Marcus Dominic Webb died on a Tuesday at precisely 3:47 PM Eastern Standard Time, which was, in his professional opinion, incredibly inconvenient because he was exactly fourteen minutes away from completing what would have been his six-thousandth Uber ride and he had been genuinely looking forward to that particular milestone, not because it came with any special reward or recognition from the company—it absolutely did not, Uber was not known for its generosity toward its independent contractors—but because Marcus had always appreciated the satisfaction of round numbers and the quiet dignity of personal accomplishments that nobody else would ever know or care about.
The accident itself was remarkably unremarkable, which Marcus would have appreciated if he had been in any position to appreciate things, which he was not, on account of being deceased. A distracted driver in a lifted pickup truck had been attempting to send a text message about fantasy football while simultaneously eating a breakfast burrito at three in the afternoon, which spoke volumes about the state of that particular individual's life choices, and had simply not noticed that Marcus's sensible gray Toyota Camry—2019 model, excellent gas mileage, 4.3-liter engine, meticulously maintained according to manufacturer specifications because Marcus believed in doing things correctly—was occupying the space that the pickup truck had decided it wanted to occupy.
Physics, as it often does, had made the final decision in that particular disagreement.
Marcus's last thought, in the fraction of a second between the realization that the truck was not going to stop and the moment of impact, was not about his life flashing before his eyes, nor was it about loved ones or regrets or the fundamental meaninglessness of human existence in an uncaring universe. Marcus's last thought was: I wonder if Uber will still charge the customer a cancellation fee.
The darkness that followed was neither peaceful nor unpleasant—it simply was, in the same way that Tuesday simply was, or the color beige simply was, or the experience of waiting at a red light that was taking slightly too long simply was. Marcus had never been a man of strong opinions about abstract concepts, and death, apparently, was no exception to this lifelong pattern of emotional equilibrium.
What came next, however, was somewhat more difficult to remain neutral about, though Marcus certainly gave it his best effort.
Awareness returned to Marcus in the driver's seat of a car, which was familiar, and on a city street, which was also familiar, and in the middle of what appeared to be the aftermath of some kind of explosion involving a building that had until very recently been a chemical plant, which was decidedly less familiar, though Marcus chose not to make a fuss about it.
He blinked once, slowly, his face settling into the expression it had worn for approximately forty-one years of life—flat, neutral, and utterly devoid of readable emotion in a way that had caused multiple ex-girlfriends to accuse him of being "emotionally unavailable" and one therapist, during a brief and unsuccessful period of mandated counseling following a workplace incident that had not technically been his fault, to suggest that he might benefit from "learning to externalize his internal landscape." Marcus had not returned for the second session.
His hands were on the steering wheel. The steering wheel was not attached to his 2019 Toyota Camry. Marcus noted this fact, processed it, filed it away, and continued existing.
The car he now occupied was—and Marcus took a long moment to actually examine his surroundings rather than simply accepting them, which was unusual for him but seemed warranted under the circumstances—a 2018 Honda Accord, black exterior, gray interior, slightly worn upholstery on the driver's seat suggesting significant use, approximately seventy-three thousand miles on the odometer according to the dashboard display, check engine light illuminated in a way that suggested it had been illuminated for so long that the previous owner had simply learned to ignore it. There was a smartphone mounted on the dashboard in a holder that was slightly crooked. The smartphone displayed an app interface that was immediately recognizable to Marcus, because it was Uber, because of course it was Uber.
The app indicated that Marcus was currently online and available for rides.
The app indicated that Marcus was located in a city called Gotham.
The app indicated that there was a surge pricing multiplier of 4.7x currently in effect, which, given the flaming wreckage visible through the windshield and the distant sounds of what Marcus could only describe as "enthusiastic violence," seemed frankly insufficient.
Marcus sat in his new car, in his new city, in what he was beginning to suspect was his new life, and felt absolutely nothing in particular about any of it. This was not denial, nor shock, nor any kind of psychological defense mechanism—it was simply Marcus being Marcus, reacting to the fundamental upheaval of his entire existence with the same energy he had once brought to discovering that his favorite brand of coffee had been discontinued at the local grocery store, which was to say, mild acknowledgment followed by immediate practical adaptation.
He was dead. He was not dead anymore, or perhaps he was dead in a different way, or perhaps he had never been dead and the truck and the accident and the darkness had all been some kind of extremely vivid hallucination, though that seemed unlikely given that he could not recall ever having hallucinated anything in his entire life, not even during that one time in college when his roommate had convinced him to try mushrooms and Marcus had spent four hours sitting perfectly still and waiting patiently for something interesting to happen while his roommate had an emotional breakdown about the nature of time.
