Chapter 23: Haha, Snatched Again

Ma Zhaodi thought he had grown accustomed to life in Gotham.

He had been working in Gotham for a full week now. He had seen shootouts, criminals, gangs, a superhero, a future supervillain, and plenty of people from both the impoverished lower class and the wealthy elite. He had even gotten used to falling asleep while staring at the gargoyles hanging upside down from the buildings.

Honestly, the way they were posed really made it look like a hypnotist at work.

To be fair, aside from the occasional perverted client attracted by his face, he felt he had almost adapted to this city—or at least, he had grown slightly accustomed to its madness.

He was wrong.

That day, he got off work as usual and was pushing his wheelchair through a residential alleyway. Before he could even head upstairs, a man’s voice suddenly rang out behind him.

"Hey, buddy. Give me your wheelchair."

"?"

Ma Zhaodi, who had been looking forward to heading home, experienced a brief system crash in his brain.

It wasn't that he hadn't seen muggers before; they were common in the East End. Usually, the process and motives were as cookie-cutter as the people committing them, but this guy’s approach to robbery seemed uniquely creative.

"Um... let me get this straight," Ma Zhaodi said, cautiously pointing to the wheelchair he was sitting in. "You’re trying to mug me for my wheelchair?"

The gunman, wearing a smug, twisted grin, laughed. "That’s right! Hand it over! I know who you are. It’s all over the East End and Otisburg—every night, some damn 'ghost-fire' maniac is tearing up the streets! I know what you’re using to go that fast. I know that thing is a treasure!"

Ma Zhaodi was a bit perplexed. "If I may be so bold, you could go just as fast by stealing a car. Why the obsession with my wheelchair?"

The genius paused for a few seconds. His expression shifted from menacing to thoughtful, then from thoughtful to confused.

It was quite amusing.

"Anyway!" he stammered. "Give me the wheelchair!"

"From my personal perspective, I should warn you that this wheelchair is probably quite dangerous for the average person..."

"Bang!"

"I said! Give it to me, damn it!"

Ma Zhaodi’s eye twitched as he looked at the wall beside him. The bullet had grazed his shoulder, leaving a hole in the brickwork just inches from his head.

This was the tenth time he’d encountered a shooting scene in Gotham this week.

Honestly, it was like sensitivity training. The tension was real, but after so many times, one really does become a bit numb. Ma Zhaodi had gone from being petrified, to terrified, to now, feigning calm—he had built up some resistance.

"Here, take it. Be my guest." Under the threat of the muzzle, he decisively stopped wasting his breath to avoid being shot in the head by the impatient gunman.

It wasn't that he had turned into a coward. After all, in every previous encounter, he hadn't been facing the barrel directly; he had been hiding in corners or lurking in the shadows. Facing an armed robber head-on, staring straight into a loaded gun, was a level of danger far beyond anything he had experienced before.

"And give me the money and clothes you're wearing, all of it!"

"I can give you the money, but could you at least leave me my clothes?"

"Quit the damn talk! Strip!"

That is truly going too far!

Anger flared in Ma Zhaodi’s heart. He swiftly took off his jacket, leaving himself in just a shirt and trousers. Finally, he pulled his driver’s license out of the jacket and popped the SIM card out of his phone.

"Fine, fine. That’s all I’ve got left. Take the money and get out of here."

"And your gun al—"

"Bang!"

An abrupt gunshot interrupted the robbery. A tall, burly man strode toward them, gun in hand, and spat on the ground.

"That's my gun, you son of a bitch."

The robber clutched his hand, groaning in pain. The burly man’s bullet had shattered the gun in the robber’s grip, tearing a bloody hole through his palm in the process.

"Get lost!"

Seeing the ferocious look in the man’s eyes, the robber immediately lost all desire to resist. He scrambled to grab the jacket, hopped into the wheelchair, and—not daring to reach for Ma Zhaodi’s wallet or phone—frantically pressed the buttons on the chair, vanishing around the corner of the street.

"He actually has quite a talent for operating the chair, though I still wouldn't recommend him pushing it to—"

"Give me my damn gun back." The man cut off Ma Zhaodi’s rambling. "Don't try to change the subject. If you don't have the guts to use it, don't keep it."

"It’s just a standard Beretta, okay? It hasn't been modified at all," Ma Zhaodi protested, while dutifully handing the weapon over. "You talk about it like it's some legendary weapon of mass destruction."

"Shut up." The man tucked the revolver and the well-worn Beretta back into his waistband. He didn't ask about the newer Colt, but instead spat at Ma Zhaodi’s feet. "I waited at Old Jack’s for a week, and you didn't have the guts to show up, just riding that damn wheelchair through the streets like some lunatic from Arkham Asylum."

"Coward."

Why you—!

In a fit of rage, Ma Zhaodi aggressively put his jacket back on, shoved his license and phone into his pocket, and turned to walk upstairs.

He was angry, of course, but there was no point in stooping to the level of a brute like that. Being cursed at twice wouldn't cost him a piece of flesh.

What if he cursed back and actually lost a piece of flesh? Last time he’d snapped at Drake, he’d ended up red-faced and humiliated.

Clinton cast a look of disdain at him and walked away without stopping him.

"Damn Gotham, full of cowards."

"Damn Gotham, full of idiots and lunatics."

Ma Zhaodi was venting his frustrations to Drake. "I was just riding my wheelchair home and I get targeted, and they even use a gun to rob me! Damn it, is it even possible to drive a wheelchair faster than a car!"

"Based on the time you got home from work, your wheelchair speed yesterday already exceeded that of ninety percent of the lunatic drivers in Gotham," Drake said, checking his watch expressionlessly. "It is now 10:14 PM. You came upstairs at 10:13. Assuming the robbery downstairs took three minutes, you only spent ten minutes getting home."

"Ah, actually, no." Ma Zhaodi smiled sheepishly. "I got home in nine minutes."

"What exactly are you proud of?"

Drake shook his head. "You're a full quarter faster than before. If this keeps up, I’m genuinely worried about seeing a headline in the paper one day about a 'speeding ghost-fire wheelchair' rear-ending a supercar and getting pancaked."

"Whatever, it got stolen anyway." Ma Zhaodi ate the dinner left on the table, feeling sullen. "It’s a shame about the wheelchair I spent so much effort modifying; it could hit a top speed of 160."

Not to mention the 500 points he’d spent on Advanced Wheelchair Driving Mastery.

Meanwhile, on the quiet streets of the East End, a multicolored streak of light shot past, accompanied by a scream.

"Stop it—aaah! This damn wheelchair!"

*Thud!*

The next day, Ma Zhaodi left early for work. Drake was eating breakfast while reading the *Gotham Daily Gazette* when a headline caught his eye.

"Gotham Urban Legend 'Speeding Ghost-Fire Wheelchair' Rear-Ends Wayne Executive Vehicle; Wheelchair Driver Currently Being Reassembled."

"Pfft!"