Chapter 11: Another Encounter with That Horse

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Mazhaodi looked at Drake, his eyes a mixture of surprise, despair, contempt, and a hint of admiration.
“You’re still human?”
“If we’re going down, we go down together.”
“How did I never realize you were this—”
“Bang! Bang! Bang!”
“Damn it! I swear I’m going to skin you alive! I’ll chop your balls off and shove them down your throats to use as chew toys! You filthy bastards! You two just wait to die! If I don’t kill you both today, I’ll shoot myself in the head!”

The bullets that had been hitting the corner of the wall for suppressive fire suddenly intensified like firecrackers, and the man’s curses echoed through the street. His choice of words and tone made it clear he was even angrier than before.

“See? He’s getting worked up.”

Drake shook his head. “What I hate most about Gotham is places like this. The citizens’ emotions are unstable, their tempers short, and when problems arise, they don’t want to talk it out.”

“Alright, alright, talk more if you can, and better keep this up until you die.”

The two exchanged barbs, but in their hearts, they silently wished for the other to be crushed by a passing dump truck or struck by falling airplane debris.

Or maybe they could try to shoot back and kill him—after all, it was one man against two.

Mazhaodi glanced at the Glock in his hand as he fumbled for the safety, sighed quietly—“We’re not on familiar terms”—then looked toward the rooftop of a nearby building. The cat-like silhouette had vanished, prompting another sigh—“We’re not exactly friends either.” He thought to himself that this was an opportunity to use a save point he couldn’t afford to waste.

Suddenly, Drake spoke up. “Hey, why did the noise stop?”

Right. Why did the man’s gunfire and curses suddenly cease?

Two wildly different possibilities flashed through Mazhaodi’s mind—one extremely fortunate, the other extremely unfortunate.

His heart began pounding wildly. In the eerie silence, he fixed his gaze on the corner, swallowing hard.

In the next instant, a burly man appeared with a sinister grin, his black gun barrel aimed squarely at the two of them.

“Bang! Bang!”

Mazhaodi hadn’t even managed to pull the trigger when the man fired twice in an instant. Mazhaodi felt a numbness in his hand as his Glock was blasted from his grasp, falling to the ground along with the black pistol Drake held.

“Damn!”

“Bang!”

A scorching blast erupted; a high-velocity bullet sliced through the air, grazing Mazhaodi’s temple and carving a notch in his close-cropped black hair.

He instinctively shut his eyes, but the next bullet never came. Only the sound of gunfire around the bus and heavy objects hitting the ground filled the air.

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Could Drake have counterattacked?

He opened his eyes in confusion and saw the armed burly man collapsed on the ground. Drake looked equally bewildered, as if trying to confirm whether he had indeed taken down the man.

They exchanged glances, and Mazhaodi crouched to gently check the man’s body, finding no wounds. The man was still breathing and had a heartbeat.

“He’s not dead, just knocked out.”

“Why did he pass out?”

“No idea. Maybe he got overwhelmed by the hellish atmosphere.”

Though he said it casually, Mazhaodi had a faint suspicion.

In this world, the farther you stay from superheroes, the safer you are, but today, someone had saved his life. That was a debt he owed.

The ability and style of knocking out a heavily armed burly man within seconds and disappearing without a trace were typical of Catwoman’s methods.

“Don’t just stand there—take his guns and ammo, and tie him up tighter.”

Drake wasn’t much of a fighter, but his reflexes were sharp. It seemed he had indeed learned something from a year spent in Gotham. While directing Mazhaodi, he quickly scavenged the man’s belongings. They found a Beretta, a Colt revolver, and with Drake’s own Colt M2000, they had three guns total, plus two magazines and two bags of bullets. If one didn’t know better, they might think this guy was some notorious mob enforcer.

“Are you sure he’s not affiliated with a gang?” Mazhaodi asked while tying the man up. “I really don’t want to be summoned by some gang boss for a ‘chat’ tomorrow.”

“I remember he’s been with a few gangs, but never stayed long. Look, the gang tattoos on his body seem to have been scrubbed off; the remaining ones are meaningless. I guess even the gang leaders couldn’t tolerate his temper.”

“You rode the bus for half a year and never noticed this guy had it out for you?”

“One reason I survived riding the bus for six months is because I don’t stare or ask questions. And this guy seems ready to fight anyone. How could I know he’d actually target me?”

As Drake spoke, he pulled out his wallet then hesitated for a moment.

“To be honest, I’m not too keen on letting him go alive.”

Mazhaodi looked at the burly man, conflicted. Although killing and robbing was wrong, this man had nearly ended his life.

He thought carefully and turned to Drake.

“Does he know where you live?”

Drake paused, then his expression turned strange.

“He doesn’t seem to have ever been near my place.”

“But if he wanted to investigate, he could have found out by now?”

“Yes.”

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Hearing this, Mazhaodi put away his gun.

“Since the person who saved us didn’t kill him, let’s follow her wishes—put the wallet back. The money’s useful but not much.”

Drake looked at Mazhaodi in surprise. Suddenly, he felt that even without his help, this new friend might adapt quickly to Gotham.

Of course, Gotham’s way wasn’t necessarily right. Letting him go today might mean getting shot by him in the back tomorrow.

“You decide.” Drake stuffed the wallet back into the man’s pocket. “But I’m definitely not taking this bus again tomorrow—I’m no cowboy from the West.”

Mazhaodi shrugged. Since Drake had no save point and couldn’t redo things, he understood completely.

“I’d say he looks like a cowboy anyway—what’s his name?”

“Banner. Clinton Banner.”

“Good name, as long as it’s not Bruce or Floyd.”

“Bang!”

A gunshot rang out on the street, followed by the old man’s booming shout: “Old Jack’s leaving! Everyone on board!”

Mazhaodi looked at Banner, who was now tied up and leaning against the corner wall, still unconscious.

He casually slipped the revolver and bullets back into the man’s hands and placed a hat on his head.

“See you later, you crazy cowboy.”

Saying this, he and Drake ran toward Old Jack’s battered bus.

Behind them, Banner opened his eyes, flexed lightly, and effortlessly slipped out of the makeshift bindings made from their coats—obviously, Mazhaodi wasn’t skilled at tying knots.

He raised the revolver, aimed at Mazhaodi’s back.

But in the end, the trigger wasn’t pulled.

“Bang.” He mimed the gunshot sound with his mouth, then holstered the gun and walked away.

“See you next time, asshole.”