Marcus figured he must have been trained by Gotham. Just being able to sleep well actually felt… a little like happiness. Then again, maybe the city wasn't as completely unhinged as he'd imagined. Maybe Gotham didn't have a major incident every single day.
That was what he thought until he opened his eyes and glanced out the window. A blurry black figure flashed past the highest clock tower in Gotham. On a stone gargoyle nearby, a person was hanging upside down, swaying back and forth, clearly struggling and begging for mercy.
Marcus calmly withdrew his earlier thought and lay back down on the couch. Bullshit "nothing happened." Another unlucky soul had been strung up by the Bat Grapple. Hopefully the guy wouldn't need therapy after getting cut down.
The next morning, Marcus woke up at seven as usual. Not because he liked waking up early last night's rain had simply knocked him out cold. He slept so well that once he woke up, he couldn't fall back asleep. Honestly? Not bad.
He went into the kitchen and made breakfast. Eggs, milk, cheap ham, bread nothing fancy. Just fry it and stack it together. Basic skills he still had. The sizzling pan woke Drake and Camila soon enough.
"Morning."
"Morning."
Mrs. Camila looked even better than yesterday. Long term stress and illness had tortured her sleep for over a year last night was easily the best rest she'd had in ages.
After breakfast, Marcus said goodbye and headed out. Today was his first workday. Arriving early wouldn't hurt; he could scout the area. As for Old Jack's bus? Absolutely not.
He didn't ride the bicycle either. With a Beretta tucked at his waist, Marcus stepped into the street. By now, there were already plenty of people outside faces dull, footsteps hurried. When they saw tattooed thugs or pale, shaky addicts, they instinctively stepped aside.
This, Marcus thought, is Gotham's true color. Not black. Not white. Gray people barely hanging on, walking corpses. Even someone like Drake could scrape together a little breathing room with courage and savings. But these people who had nothing and zero margin for error were the true foundation of Gotham's criminal ecosystem.
A birthday cake for a daughter might mean running drugs once. Baby formula might mean selling your body. What a rotten world. Gotham's "prosperous" crime industry was built on their suffering. But even if you wiped out all criminals would these people really get a better life?
The calm of routine vanished. His day began in a foul mood. Bad morning, dumbass Gotham.
Marcus hailed a taxi. He deliberately carried less than two hundred dollars in cash robbery prep. Worst case, he'd earn tips tonight. If luck was good, he could even buy a wheelchair straight away.
Find a quiet spot. Mod it instantly. Basic wheelchair driving: $100 asset points. Modification service: $100. Peak cost efficiency.
He got into the car, adjusted his gun so the driver could see it in the rearview mirror, then opened the system shop. Taxis that dared operate in the East End were all veterans but flashing the gun still helped avoid misunderstandings. If he had gang tattoos, that would work too. Safety depended on gang size.
Beginner car driving mastery: $500. Fair. Intermediate: $2,000. Brutal. Advanced: $10,000?! What is this, rally racing?
Bike mastery useless. System Logboard? System Custom Q&A? One dollar per use? Told you AI had a future, Marcus thought. Even cheat systems have customer support.
"Still worse than Mobius," he muttered.
"Sir, we've arrived," the driver said.
Marcus checked the time 7:40 a.m. Old Jack really was trash.
"Fifty seven dollars."
Figures. Gotham taxis were robbery with receipts. Marcus paid and got out. Without the gun, the price probably would've hit a hundred.
He walked the surrounding blocks, memorized streets and exits, then entered the restaurant through the back door. At eight a.m., the place was quiet only security staff, off duty servers, and shift change receptionists. Marcus greeted everyone, found the supervisor, and returned a book.
It was the training manual. Normally, new hires trained first but Marcus was broke and urgent. Donald allowed him to learn on the job. The supervisor hadn't expected the book back so soon.
"You memorized it?"
"One day's enough. I used to do this before exams."
He wasn't lying. Everyone knew how cramming worked. To be safe, he'd spent one asset point to store everything in the system logboard. The supervisor tested him briefly. Satisfied, he led Marcus to the changing room and handed him a waiter's suit.
Truth be told this was Marcus's first time wearing a suit.
"Hmm. Not bad."
Tall, well proportioned, sharp features fine overall. Except for the faint coldness and predatory edge in his eyes.
"You're on day shift, not night duty. Your face is a little too fierce."
Marcus tried smiling. It somehow made things worse like a beast grinning inside formalwear. In a proper Italian suit, most people would assume he was a high ranking mob boss.
"…Ever thought about joining a gang? You'd fit right in."
The supervisor walked away, returned with a pair of gold rimmed glasses.
"Wear these. Just don't drop them into someone's food."
Marcus put them on. The feral edge softened immediately.
"Much better."
After a few more simulations greeting, ordering, serving, cleaning Marcus passed. Any minor mistakes were smoothed over by his calm demeanor.
"Good. You learn fast. You can start officially at ten."
The supervisor yawned and left clearly exhausted from last night's business. Marcus skipped food, bought a newspaper, and checked Gotham's headlines.
Two robbery shootings. Biker gang crushed by a dump truck road rager. Pharmaceutical staff frozen into ice sculptures Mr. Freeze, obviously. Several Maroni members hospitalized, all bones shattered, evidence delivered to GCPD.
Wait. All bones shattered? Marcus reread it. Four limbs broken. Rib fractures. Suspected murder suspects.
Nice, he thought. At least this lunatic helps sometimes. The Maroni family, however, served under the Falcone family Gotham's top syndicate. No wonder the supervisor pulled an all nighter. Still what did any of that have to do with a waiter?
He shrugged and continued reading. A peaceful day, by Gotham standards.
"Hmm?"
Marcus folded the paper and noticed coworkers standing behind him.
"Hey?"
"Claude Santos."
"Lloyd Rick."
"Bridget Castro."
"Nice to meet you I'm Marcus Reed. Want the paper?"
"Thanks."
Santos read carefully. Marcus noticed they were focused on the Maroni article. It clicked. Donald's backing. Falcone connections. Even waiters had family ties. Far deeper than he'd imagined.
"Maroni people," Santos scoffed.
"Embarrassing," Rick said.
"What about the Don's reputation?" Castro asked.
"That doesn't reach the Godfather," Santos replied. "And dueling men is one thing but dueling nightmares?"
He folded the paper. "Not our business. We're just waiters. Still good reading."
He smiled teasingly at Marcus. "You look like a mob boss yourself. Falcone family?"
"No, no," Marcus waved quickly, slipping on his glasses. "I'm unaffiliated. Just look mean."
The expressions of the three coworkers shifted subtly. Claude Santos's smile only grew brighter. "Haha, just joking. Don't take it seriously."
Rick and Castro discreetly glanced at Marcus Reed's exposed wrist and neck. No family tattoos. Confirmed. Donald really should've warned them in advance he almost got mistaken for one of their own.
What they didn't know was that the family situation yesterday had been far more urgent than what the newspapers reported. Both Donald and the supervisor had been awake all night and had completely forgotten about this minor detail.
"It's almost time to start work," Santos said. "The head chef's already here. Let's get ready together?"
"Sure," Marcus replied. "I'm new perfect chance to learn."
They didn't wait long before a well dressed man entered the restaurant. Marcus stayed still, planning to observe how the veterans handled things. Instead, all three coworkers froze for a split second then shoved him straight forward.
"?"
"Good morning, sir. Do you have a reservation?" Marcus asked reflexively.
"One," the man replied.
"May I have your name?"
"Dent. Harvey Dent."