Ren stared at Drake, expression torn between shock (40%), despair (30%), disdain (20%), and… a grudging 10% of admiration.
"You're seriously human?"
"We die, we die together."
"I can't believe I didn't realize you were this—"
BANG! BANG! BANG!
"YOU MOTHERFERS! I'M GONNA SKIN YOU ALIVE! I'LL RIP OFF YOUR DKS AND STUFF THEM IN YOUR AES FOR DECORATION! MARK MY F**ING WORDS—IF I DON'T FILL YOU WITH BULLETS TODAY, I'LL BLOW MY OWN BRAINS OUT!"
The bullet storm intensified, hammering the concrete like firecrackers. The shouting only made it worse—louder, nastier, way more personal.
"Yup," Drake nodded. "Now he's mad."
"You think?"
Drake sighed, peeking out from their crumbling cover. "God, what I hate most about Gotham is this... Everyone's emotionally unstable. Nobody talks things out anymore."
"Oh great. You're so good at talking. Why don't you keep doing it—maybe with a priest."
Truth was, both of them were praying the shooter got hit by a bus or struck by satellite debris.
They considered returning fire. Two on one. Odds weren't terrible.
Ren glanced at his Glock, still fumbling with the safety. We're not even on speaking terms, he thought grimly.
Then he looked to the rooftop—the catlike silhouette was gone.
Figures. We weren't close anyway.
Might be time to burn a save.
Then—
"Hey… why'd he stop shooting?" Drake asked.
Huh. The gunfire and screaming had suddenly stopped.
And that silence? That didn't feel safe. That felt final.
Ren's heart was slamming against his ribs as he slowly inched toward the edge of their cover.
Please be luck. Don't let it be death.
THERE!
From the shadows, the man emerged—a huge grinning brute, pistol raised.
BANG! BANG!
Too fast. Ren didn't even squeeze the trigger. The shots slammed the Glock from his hand, knocked Drake's weapon loose too.
"F*!"**
BANG!
Ren felt the air ripple. A bullet skimmed past his temple, taking a chunk of his hairline with it.
He flinched—eyes shut.
And then… nothing.
Just more shouting from the bus. And a thud.
Had Drake somehow scored a lucky shot?
He cracked one eye open—and blinked. The shooter was down.
Unmoving.
But not bleeding.
Drake looked just as confused.
Ren leaned in and flipped the man over. Still breathing. No bullet wounds.
"He's unconscious," Ren said slowly.
"Why the hell is he unconscious?" Drake asked.
"Maybe we annoyed him into passing out."
That wasn't the truth, though. Ren had a guess.
That kind of clean takedown, stealthy enough to avoid their notice, fast enough to knock out a gunman without breaking a sweat… That screamed Catwoman.
And if she'd left the guy alive, it meant one thing: She wanted them to.
"Quit daydreaming," Drake called. "Strip his ammo. Tie him up."
Say what you would about Drake's combat skills—his street smarts were decent. As they frisked the brute, they came up with a Beretta, a Colt revolver, Drake's own Colt M2000, two full mags, and a couple bags of ammo. Dude was packing like a small-time warlord.
"You sure he's not with a gang?" Ren asked as he tied the guy's hands with their jackets.
"Been in a few," Drake replied, squinting at some faded tattoos. "Didn't stick with any. Even gang bosses get tired of hotheads."
"You mean you've been on a bus with this psycho for six months and never noticed he wanted to kill you?"
"Look," Drake said, "the only reason I've survived this long on Gotham buses is because I don't look too hard or ask too much. He looks at everyone like he wants to beat their faces in. How was I supposed to know I was special?"
He fished out the guy's wallet, hesitating.
"Not gonna lie… kind of don't want to let this guy walk away."
Ren looked down at the unconscious hulk. Yeah, the bastard had almost blown his head off.
Still…
"Does he know where you live?" Ren asked.
Drake frowned. "Never seen him near my place."
"But if he wanted to find it, he could've, right?"
"…Yeah."
Ren sighed and holstered his gun. "Well, whoever saved us didn't kill him. Might be a message. So let's return the favor."
"You sure?" Drake asked.
Ren nodded. "Put the wallet back. The cash isn't worth it."
Drake gave him a long look—surprised. Maybe Ren wasn't a total lost cause in Gotham after all.
Still, this was Gotham. Doing the "right" thing could easily get you killed the next day.
"Your call," Drake muttered, stuffing the wallet back.
"But I swear to god, I'm never riding that bus again. I'm not some spaghetti Western cowboy."
Ren chuckled. "That guy sure looked the part. What's his name?"
"Clinton Banner."
"Good. As long as it's not Bruce or Floyd."
BANG!
A gunshot rang out from the street.
Then came old man Jack's booming voice:
"BUS IS MOVING, YOU LAZY SACKS! GET YOUR ASSES ON BOARD!"
Ren looked back at Banner, now slumped unconscious against the alley wall.
He walked over, tucked the revolver and ammo back into the man's coat, and even set his hat straight.
"See you in hell, cowboy."
Then he and Drake took off, racing toward the bullet-riddled bus.
Behind them, Banner's eyes slowly opened.
With a grunt, he stretched—and the makeshift bindings popped loose like wet paper.
Clearly, Ren wasn't a pro at tying people up.
Banner raised his revolver, aiming at Ren's retreating back.
But after a long pause… he didn't pull the trigger.
Instead, he whispered to himself:
"Bang."
Then he holstered his gun and walked the other way.
"Next time, asshole."