He was in Gotham. He did not know where Gotham was, geographically speaking, though the architecture visible through the windows—towering Gothic structures, gargoyles, an improbable amount of stone and iron and the general aesthetic of a city that had been designed by someone with severe depression and an unlimited budget—suggested somewhere on the East Coast, possibly an alternate dimension, probably nowhere that appeared on any map he had ever studied, not that he had studied maps extensively but he had completed the United States geography unit in seventh grade and felt reasonably confident that "Gotham" had not been included.
He was an Uber driver. This, at least, was familiar territory.
Marcus examined his new body by looking down at his hands, which were the same hands he had always had—large, practical, brown-skinned with slightly calloused palms from years of gripping steering wheels—and then at his reflection in the rearview mirror, which showed him the same face he had always had: broad features, deep brown eyes that revealed absolutely nothing, the kind of face that people's gazes slid over without registering, the face of a man who could blend into any crowd and any background and any situation without ever being noticed or remembered or considered particularly interesting by anyone.
He was thirty-eight years old, or at least his body was thirty-eight years old, or at least that was what his driver's license said, because apparently in this new reality he still carried a wallet and the wallet still contained his identification and the identification still featured his photograph and his name and his date of birth and the words "GOTHAM CITY" where "CLEVELAND, OHIO" used to be.
Marcus looked at the driver's license for a long moment.
He returned it to his wallet.
He adjusted his rearview mirror slightly, because it had been angled in a way that would have created a blind spot.
The smartphone on the dashboard made a sound—the distinctive Uber notification chime that Marcus had heard approximately seventeen thousand times in his previous life and had never once felt any particular emotion about.
NEW RIDE REQUEST
Pickup: Arkham Asylum (Main Gate)
Destination: The Narrows
Rider: V. Zsasz
Rating: No rating available (New rider)
Marcus read the notification. He processed the information contained therein. He noted that "Arkham Asylum" was almost certainly not a normal pickup location, and that "The Narrows" sounded like the kind of place that sensible people avoided, and that the rider's name was "V. Zsasz," which was unusual but not, Marcus supposed, any more unusual than some of the names he had encountered during his previous career, including a memorable passenger named "Xxxtreme Kale Smoothie Johnson" who had turned out to be a perfectly pleasant accountant.
He also noted that his thumb had already pressed "Accept" before he had made any conscious decision to do so, which he supposed made a certain kind of sense—muscle memory, professional instinct, the deep-seated understanding that an Uber driver who did not accept rides was not, functionally speaking, an Uber driver at all.
The GPS display updated to show his route. Marcus put the car in drive, checked his mirrors thoroughly despite the ongoing chaos visible in his peripheral vision, activated his turn signal, and pulled carefully away from the curb, maintaining a safe following distance from the armored police vehicle that was speeding past with its sirens blaring.
The drive to Arkham Asylum took approximately twenty-three minutes and involved navigating through what Marcus could only describe as a city that seemed to be actively trying to kill everyone who lived in it. Buildings loomed overhead at angles that suggested either revolutionary architecture or severe structural damage—possibly both. The streets were poorly lit despite it being the middle of the afternoon, which Marcus attributed to the thick layer of smog and general atmospheric despair that seemed to hang over everything like a damp blanket. He passed no fewer than four active crime scenes, two burning vehicles, one individual in a costume that appeared to be themed around question marks spray-painting a riddle on the side of a bank, and approximately seventeen people who were simply running and screaming for reasons that were not immediately apparent.
Marcus maintained the speed limit. He signaled before every turn. He came to a complete stop at every stop sign, even the ones that had been partially melted by what appeared to be some kind of acid.
The Uber app cheerfully informed him that he would arrive at his destination in four minutes.
Arkham Asylum, when it came into view, was exactly the kind of building that Marcus would have expected a place called "Arkham Asylum" to be: enormous, Gothic, covered in gargoyles and iron bars and the general aura of human suffering, perched on a rocky promontory overlooking the city like a disapproving grandparent at a family reunion. The walls were high and thick and topped with razor wire. Guard towers dotted the perimeter at regular intervals. Signs warned against unauthorized entry, against photography, against "provoking the inmates," against "feeding the inmates," against "making eye contact with the inmates," and against "standing within fifty feet of the main gate during evening feeding hours," which raised questions that Marcus chose not to pursue.
He pulled up to the main gate, as indicated by the GPS, and shifted the car into park.
He waited.
The gate opened—slowly, dramatically, with the kind of ominous creaking that suggested either deliberate atmospheric effect or severe maintenance neglect—and a figure emerged.
Victor Zsasz was not what Marcus would have described as a typical Uber passenger, though Marcus's definition of "typical" had always been somewhat broader than most people's. He was a man of medium height and lean build, dressed in dark clothing that fit close to his body, bald, with eyes that held the particular kind of emptiness that Marcus had only seen once before, in a documentary about deep-sea fish that lived so far below the surface that they had evolved beyond the need for light or warmth or any of the things that normal living creatures required.
He was also covered, every visible inch of his skin, in tally marks.
