Jude's expression apparently communicated a complete sentence, because Drake looked genuinely offended.
"What?"
"Are you actually—" Jude's voice caught. "Did you just try to get us killed?"
"We were already dying. Might as well go down saying something interesting."
"That's not a philosophy, that's a—"
BANG. BANG. BANG.
"I'M GOING TO SKIN YOU ALIVE!" The shooter's voice had left coherent threat-making behind and arrived somewhere more visceral. "GONNA MAKE YOU WISH YOU'D STAYED HOME! YOU TWO ARE DEAD! DEAD! I WILL PERSONALLY—"
The bullets stopped being suppressive. Now they came like punctuation—short bursts chewing through brick and concrete, chips and dust spraying past their heads in little storms.
Jude pressed himself flatter against the wall. "Look what you did."
Drake shook his head, almost philosophical. "This is what I hate about Gotham. Nobody wants to de-escalate anymore. Everything goes straight to maximum."
"Keep talking. Die eloquent. That's a great strategy."
They glared at each other. Jude briefly catalogued methods by which Drake might be removed from his vicinity by forces that weren't him—falling debris, a runaway vehicle, Gotham had unusual luck with both—and found none immediately available.
He looked down at the Glock in his hands. He'd been searching for the safety for the last forty seconds. Still hadn't located it.
We barely know each other, he thought. And this might be where it ends.
His eyes moved to the rooftop. The figure was gone.
Don't know you either. But thanks.
Beside him, Drake went very still.
The shooting had stopped.
Not Old Jack's ongoing argument down the street—that continued, punctuated by the occasional creative insult. But here, from the man who'd been targeting them specifically: silence. The screaming had stopped with it.
Two possibilities. Jude's pulse measured the space between them. Either something extremely good had happened, or something extremely bad was about to.
He stared at the edge of the corner wall and didn't move.
A man stepped into view.
Broad through the shoulders, scarred across the knuckles, with a smile that was mostly a statement of intent. The gun in his hand was steady. The barrel tracked directly to Jude's chest.
Jude's finger found the trigger.
Two shots, faster than he could process.
The Glock kicked out of his hand—he felt the impact before he understood it. Drake's pistol clattered on the pavement beside him. The third bullet came last, and Jude felt it as heat rather than pain, a line drawn across his scalp close enough to part his hair. His eyes slammed shut on reflex.
He waited for the fourth.
Around them, the ambient sounds of the city continued. Old Jack's ongoing grievance. Distant sirens going somewhere else. The urban texture of a Tuesday morning in Gotham.
But nothing else. No fourth shot.
He opened one eye.
The man was on the ground, face down, still. Gun still in his hand. Not dead—the slow rise of his back confirmed breathing.
Drake looked at the body. Then at Jude. Then back at the body.
"Did I shoot him?"
"You didn't shoot him. Your gun was already gone."
"Did you—"
"I don't think so, no."
They both looked at their empty hands.
Jude moved first, crouching down and rolling the man carefully to check for entry wounds. Nothing. Strong pulse. Steady breathing. Out cold with no obvious cause.
"He's alive. Unconscious."
"How?"
"Maybe a stroke." The lie was transparent and he didn't much care. He knew exactly what had happened—the figure on the rooftop, the same person who'd lifted his driver's license on his first day and left it in a different pocket. A signature approach. Put them down, no permanent damage, vanish.
He filed it away. In this city, the further from superheroes the better, generally speaking. But she'd saved both their lives and asked nothing for it.
I owe her one.
"Stop looking at the ceiling," Drake said. "Help me search him."
Drake's hands moved with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd learned useful things from a year of watching Gotham operate. He cleared holsters and pockets with methodical speed. A Beretta. A Colt revolver. The Colt M2000 he'd been shooting with. Three guns, two spare magazines, and a loose collection of rounds.
Jude let out a low breath. "That's a lot of iron for one person."
"He's been in half a dozen gangs and none of them kept him." Drake pushed back a sleeve, examined a faded tattoo, then another. "See here—laser removal. Most of them. Whatever's left doesn't mean anything anymore. Too volatile even for gang politics, which is saying something."
"You rode the bus with this person for six months."
"One of the core rules in this city: don't look at people too long, don't ask questions." Drake shrugged. "He always looked like he was considering killing everyone he saw. I just assumed that was a general policy. Not a personal one."
Drake's hands found the wallet. He went still.
"Part of me," he said carefully, "wants to simplify things."
Jude looked at the unconscious man. The gun Drake had put back on the ground. The angle of the man's arms.
He thought about it honestly. This person had tried to kill them both, had come close enough that Jude could feel where the third bullet had passed. He would almost certainly try again if the opportunity came.
That was one calculation.
"Does he know where you live?" Jude asked.
Drake blinked. "No. He's never come near the building. I'd have noticed."
"But he could find out."
Drake thought about it. Nodded slowly.
"The person who stopped him didn't kill him." Jude kept his voice even. "I think we should respect that call." He picked up the wallet and held it out. "Put it back. The money would help, but it's not worth what it costs."
Something shifted in Drake's face.
"You know what," Drake said, "you might actually make it here." He took the wallet and returned it to the man's coat. "Of course, this is Gotham, and letting him wake up today means he might find us tomorrow."
"That's true."
"Your call?"
"I've made my call. It's yours now."
Drake stood, brushed the dust off his knees. "No. You're right." He looked at the unconscious figure. "But I'm not taking this bus again. I'm not a lunatic."
"He's the lunatic." Jude looked at the man's face. Strong jaw, old scars, the particular stillness of someone whose body knew how to rest because it spent so much time doing the opposite. "What's his name?"
"Banner. Clinton Banner."
Jude considered that for a moment. "At least it's not Bruce or Floyd."
Down the street, Old Jack's voice cut through everything: "LAST CALL! BUS IS MOVING! GET ON OR GET LEFT!"
Jude crouched one more time. He took the loose rounds from his pocket, set them where Banner could find them. Laid the revolver near his hand. Placed the hat on the man's chest.
"See you around, cowboy."
They ran for the bus.
Behind them, Banner's eyes opened.
The jacket they'd used to bind his wrists fell away when he moved. One tug. Whoever had tied the knots hadn't done it for permanence.
He watched them go. Two figures getting smaller down the street, one of them still running slightly off-balance.
He picked up the revolver. Extended his arm. Put the front sight on the smaller one's back.
Twenty yards. Clean shot.
His finger rested on the trigger.
He didn't pull it.
Banner lowered the gun. Made a small sound with his tongue.
"Bang," he said quietly.
He holstered the weapon, stood, and walked in the opposite direction without hurrying.
"See you next time, asshole."