Are you feeling unwell?
Jude's brain short-circuited.
How DARE you ask me that question?
You've lived in Gotham for one year. ONE YEAR. And you've already forgotten what normal people consider acceptable?
He had a thousand complaints. They queued up in his mind like passengers at a bus stop, jostling for position, ready to pour out.
But he couldn't pick where to start.
His eyes landed on the gun in Drake's hand.
Drake noticed and laughed, actually looking a bit embarrassed. "I was going to just give you mine, but then I remembered Old Jack was having a sale today. Lucky timing! He still had a barely-used Glock 17 left. Only nine dollars with 9mm ammunition and a magazine."
Jude's brain stuttered. "A sale? The bus driver is having a gun sale?"
"Arms dealing is his side business," Drake explained, like this was completely reasonable. "Lots of people in Gotham buy from him. Quality's hit or miss, and Glocks are a bit light for my taste. Most of them come from cops so sometimes you get heat. But this one's clean. Old Jack wouldn't screw me over."
The bus lurched to a stop. The doors hissed open.
Three men boarded. Tattoos covered their arms like sleeves—skulls, snakes, things Jude didn't want to examine too closely. They moved with the casual swagger of people used to violence.
Drake pressed the Glock into Jude's hands. The metal was cold, heavier than he expected. Drake stuffed extra magazines into his coat pocket with the care of someone packing a lunch.
Jude looked toward the driver's seat.
A line had formed. Two, three people deep. Old Jack steered with one hand—casually, barely looking at the road—while his right hand pulled guns from under his seat. He handed them to passengers like he was selling tickets. Money changed hands. Glocks, revolvers, something that might have been a sawed-off shotgun.
The bus drifted through an intersection. One-handed. Perfect execution.
This is fine, Jude thought hysterically. This is a completely normal morning commute.
"Oh, I haven't asked yet." His voice came out higher than intended. "Why doesn't the bus have windows?"
The doors opened again. More passengers—leather jackets, visible weapons, the kind of people who made eye contact a threat.
"It used to," Drake said. "But after they broke a dozen times or so, the transit authority gave up on replacing them."
"A dozen times?"
"Well, yeah. Since this route starts in the East End, there's some friction now and then."
"Friction—wait." Jude's brain caught on something. "We live in the East End?"
The doors opened. Three women in clothes that were more suggestion than fabric climbed aboard, laughing at some joke Jude definitely didn't want to know.
Jude's knowledge of DC Comics was patchy at best. He wasn't a hardcore fan who knew every storyline, every character connection, every geographic detail.
But he knew about the East End.
Everyone knew about the East End.
If Gotham was the crime capital of America, the East End was its rotted heart. The poorest district. The most dangerous. Poverty, prostitution, drugs, weapons trafficking—all operating openly, brazenly. Beggar gangs controlled the alleys. Crime syndicates ran the streets.
And Crime Alley—the most infamous location in all of Gotham, originally called Park Row—that was here. The place where Thomas and Martha Wayne were murdered. Where Batman was born in blood and trauma.
The East End wasn't just dangerous. It was legendary for being dangerous.
"Where else would I live?" Drake asked. "The Diamond District?"
The doors opened again.
Drug addicts stumbled on. Pale, hollow-eyed, movements jerky and unpredictable. They shuffled toward the back seats like zombies.
Jude watched them sit down.
The bus now contained: gangsters, arms dealers, prostitutes, addicts, and at least a dozen people carrying visible weapons.
It was like someone had taken sulfur, saltpeter, charcoal, and shrapnel, stuffed them all in a metal shell, and sealed it shut.
You couldn't say it would definitely explode.
But one spark...
Jude could only pray that Drake knew what he was doing. That this particular powder keg wouldn't meet its match today.
SCREECH.
Old Jack slammed the brakes.
Everyone lurched forward. Jude's face nearly hit the seat in front of him. Before he could recover, the bus crashed—metal shrieking against metal—into another bus that had merged into their lane.
The impact sent passengers tumbling. Jude hit the floor. His gun skittered away. Someone's elbow caught his ribs.
"DAMN IT!" Old Jack's voice boomed through the bus. "You can't fucking drive?! You running a goddamn speed trial through the East End, hoping to get to hell faster?!"
"FUCK YOU!" The other driver—a middle-aged Black man with the voice of a chain-smoker—leaned out his window. "If you keep yelling I'll put a bullet in your ass! Get the HELL out of my lane!"
They started yelling over each other. Rapid-fire insults delivered with the rhythm and intensity of a rap battle. Creative profanity that would make a sailor blush.
And the traffic?
Kept moving.
Cars simply drove around the crashed buses. Some crossed the solid line. Some drove in the oncoming lane. Nobody honked. Nobody stopped.
Because this was Gotham, and everyone was busy.
A dealer had product to move. A prostitute had clients to see. Someone probably had corpses to dispose of before lunch.
Life went on.
"YOU BASTARD!" Old Jack was standing now, spit flying from his beard, face red with rage. "I'm gonna show you how we reason in Gotham!"
He reached under his seat.
Pulled out a shotgun.
Black. Double-barrel. Very, very illegal.
"Oh my god," Jude whispered. "This is actually happening. This is really happening."
He clutched his Glock like a security blanket. He'd owned the gun for maybe fifteen minutes, but already it felt like his only friend. His brother. His lifeline in this insane city.
Around him, passengers calmly pulled out their own weapons.
Revolvers. Semi-automatics. One guy had what looked like a MAC-10.
Nobody panicked. Nobody screamed.
Just another Tuesday morning.
Drake patted Jude's shoulder. "It's okay. We'll get off and find cover. Old Jack will finish up the shooting and keep driving. You'll still make it to work on time."
Jude stared at him.
"On time," Drake repeated, like this was the important part. "Don't worry. Happens all the time."