Scars, Marcus realized after a moment of observation. Deliberate, self-inflicted scars, carved into the flesh in groups of five, covering his arms and his neck and presumably the rest of his body beneath his clothing, hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds of them, a permanent record of something that Marcus understood immediately and instinctively even though he had never seen anything like it in his life.
Victor Zsasz opened the rear passenger door and slid into the back seat.
Marcus watched him in the rearview mirror.
Zsasz met his gaze, and his face split into a smile that was technically composed of all the correct facial components—upturned lips, visible teeth, crinkled eyes—but which somehow communicated nothing that a smile was supposed to communicate. It was a smile shaped hole in a human face.
"You're not afraid," Zsasz said, and his voice was soft and curious and utterly devoid of inflection in a way that Marcus actually found somewhat familiar, because it was the same way that Marcus himself spoke on the rare occasions when he chose to speak at all.
Marcus said nothing.
He shifted the car into drive.
He pulled away from the gate, checking his mirrors, signaling his turn, maintaining a safe and appropriate speed despite the fact that his passenger had just been released from—or had just escaped from, the Uber app had not been specific on this point—an asylum for the criminally insane and was almost certainly a mass murderer, given the quantity of tally marks and the context clues that Marcus had assembled from the pickup location alone.
"I've been inside for eighteen months," Zsasz continued conversationally, as though they were discussing the weather or traffic conditions or any of the other topics that Uber passengers occasionally attempted to discuss with Marcus before realizing that he was not going to participate. "They think I'm better now. They think their therapy worked. They think I've found new appreciation for life, for the zombies that stumble around pretending they're alive, pretending they matter, pretending any of it means anything."
Marcus kept his eyes on the road.
"Do you know how many I've freed? How many I've liberated from the lie of existence?"
The GPS indicated that they should merge left. Marcus merged left.
"Five hundred and twelve." Zsasz's voice dropped, became almost reverent. "Five hundred and twelve beautiful moments of truth. Each one a gift. Each one a mark. Each one a reminder that I, too, am alive, that I, too, matter, if only because I can remove things from the world that are no longer necessary."
Marcus stopped at a red light. He did not run red lights. He had never run a red light in his entire driving career, not even during the time that a passenger had been actively giving birth in his back seat and had been begging him to please, for the love of God, hurry.
The light turned green. Marcus proceeded through the intersection.
Zsasz leaned forward, close enough that Marcus could see him clearly in the rearview mirror, close enough that he could smell the institutional soap and something else beneath it, something metallic and hungry.
"You're different," Zsasz whispered. "I can tell. The way you move. The way you don't move. The complete absence of fear, of reaction, of anything at all behind those eyes. Are you like me? Have you already seen through the lie? Do you already know that none of this—" he gestured broadly, encompassing the car, the city, the entire world outside the windows "—none of this is real in any way that matters?"
Marcus pulled into the neighborhood that the GPS indicated was "The Narrows," which was exactly as unpleasant as the name had suggested: run-down buildings, broken streetlights, groups of individuals on street corners who watched the car pass with the kind of attention that suggested professional interest in its contents. He located the destination address—a nondescript apartment building with bars on the windows and a door that looked like it had been kicked in and repaired multiple times—and pulled to a stop at the curb.
He shifted the car into park.
He turned, very slightly, to look at his passenger directly for the first time.
Victor Zsasz, serial killer, mass murderer, escaped—or possibly released—patient of Arkham Asylum, looked back at him with those empty, hungry eyes, and waited for a response to his question.
Marcus held his gaze for exactly three seconds.
Then he reached up and tapped the "End Trip" button on the Uber app.
The app chirped pleasantly and displayed a message: Rate your rider!
Marcus selected five stars.
Zsasz blinked—actually blinked, the first sign of genuine human reaction Marcus had seen from him during the entire interaction—and then laughed, a genuine laugh, surprised and delighted in a way that was somehow more unsettling than anything else he had done.
"Five stars," Zsasz said, still laughing. "You're giving me five stars."
Marcus turned back to face forward and waited.
Zsasz opened the door, paused, and then leaned forward one more time. "I like you, driver. I'm not going to free you. Not yet. Maybe not ever. You're the most interesting thing I've found in this city in years, and I want to see what happens next."
He exited the vehicle, closed the door with surprising gentleness, and walked toward the apartment building without looking back.
Marcus watched him go.
Then he checked the Uber app for his next ride request.
The thing about Gotham City, Marcus discovered over the following hours, days, and eventually weeks, was that it operated according to rules that were entirely different from the rules that had governed Cleveland, Ohio, but which were, in their own way, surprisingly consistent.
In Cleveland, the primary concerns of an Uber driver had been traffic, weather, the occasional drunk passenger, and the ever-present existential dread of working in the gig economy without benefits or job security. In Gotham, the primary concerns were also traffic and weather, but the traffic was frequently disrupted by supervillain attacks and the weather occasionally included "fear toxin clouds" and "Joker gas fog" and "whatever that purple stuff was that came out of the mayor's office that one time."
