"Lucius, I heard you were in a car accident?"
Bruce Wayne, the president and chief technology officer of Wayne Group, received this greeting in the early morning. Although the wording was rather unpleasant, it genuinely made him feel a little warm inside.
Because the person who had said it was Bruce Wayne.
"Mr. Wayne, I'm perfectly fine. