a year! You think this is entertainment? You think you can just sit there and watch us fight like it's a fucking SHOW?"
Another bullet. Closer.
"Show yourself! I'm gonna put a bullet in your face!"
Jude turned slowly to look at Drake.
Drake's confident smile had frozen on his face.
"Is this," Jude said quietly, "what you call safe?"
"How was I supposed to know!" Drake's voice climbed an octave. "Who rides this bus for six months straight without dying?! Who takes a bus specifically to target some random guy hiding in a corner?! I was so low-key!"
CRACK. CRACK.
Two more bullets. One hit the wall next to Jude's head.
"Stop talking!" Jude grabbed Drake's jacket. "Think of something!"
Drake's eyes darted around their corner. It was a good hiding spot. Excellent, even.
Except for one problem: very limited escape routes.
If they wanted to run to another street, they'd have to expose themselves to gunfire for three, maybe four seconds.
In Gotham, three seconds was a lifetime.
Drake's expression changed. The panic drained away, replaced by something cold and focused. His eyes sharpened. His breathing steadied.
He looked like a different person. Like John Wick planning an assassination. Like Agent 47 calculating angles and trajectories.
Pure professionalism.
"Don't worry," he said quietly. "I'll get you out."
His mind raced through the escape route. He could see it clearly: roll out from behind the corner, use the car's engine block to shield from 9mm rounds. Sprint during the reload gap—he'd hear the click of the magazine—vault over the car hood, dive behind the dumpster. Use the visual cover to break line of sight, then crash through the bookstore door across the street. Up the stairs, out the second-floor window, combat roll on landing, disappear into the alley.
Even if the shooter fired, the bullets would miss. They'd whistle past his face, maybe graze his jacket, but he'd be untouched. Untouchable.
Perfect execution.
"Watch this," Drake said.
That cold smile touched his lips.
He calmly took off one shoe. Held it by the toe. Swung it around the corner like bait.
CRACK. CRACK.
Two holes appeared in the leather.
Drake pulled the shoe back. Looked at it for a moment.
Then put it back on his foot.
One second passed.
"You COWARD! Get OUT here!"
Two seconds.
"HAHAHA! Scared little bitch! Let's see whose gun is bigger!"
Jude looked at Drake.
Drake looked at the corner.
"What are you doing?" Jude asked. "Didn't you say you had a solution?"
Drake's professional demeanor crumbled. The awkward smile returned.
"I think," he said slowly, "it's actually safer if we just... stay here. His aim is a little better than I expected. If we try the escape plan, we might end up with a few extra holes in the first second."
Jude closed his eyes.
I'm so stupid, he thought. Really. So stupid.
I thought: Drake's lived in Gotham for a year. He can find me a job. He can keep me alive. That's all I need.
I didn't think about: how ridiculous he is. How much he attracts trouble. How his survival might be 90% luck.
"Did you ever consider," Jude said, opening his eyes, "that someone who survives on this bus for six months might be a really, REALLY good shot?"
"It didn't occur to me!" Drake snapped.
"STOP ARGUING AND THINK OF SOMETHING! You're Gotham's biological son! You've lived here a year!"
"I haven't even met Batman!"
They glared at each other.
Another bullet whistled past.
Then Jude saw something.
Movement on the rooftop.
A figure stood silhouetted against the grey Gotham sky. Black suit, sleek lines, unmistakably feminine. She looked down at them with an expression Jude couldn't quite read from this distance.
But he could see the smile.
Sharp. Amused. Predatory.
Like a cat watching mice argue in a corner.