The drunk passengers were still present, but they were supplemented by henchmen who needed rides to their secret lairs after the getaway car had been disabled by Batman, by low-level criminals who had just successfully—or unsuccessfully—completed heists, by terrified civilians fleeing from one disaster toward another disaster because in Gotham there was always another disaster, by police officers whose squad cars had been destroyed by one villain or another, by journalists chasing stories, by doctors and nurses commuting to and from hospitals that were perpetually operating at four hundred percent capacity, and by the occasional costumed individual whose allegiance—hero, villain, or somewhere in the vast gray area in between—was not immediately apparent.
Marcus drove them all.
He drove a man dressed as a scarecrow who smelled like chemicals and fear and who spent the entire ride muttering about the "optimal dispersal patterns for aerosolized compounds." He drove a woman in a green leotard covered in question marks who asked him riddles the entire way and seemed genuinely distressed when he did not respond. He drove a group of men in matching purple suits who argued loudly about whose turn it was to carry the "laughing equipment" and who tipped him twenty dollars in cash that was slightly sticky with a substance he chose not to investigate.
He drove a young woman in an elaborate red and black costume who introduced herself as Harley Quinn, chatted at him nonstop for forty-five minutes about her "ex" and her "new thing with Ivy" and her "complicated feelings about rehabilitation," and who left him a five-star review that read "BEST DRIVER EVER!!! Didn't judge me even a little bit!!! Gonna recommend him to all my friends!!!"
He drove henchmen—so many henchmen, an endless parade of large men in matching outfits who worked for various criminal organizations and who complained constantly about the working conditions, the lack of dental coverage, the unpredictable hours, the way their bosses kept getting arrested and then escaping and then getting arrested again in an endless cycle that made long-term financial planning essentially impossible.
Marcus learned that Penguin's men wore black and white. He learned that Two-Face's men wore half-and-half suits that seemed impractical for any kind of physical activity. He learned that Riddler's men were required to speak only in questions during working hours and absolutely hated it. He learned that no one willingly worked for Joker more than once, if they survived the first time, and that the ones who had worked for Joker and survived had a particular look in their eyes that Marcus recognized from his own mirror.
He learned the geography of the city: the gleaming towers of the financial district, where the wealthy pretended that the chaos didn't exist; the crumbling tenements of Crime Alley, where young Bruce Wayne had watched his parents die and where the trauma had presumably begun; the industrial wasteland of the East End, where Catwoman prowled and where half the abandoned warehouses contained some kind of criminal operation; the relative normalcy of the suburbs, where people tried very hard to maintain the illusion of a regular life despite living within twenty miles of a city that experienced an average of three major supervillain incidents per week.
He learned the rhythms of Gotham's particular brand of chaos: the way things always got worse on anniversary dates (of what, he was never quite sure), the way certain weather patterns correlated with certain types of criminal activity, the way every holiday was an opportunity for themed mayhem, the way the city would sometimes go quiet for days or weeks at a time before erupting into absolute pandemonium for reasons that were never adequately explained.
Marcus adapted. He had always been good at adapting—it was, perhaps, the only thing he had ever been truly good at, this ability to accept circumstances as they were and continue functioning within them without complaint or apparent distress.
He installed additional safety features in his car: reinforced door panels, shatter-resistant windows, a fire extinguisher under the front seat, a first aid kit under the rear seat, a gas mask in the glove compartment. He learned which routes were most likely to be clear during active villain attacks, which bridges were least likely to be blown up by anarchist groups, which neighborhoods to avoid during which hours.
He maintained his perfect five-star rating.
This was, Marcus understood even without being told, unusual. Uber drivers in Gotham did not maintain perfect five-star ratings. Uber drivers in Gotham quit, or died, or had mental breakdowns, or simply disappeared—kidnapped by villains, caught in crossfire, succumbed to fear toxin or laughing gas or any of the other chemical compounds that were released into the city's air supply with alarming regularity. The average tenure of an Uber driver in Gotham was three weeks. The average rating, for those who survived long enough to accumulate reviews, was 3.2 stars.
Marcus had been driving for six weeks. He had completed four hundred and seventy-three trips. His rating was 5.0 stars exactly.
Word spread, as word always does in places where survival depends on information.
The first sign that something had shifted came in the form of a ride request from a pickup location listed simply as "The Iceberg Lounge (VIP Entrance)."
Marcus accepted the request, because Marcus always accepted requests, and drove to the indicated address: an elaborate building in the financial district, all glass and chrome and intimidating architecture, with a rooftop structure shaped like an iceberg that presumably made sense to someone. He pulled up to the VIP entrance, which was located in an alley beside the main building, and waited.
