*Chapter 7: Huh?*

Generally, Cody believed that no one was born evil. Maybe this rule had some exceptions in this world, but Victor Fries wasn't one of them. *

Drake sounded like a total rookie when he was trying to mug someone, but hearing gunshots over the phone didn't faze him at all. He asked into the phone, "Donald, you busy?"

The gruff male voice seemed pretty patient. He listened to Drake, then slowly replied, "Not busy right now, just wrapping things up."

"Bang!" Another gunshot.

"So, here's the thing. I've got a friend who just came to Gotham. The skills he's got are all normal stuff, totally useless in Gotham City."

"You want him to work for me?"

"You've got that diner, right? His face is good for attracting women to eat. He's no good at fighting, but he's not really scared either. Just a regular guy, but he's got a decent way with words and he's got guts, doesn't get stage fright."

"Good talker, won't keep his mouth shut."

"Bang!"

"Please, don't—"

"Bang!"

"I guarantee you, his mouth is absolutely shut tight—he's just a regular guy, not gonna risk his life just to brag."

"Bang! Bang!"

A few more gunshots rang out on the other end of the phone. A moment later, the gruff male voice spoke again: "Drake, we're square now."

"Deal."

"Is the kid there with you?"

Cody immediately took the phone. "I'm here."

"Be at work tomorrow morning at nine."

"Beep—beep—"

Looking at the disconnected call and hearing the dial tone, Cody stared at Drake, completely bewildered.

"?"

"What are you looking at me for? He said for you to come to work, so he agreed."

"Where? What are the requirements? I don't even know what to wear."

"I'll take you there, just remember the way. The waiter uniforms are at the restaurant. As for what you need to do—just what waiters normally do, greet customers, take orders, serve food, wipe tables, nothing else. Oh, right, you'll need to bring a gun. Doesn't matter if you know how to use it, but you definitely gotta have one. I'll leave mine with you."

Cody chuckled. Crap, Gotham. The standard gear for going to work is a gun; nothing else is important.

[Writing up to this point, I hope readers remember our domain 101kan.com] (Translator's note: This is a note from the author in the original text.)

"Oh yeah, you got a wallet?"

"No, I'm used to only bringing my phone when I go out... Crap, I don't even have my phone!"

"You can have my wallet, but I can't give you my phone. But Camilla doesn't really contact people or socialize much, so I'll talk to her and have her give you her phone—you've got a SIM card, right?"

"No problem, I've got that."

Cody accepted Drake's offerings without hesitation, because he heckin' deserved it. Even if you didn't count giving up a life, just by asset points alone, he had directly given away the Rapid Health Recovery originally worth $9999.

Ten thousand dollars for a wallet, a phone, and a gun, plus a job as a waiter in Gotham? That's definitely overpriced.

Thinking of this, he couldn't help but secretly praise the system for being thoughtful. It provided him with several bank cards from common American banks and a phone card, which saved him a lot of trouble.

Drake didn't waste time. He went to find Camilla first. Cody didn't know what they were doing in the room until Cody had made up the bed on the floor. Only then did Drake take out a small phone and hand it to Cody.

That night, Drake and Camilla's room was surprisingly quiet, and Cody slept very soundly on the couch.

The next morning.

Drake woke up early and roused the still-sleeping Cody.

"Let's go, I'll take you to where you'll be working."

The sleepy Cody looked at the clock in the living room. The hour and minute hands both pointed to the number seven, which left him a bit confused: "Why are we getting up so early? It's only seven, isn't it?"

"We don't have a car."

"Huh?"

A moment later, the disheartened Cody hurriedly got up and put on his clothes. Then he was dragged out the door by Drake. They jogged along and reached a battered iron pole full of holes not far away.

"Drake, I totally get that you don't want me to be late, but shouldn't we at least grab some breakfast first?"

"No time, we'll eat on the way. We might not make it if we're any later."

Drake explained while wrapping a scarf around Cody's neck.

"Man, how far away is this place you recommended?"

"Otisburg. It's not exactly close to the East End, but the route's decent. If we're lucky, we can get there in about half an hour."

After finishing the scarf, Drake took out a hat and put it on Cody's head.

"Huh?"

Cody was totally confused: "What do you mean by luck—"

"Screech"

A bus arrived at the stop and the doors opened, interrupting Cody's question. Drake pulled him onto the bus and they found seats.

Cody plopped down onto the seat. Just as he was about to ask another question, he felt the wind rushing past half of his face. The icy air instantly sobered him up. He turned his head and saw that all the bus windows were gone! Cold air was howling into the bus through the empty space where the front windshield should have been, and most of the people around were bundled up tightly.

"This...?"

Before he could even react, he saw Drake, who was sitting beside him, pull a gun out of his pocket and hold it in his hand.

"What are you doing?"

Drake didn't answer him. Instead, he got up and walked over to the bus driver and started chatting with him.

"Holy crap, you can't interrupt—"

Cody was about to pull Drake back when his eyes fell on his seat and he suddenly noticed something wasn't right. Why were there holes in Drake's seat?

He had wanted to ask when he got on the bus earlier why there were so many welded parts on the bus itself. Dense little metal plates were welded onto the body, patched up like a quilt made of scraps.

"Wait a minute, are those bullet holes?"

He had originally thought there might be a few toughs, a few gang members, or maybe some prostitutes or junkies on the bus. But you're telling me there are shootouts on the bus?

Maybe I should just get off and walk to work. Maybe that would be safer?

Just then, Drake seemed to have reached some agreement with the driver. He opened his wallet, took out a few colorful bills, and handed them to the driver, who grinned at him and pulled out a handgun and a few magazines from somewhere, handing them to Drake.

"Huh?"

Drake walked back like he was showing off, holding the handgun, and sat down next to Cody. Seeing that his mood seemed a little unstable, he asked with concern.

"What's wrong? Are you not feeling well?"