Chapter 3: Someone's Actually Robbing a Broke Guy?!
Marcus Dean wandered aimlessly through the streets of Gotham City. Strangely enough, he'd been roaming around for nearly twenty minutes—and hadn't run into a single mugger.
He was starting to wonder if he'd ended up in a fake version of Gotham.
"Hey, pal."
Right as that thought crossed his mind, a man in sunglasses, a face mask, and a hoodie stepped out and blocked his path.
Hell yes—finally! Marcus perked up. Whether or not he could scrounge up his first pot of gold tonight all hinged on this.
Sure, begging wasn't exactly a noble path to wealth, but if it got him enough for a bite to eat, it was good enough. Every penny he didn't have to spend from the system was a penny saved.
The next second, the guy reached into his waistband and pulled out a gun, pointing it straight at Marcus. His voice was sharp and aggressive.
"Don't move. Hand over everything you've got!"
His shout echoed through the street, loud enough that a few passing pedestrians turned to look—then quickly picked up the pace and vanished down the block.
Staring down the barrel of the gun, Marcus suddenly found himself at a loss for words. This wasn't what he'd expected when he set out to "get robbed." Gotham's criminals really didn't mess around—pulling a gun was just the starting point?
If the guy had pulled out a knife or something, maybe Marcus could've at least kept his cool enough to talk.
Avoiding the muzzle of the gun, Marcus instinctively glanced toward the upper right corner of his vision. The health regen icon and checkpoint marker were still there, fully charged and ready to go. Most importantly, his "Safe Time" had about ten minutes left on the clock. That brought him a sliver of calm.
But the guy got impatient. He raised his voice, now almost hysterical. "I SAID—HAND. IT. OVER!"
The gun jabbed forward, nearly pressing against Marcus's forehead. He instinctively stumbled back a few steps, then froze, slowly reaching into his coat pocket with trembling hands.
And pulled out two completely empty, inside-out pockets. Cleaner than his face, even.
And that was saying something—he'd been in Gotham long enough that scruff had started creeping back onto his jawline.
"You messin' with me?!"
Marcus could feel the guy's temper rising fast—redlining, even. He was terrified, but his survival instinct kicked in just enough to make him stammer out a defense.
"Look man, it's not my fault I'm broke! You think I want to be a penniless loser?"
"Who're you callin' a loser?!"
Damn, are those words triggering for him or something? Even I didn't react that hard.
Marcus cursed silently. Weirdly, the outburst helped him relax a little. He gestured to his pants. "Here, look—I've got nothing in my pants pockets either."
The man's gaze followed Marcus's hands. But with those dark sunglasses on, he couldn't see much in the dark. He had to free one hand to lift his shades.
"I'm watching you. Don't try anything."
Marcus obediently pulled out both of his pants pockets—also empty, flipped inside-out.
Now the guy sounded like he was about to cry. "You have to be hiding something! Take off your jacket! I'll search you myself!"
Marcus didn't resist. He stripped off his jacket and held his hands up.
If you find even a cent on me, I'll call you the God of Wealth on the spot.
The guy patted him down thoroughly. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Finally, he slumped to the ground in defeat, staring blankly into the street. Not long after, he clutched his head and started sobbing.
Marcus put his jacket back on, sat beside him, and tried to console him. "It's alright. Everyone hits a rough patch. If it really bugs you that much, you can take my jacket."
"Who the hell wants your jacket?!"
The man hurled the gun at Marcus in frustration, smacking his arm hard. Then he pointed it again, hands shaking.
"What the hell do you know?! You're not even gonna make it through the night!"
Marcus stayed calm. "You're new at this. First-timer, right? I've been walking around the streets for ages. Any half-decent thug could tell I'm broke as hell. I'm practically advertising it—pockets cleaner than my face. But you couldn't tell."
The guy's hands trembled again. His eyes were glistening, but now they were turning red with rage.
"You're out robbing people at night—wearing sunglasses and a hoodie and a mask. But no gloves. You didn't even disengage the safety on your gun. Actually, I'm not even sure that thing's real. And after stopping me, you didn't drag me into an alley. You were shouting loud enough to wake the dead. You shoved the barrel too far forward—gave me plenty of chances to disarm you while I was 'digging in my pockets.'"
"You son of a—!"
"Your emotions are unstable. You didn't strip me of everything you could've, either. Real crooks never leave empty-handed. You could've taken my jacket, my shirt—anything. But you didn't. And after failing, instead of fleeing the scene, you sat down and cried."
"SHUT THE HELL UP!"
He swung the butt of the gun again, but Marcus dodged it this time.
"I get it—you're desperate. But don't rush. People don't just wander into the streets and start robbing folks without a reason. So something must've happened. Maybe I can help."
The man didn't reply. He wiped his face and quietly stowed the gun. When he pulled off his sunglasses, Marcus could finally see his bloodshot eyes, the deep, dark circles underneath. The guy looked like he was hanging on by a thread.
"There are already enough lunatics in Gotham," Marcus said quietly from behind him. "No need to add one more."
"You're out robbing people, which means you need money. You used a fake gun—that tells me you probably had a decent moral compass before all this. The eye bags say this problem's been gnawing at you for a while. And if it's stressing you out this much, the amount you need can't be small."
"You're not gonna rob a bank. That's supervillain or mob territory—you don't want in on that. Wandering the streets hoping to get lucky is all you've got. And hey, you found me. Could be luck. If you tell me what's going on, maybe I can actually help."
The man froze mid-step. Then, in a rough, hoarse voice, he asked, "Why would you help me?"
"I don't help people for free," Marcus replied matter-of-factly. "I'm new in Gotham. Don't know anyone. Need a job. Don't even have a place to crash tonight. So—if I can't help you, we part ways. You go home, I sleep on the sidewalk. But if I can help you, then maybe you let me crash at your place for a while. I'll help you fix your problem, and you help me find a halfway decent job. Doesn't even have to be good. Just something that doesn't involve dying."
The man stood silently for a long while. Then he slowly turned around and walked back. He dropped down next to Marcus again.
"You're not from Gotham," he murmured, voice low. "Fine. I'll give you one chance."
He took off his glasses and stared blankly up at Gotham's night sky.
"Not like I've got any better options left."
(End of Chapter)