The door opened, and three men emerged: two large individuals in matching black and white suits who were clearly bodyguards, and one smaller individual between them who was clearly their employer. This smaller individual was also wearing a black and white suit, but his was significantly more expensive, and he walked with a pronounced limp, supported by an umbrella that was almost certainly not just an umbrella. His nose was long and pointed. His teeth, when he smiled, were sharp. His eyes, behind small round glasses, were shrewd and calculating.
Marcus knew, without being told, that this was the Penguin.
The bodyguards opened the rear door and ushered their employer inside, then took up positions on either side of the vehicle, hands inside their jackets in a way that suggested concealed weapons.
Oswald Cobblepot—the Penguin—settled into the back seat, arranged his umbrella across his lap, and studied Marcus through the rearview mirror with the same intensity that a bird of prey might study a field mouse.
"You're the one they're talking about," he said, and his voice was cultured and dangerous and carried the distinct impression of someone who had killed people for lesser offenses than failing to show proper respect. "The driver. The one with the perfect rating. The one who drove Zsasz without flinching, Harley without complaining, half my competitors' organizations without batting an eye."
Marcus waited.
"I've had you looked into, you know," Penguin continued, conversationally. "Tried to, anyway. You know what I found? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No history, no background, no criminal record, no family, no connections, no leverage, no weakness. You simply appeared in this city six weeks ago, and you have been driving people around ever since, and nobody—nobody—has been able to figure out who you are or what you want."
The GPS indicated that the destination was Wayne Tower, approximately fifteen minutes away in current traffic conditions.
Marcus shifted the car into drive.
"I don't like mysteries," Penguin said, and his voice had gone cold. "Mysteries are variables. Variables are risks. I am not a man who tolerates risks."
Marcus pulled away from the curb, checking his mirrors.
"And yet." Penguin's voice shifted again, became almost amused. "And yet, I find myself reluctant to have you killed. Do you know why that is?"
Marcus did not respond.
"Because you drove Zsasz, and Zsasz let you live. Because you drove Harley Quinn, and she's been telling everyone who will listen that you're the best driver she's ever had. Because half the henchmen in this city have been in your car, and not a single one of them has a bad word to say about you. You're neutral territory, driver. You're the one person in this entire godforsaken city that everyone seems to have unanimously agreed to leave alone."
They stopped at a red light. Marcus waited for it to turn green.
"I'm going to respect that neutrality," Penguin said finally. "For now. But I want you to understand something: in Gotham, neutrality is a choice, and choices have consequences. Eventually, someone is going to test that neutrality. Eventually, someone is going to decide that you're a threat, or an asset, or simply an interesting puzzle that needs to be solved. When that happens—and it will happen—you're going to have to choose a side."
The light turned green. Marcus proceeded through the intersection.
"I hope, when that day comes, you'll remember who treated you fairly. Who respected your autonomy. Who paid you generously and didn't make any trouble."
They arrived at Wayne Tower. Marcus pulled to a stop at the main entrance, shifted into park, and ended the trip on the app.
Penguin chuckled, a wet sound that had very little humor in it. "Five stars, I assume?"
Marcus confirmed the rating.
"You're an interesting man, driver. An interesting man indeed."
Penguin exited the vehicle, his bodyguards falling into position around him, and walked into Wayne Tower without looking back.
Marcus sat in his car for approximately thirty seconds, processing.
Then he checked the app for his next ride request.
The pattern continued.
Villains rode in his car—actual supervillains, the kind that made headlines and required Batman's personal intervention—and they talked to him, or at him, or around him, as though his silence was an invitation to fill the space with their own words. They monologued about their plans, their grievances, their philosophies, their tragic backstories. They complained about Batman, about each other, about the fundamental unfairness of a system that branded them as criminals while the corporate executives who had destroyed their lives walked free.
They tipped well.
They rated him five stars.
They told their friends, their colleagues, their henchmen, their minions.
Marcus became, without intending to and without particularly wanting to, the unofficial neutral party of Gotham's criminal underworld. His car became, somehow, a space outside of the normal rules: a place where enemies could sit in adjacent seats without conflict, where secrets could be spoken aloud without fear of interception, where the endless machinations of Gotham's power structures were temporarily suspended in favor of the simple transaction of transportation.
He drove Catwoman home after a heist gone wrong, her costume torn and her arm bleeding, and she spent the entire ride explaining the difference between theft and redistribution of unjustly accumulated wealth while he navigated through a police blockade without being stopped.
He drove Poison Ivy to a botanical garden that was closed for renovation, and she spent the entire ride stroking a small potted plant and murmuring to it in a language that was not quite English, and when she left she turned back and looked at him with those strange green eyes and said, "You don't fear nature. That's... unusual. Refreshing, even."
