The battered old bus rattled along the cracked streets of Gotham, groaning through the morning traffic and foggy gloom of the East End, crawling from the Upper East to the western reaches of the city.
"Thank god," Drake sighed. "At least there wasn't a second shootout. And Old Jack's still alive."
Ren turned to him, eyebrows raised. "Hold up—second shootout?"
"Depends on the day," Drake said casually. "Usually, no. But, y'know… East End. Sometimes one busload of grudges isn't enough."
That's not normal, Ren thought, deadpan.
"So what happens to all the bodies and blood left in the street?"
"Gone in fifteen minutes," Drake answered like it was nothing. "The gangs have cleanup crews. Very efficient."
"And if the driver dies?"
"Oh, that's rare. Drivers are part of the 'atmosphere.' Think of them like… tennis ball servers. Someone's gotta fire the first shot. Sure, there's a lot of shooters in Gotham, but guys willing to drive these buses? Not many. So nowadays, they only get hit by accident—strays, ricochets. Unlucky stuff."
Ren's eyes lit up with genuine curiosity. "What's the pay for bus drivers like? Are they hiring?"
Drake grinned. "Old Jack's rig went through three drivers last year. One caught shrapnel in the neck from a grenade. One took a ricochet to the face and lost his sight. And the third tried to raise gun prices during a sale—got his balls blown off. So yeah, turnover's pretty fast. You want in, there's always room."
Ren's face turned serene and pure, the light of clarity beaming from his eyes.
"So 'Old Jack' is the bus name, not the driver. The actual driver's just a disposable accessory... Wait—people bring grenades on this bus?"
"Usually not," Drake said. "Too expensive. But you know how it is. East End's got more lunatics than sane folks."
He sighed after saying it, as if recalling some unpleasant memory of his time in the district.
As they talked, the bus finally rolled into the Otisburg District. Drake tugged Ren to his feet.
"Come on. Your job's not far from here," he said, checking his watch. "Hey, look at that—it's only 8:20. You're actually early for your first shift."
"You're right," Ren replied as he swiped through the System Store on his phone, checking for any food items. "But considering I almost got my brains blown out on the way here, my head might object to the word lucky."
Compared to the chaos, filth, and low-rise ruins of the East End, Otisburg looked almost civilized.
Here, rows of steel-and-glass towers loomed above, sunlight glinting off corporate logos. Smokestacks churned thick black plumes into the sky, and even the older residential blocks were clean—cluttered, sure, but not rotting.
"Don't bother gawking," Drake said with a sneer. "That one over there? Used to be one of Gotham's top pharmaceutical companies. After one accident, it's a hollow shell now. Can't imagine how long the building's got left."
Ren caught the implication immediately. "Wait, you're not talking about Wayne Biotech, are you?"
"Wayne? Nah. Say what you want about that playboy brat, at least he's got a conscience," Drake said. "This one's the company that used to work with Dr. Victor. We're friends now, so I'll be straight with you."
"In the past few months, I dug up some stuff. Victor didn't disappear because of a lab accident. That company pulled the plug on his wife's life support. That's what really caused the incident."
Ren nodded. He didn't know Freeze's backstory in full, but he did recall something about Wayne Biotech helping him. Then again, maybe he was misremembering—or maybe this was just one of DC's infinite multiverse variants.
DC's continuity was basically a blender with a glitchy reboot button. If editors didn't know what was canon, how could he?
"Not like I could do anything about it even if I cared," he muttered to himself. "I can't even work a gun. Some thug with a kitchen knife could probably kill me in two seconds."
As they strolled through Otisburg, Ren idly scanned the buildings—Stagg Industries… the old ACE Chemicals… a few seedy-looking clubs with neon signs. In the distance, he spotted a huge Ferris wheel poking up behind a cluster of warehouses.
If he were better-versed in Gotham landmarks, he might've gasped on the spot.
But the sight of the Ferris wheel did ring a faint bell.
"Oh. Killing Joke."
"What?" Drake asked.
"Nothing. Is that an amusement park?"
Drake followed his gaze, then let out a long sigh.
"Yeah… or it was. They shut the whole thing down after the Waynes got murdered. Even the local theater dried up. Neighborhood went to hell after that. Nobody brings kids around anymore, so the place just rotted."
Ren thought to himself, Probably for the best. That place only gets reopened when someone's about to suffer.
He had vague memories—Commissioner Gordon forced to watch his daughter's humiliating photos while strapped to a Ferris wheel. His son turning villain. His daughter getting shot and paralyzed.
If it were up to him, he'd burn the whole damn park to the ground.
Just then, Drake stopped walking.
"We're here."