Midway City could practically be called the Venice of North America. From the roof of the Museum, there was a river right below. The sidewalk was extremely narrow, probably only wide enough for two people to walk side by side. There were no lanes for motor vehicles; both the road and the bridges were paved with stone slabs. Plenty of boats traveled the waterways and, thank God, they were not old hand-rowed skiffs, but commercial passenger boats with electric motors.
Here, boats were an extremely important form of public transportation. Because Midway City's central roundabout was a lake, and the area around it was the most important downtown district, almost all public transport had to transfer there.
When Schiller arrived at the ferry stop, a boat had just pulled in. He bought a ticket at the kiosk beside it and stepped aboard in one stride. Deathstroke came down a little later than he did, and to catch the boat, he skipped buying a ticket and rushed straight on. Everyone on board screamed.
It was not because he had evaded the fare, but because his appearance was genuinely a little frightening. Although he was moving around inside the city and was not wearing heavy armor, his weapons were still strapped to his back. If they had only been cold weapons, people might have thought he was there for a comic convention, but the problem was that he also had an AR-15 on his back. This was not the real Venice. What American would fail to recognize that? One glance told them it was a real gun. He looked exactly like a terrorist.
"All right! All right!" Deathstroke shouted. "I'm just here as a tourist! What are you screaming for?!"
The crowd quieted a little, as if they were trying to determine