He drove the Riddler to a crime scene—his own crime scene, apparently, as the man was returning to observe the police investigation into a puzzle he had left behind—and spent the entire ride being asked increasingly complex questions that he did not answer, until finally the Riddler laughed in frustration and said, "You know what you are? You're the one riddle I can't solve. And I hate it. I absolutely hate it. Five stars."
He drove Two-Face, and the coin came up scarred, but Two-Face looked at him for a long moment and then flipped it again, and it came up clean, and Two-Face said, "The coin says you're interesting enough to let live. Don't make me flip it again."
He drove Killer Croc, who barely fit in the back seat and whose scales scratched the upholstery, and who spent the entire ride in silence because apparently even massive humanoid crocodiles sometimes just wanted a quiet ride home without making conversation.
He drove Bane, and was genuinely surprised when the enormous masked man turned out to be polite, well-spoken, and an excellent tipper.
He drove Clayface, and was genuinely unsurprised when the shapeshifting villain spent the entire ride cycling through different faces and asking Marcus which one he thought was most attractive, despite the fact that Marcus had given no indication that he had any opinions about attractiveness whatsoever.
He drove them all, and he gave them all five stars, and they all—somehow, impossibly, against all reason and logic—gave him five stars back.
Word continued to spread.
The night Marcus drove Batman, he had already completed seventeen trips and witnessed three separate criminal incidents that had resolved themselves without his involvement or apparent interest.
The ride request came through at 2:47 AM, pickup location listed as "East End Industrial District (Warehouse 17)," destination listed as "Wayne Manor." The rider name was "B."
Marcus accepted the request.
He drove to the industrial district, navigating through streets that were empty and dark and somehow more ominous for their emptiness, and pulled up to a warehouse that looked exactly like every other warehouse in the area: abandoned, decrepit, covered in graffiti that ranged from gang tags to elaborate murals to what appeared to be a very accurate portrait of someone called "the Batman" that someone had painted in the style of Renaissance religious art.
The door opened—not the warehouse door, but the passenger door of Marcus's car—and a figure slid into the back seat.
Marcus looked in the rearview mirror.
Batman looked back.
Or, more accurately, the cowl of Batman looked back, because that was all Marcus could see: the pointed ears, the white lenses where eyes should be, the firm jaw beneath, the cape that seemed to fill the entire back seat with shadow. The costume was damaged—torn in several places, scorched in others, spattered with what Marcus recognized from experience as both his own blood and someone else's. The man inside the costume was breathing heavily, clearly exhausted, clearly in pain, clearly running on nothing but willpower and caffeine and whatever else kept vigilantes functional at three in the morning.
"Batmobile's compromised," Batman said, and his voice was exactly what Marcus would have expected Batman's voice to be: deep, gravelly, deliberately intimidating, and currently carrying the unmistakable undertone of someone who was really, really tired. "Couldn't call Robin. Nightwing's in Blüdhaven. Alfred's handling something. You were available."
Marcus said nothing.
"I've heard about you," Batman continued, and despite his exhaustion there was a sharpness to his tone, an assessment being made. "The driver. Perfect rating. Neutral party. Villains love you. Which means I should probably be suspicious of you."
Marcus waited.
"But I've also done my own research. More thorough than Penguin's. More thorough than anyone's." A pause. "You're clean. No crimes. No connections. No agenda that I can find. You're just... a driver. An exceptionally calm driver who doesn't seem to care about anything that happens around him."
The GPS indicated that Wayne Manor was approximately twenty-three minutes away.
Marcus shifted the car into drive.
"I know who you are, by the way," Batman said, and there was something almost conversational in his tone now, something that surprised Marcus because he had not expected Batman to be conversational. "Marcus Webb. Cleveland, Ohio. Six thousand Uber rides over four years. Then nothing—you disappeared, and you reappeared here, with no explanation for how or why. You're either very good at covering your tracks, or you're exactly what you appear to be: an ordinary man who ended up in Gotham and decided to just... keep driving."
The car moved through the night, past warehouses and factories and the occasional flicker of activity in dark windows.
"I don't trust ordinary men," Batman continued. "Ordinary men don't survive Gotham. Ordinary men don't drive Victor Zsasz without flinching. Ordinary men don't become neutral parties in a war that has no neutral parties."
They reached the bridge that would take them out of the city proper and toward the wealthy suburbs where Wayne Manor presumably lurked.
"But you know what? I'm tired. I've been doing this for fifteen years, and I'm tired, and sometimes I need to believe that there are people in this city who aren't playing angles, who aren't looking for leverage, who aren't part of the endless game. So I'm going to choose to believe that you're exactly what you appear to be: a man who does his job, does it well, and doesn't ask questions."
Marcus crossed the bridge. The city lights faded behind them.
"And I'm going to warn you, driver: stay neutral. Don't pick sides. Don't get involved. The moment you become useful to someone—truly useful, leverage-level useful—you become a target. And Gotham eats targets alive."
Wayne Manor came into view: enormous, Gothic, perched on a hill overlooking the city like a gargoyle keeping watch. Marcus pulled up to the main gate, which opened automatically, and proceeded up the long driveway to the main entrance.
He shifted into park.
Batman sat in silence for a moment, and despite the mask Marcus had the distinct impression that he was being studied, examined, evaluated one final time.
"Thank you for the ride," Batman said finally, and there was genuine sincerity in the words. "I know this probably isn't what you expected when you started driving in Gotham. But for what it's worth, you're good at what you do. Better than good. And in this city, that matters."
He opened the door, paused, and added: "Five stars."
Then he was gone, vanishing into the shadows of the manor with a swiftness that suggested years of practice.
Marcus sat in the driveway of Wayne Manor for approximately thirty seconds.
Then he ended the trip, confirmed the five-star rating, and checked the app for his next ride request.
The theories about Marcus's identity began circulating approximately two weeks after his first ride with Batman.
He heard them secondhand, from passengers who apparently felt comfortable enough in his silent presence to discuss him as though he wasn't there: speculation, rumors, increasingly elaborate explanations for why a single, ordinary, utterly unremarkable Uber driver had become the one person in Gotham that everyone—heroes and villains alike—had unanimously agreed to leave alone.
The theories ranged from plausible to absurd.
Some believed he was an undercover agent of some kind: government, intelligence, private corporation, something with reach and power and resources that made him untouchable. This theory explained his neutrality but failed to explain why such an agent would spend his time driving Uber rather than, presumably, doing whatever agents did.
Some believed he was a former special forces operative, retired and seeking quiet anonymity, whose training was so advanced that everyone who encountered him subconsciously recognized the threat he represented and decided not to provoke it. This theory was popular among the henchmen, who appreciated the idea that one of their own—a working-class guy, just trying to make a living—could command that kind of respect.
Some believed he was metahuman, with powers that were subtle but significant: mind control, probability manipulation, some kind of aura that prevented violence in his presence. This theory was popular among the more paranoid elements, who couldn't accept any explanation that didn't involve superhuman interference.
Some believed he was cursed—or blessed, depending on perspective—touched by some mystical force that protected him from harm and made him a fixed point in the chaos of Gotham's narrative. This theory was popular among those who had been in the city long enough to know that sometimes things happened that couldn't be explained by science or logic.
Some believed he was simply exactly what he appeared to be: an ordinary man with an extraordinary poker face, who had stumbled into a situation he didn't understand and was coping with it in the only way he knew how. This theory was unpopular because it was boring.
The Riddler, in particular, became obsessed. He took Marcus's rides multiple times per week, each time presenting new questions, new puzzles, new challenges designed to provoke a reaction. He offered money, information, favors. He made threats (which he didn't follow through on). He once spent an entire forty-five-minute ride doing nothing but silently staring at Marcus through the rearview mirror, as if hoping to detect some crack in the facade through sustained observation.
Marcus gave him five stars every time.
Harley Quinn started bringing friends: first Poison Ivy, then others from her expanding social circle of reformed-ish villains and chaos agents. They treated Marcus's car like a mobile salon, gossiping and laughing and occasionally plotting minor crimes while Marcus drove them wherever they wanted to go. They left tips in cash, in stolen goods (which Marcus donated to charity), and once in a very confused rescued hyena that Marcus had to explain to Animal Control had simply appeared in his back seat without any clear origin story.
Marcus gave them all five stars.
Even the Joker—and Marcus learned quickly that the Joker was in a category entirely his own, mentioned by others in hushed tones and fearful whispers, a chaos element that even the other villains respected as fundamentally unpredictable—even the Joker eventually heard about the driver who gave everyone five stars and decided to investigate.
That ride was... different.
The Joker's request came through at 4:00 AM on a Wednesday—4:00 AM exactly, which Marcus understood was probably not a coincidence. Pickup location: Amusement Mile. Destination: "Surprise me."
Marcus accepted the request.
Amusement Mile was exactly what it sounded like: an abandoned amusement park on the edge of the city, all rusted rides and faded carnival games and the persistent smell of cotton candy and decay. It had been the site of multiple Joker incidents over the years, and no one had ever bothered to clean it up or redevelop it because, frankly, it was probably better to let him have it than to provoke him by taking it away.
Marcus pulled up to the main entrance and waited.
The figure that emerged from the darkness was exactly what Marcus expected and also somehow nothing like what he had expected: the white face, the green hair, the red smile that was too wide and too sharp and too permanent. The purple suit, immaculate despite the surroundings. The movement, which was neither walking nor dancing but something in between, something that suggested the laws of physics were more like guidelines in his presence.
The Joker opened the passenger door—the front passenger door, not the rear—and slid into the seat next to Marcus.
He was close enough to touch.
He was close enough to smell—greasepaint and gunpowder and something sweet beneath, something chemical, something wrong.
"So!" The Joker's voice was exactly what Marcus had been told it would be: high, theatrical, constantly shifting between registers like a radio caught between stations. "You're the famous driver! The man of mystery! The sphinx of the sedan! The enigma of the economy vehicle!"
Marcus looked at him.
The Joker looked back.
His smile—if anything—got wider.
"Oh, this is WONDERFUL," he said, clapping his hands together with genuine delight. "You're not afraid! You're genuinely, actually, completely not afraid! Do you have any idea how RARE that is? Do you have any idea how BORING most people are, with their screaming and their begging and their 'please don't kill me, I have a family' nonsense?"
Marcus said nothing.
"I've been hearing about you for WEEKS," the Joker continued, apparently undisturbed by the lack of response. "The driver who gives everyone five stars. The driver who doesn't flinch. The driver who Batsy himself has given his tacit seal of approval. And I thought to myself, I thought, 'Joker, old boy, you have GOT to meet this man. You have GOT to see what all the fuss is about.'"
The destination was listed as "Surprise me."
Marcus had no idea how to input that into the GPS.
He sat, waiting for clarification.
The Joker noticed. His smile shifted, became something that might have been genuine appreciation. "Oh, you're GOOD. You're really, really good. Most people would have driven off by now, trying to get rid of me as quickly as possible. But you're just... waiting. Waiting for instructions. Like I'm any other passenger. Like this is any other ride."
He leaned closer.
"Do you want to know a secret? A real secret, not the kind I tell Batman when I'm monologuing? The secret is this: I don't know what to do with you. And I LOVE that. I love not knowing. I love the possibility. I love the fact that you might be a hero, or a villain, or just some guy, and I genuinely can't tell which one."
His hand came up, slowly, and rested on Marcus's shoulder.
Marcus felt the weight. Registered the contact. Experienced no particular emotion about it.
"I could kill you," the Joker said, conversationally. "Right now. Just to see what would happen. Just to see if the city would react. Just to see if YOU would react. It would be an experiment. A beautiful, terrible, hilarious experiment."
Marcus looked at him through the same flat, neutral expression he had worn for his entire life.
The Joker held his gaze for a long moment.
Then he laughed—a real laugh, not the theatrical cackle Marcus had expected, but something closer to genuine amusement—and removed his hand.
"But I'm not going to," he said. "Do you know why? Because it would be EXPECTED. Everyone expects the Joker to kill people. Everyone expects chaos and mayhem and punchlines delivered at gunpoint. But the unexpected thing, the truly chaotic thing, would be to let you live. To become one of your regular customers. To see what happens when the unstoppable force meets the immovable object and decides to just... coexist."
He settled back into his seat, somehow making the simple Honda Accord look like a throne.
"Drive me somewhere interesting," he said. "Somewhere you would go if you weren't working. Somewhere that means something to you. And don't worry about the fare—I'll pay whatever it costs. Money is just funny paper anyway."
Marcus sat very still for approximately five seconds.
Then he shifted the car into drive, and he took the Joker to a 24-hour diner on the outskirts of the city that he had discovered three weeks ago and visited whenever he had time between rides because they made excellent coffee and the staff didn't talk to him unless he wanted them to.
The Joker ordered pancakes.
Marcus ordered nothing.
They sat in a booth by the window, and the Joker ate his pancakes with evident enjoyment while Marcus waited, and when the meal was done the Joker left a hundred-dollar tip, returned to the car, requested to be dropped off at Arkham Asylum ("I'm turning myself in! For NOW! It's all part of the bit!"), and gave Marcus a five-star review that read: "Best ride of my LIFE. And I mean that literally. He's the only driver who ever made me feel like a normal person just getting a normal ride. It was INFURIATING. I loved it. DO NOT HARM THIS MAN. That's an order. And also a suggestion. And also a threat. You know how it is. 🃏"
Marcus sat outside Arkham Asylum for approximately thirty seconds after the Joker had disappeared inside, presumably to await processing and incarceration until his next inevitable escape.
Then he ended the trip, confirmed the five-star rating, and checked the app for his next ride request.
Six months into his new existence in Gotham City, Marcus Webb had completed 2,847 rides, maintained a perfect 5.0-star rating, become the unofficial neutral party of the entire city's criminal and superhero communities, and still felt absolutely nothing in particular about any of it.
He was, by any reasonable measure, the most successful Uber driver in Gotham's history.
He was also, by any reasonable measure, not getting paid enough to deal with this shit.
But he dealt with it anyway, because dealing with things was what Marcus did, and because the alternative was not dealing with them, and Marcus had never been good at not dealing with things.
He didn't know why he was here. He didn't know how he had arrived. He didn't know if this was heaven, hell, purgatory, reincarnation, simulation, dream, or something else entirely beyond his comprehension.
But he knew how to drive.
And in Gotham City, apparently, that was enough.
END OF CHAPTER ONE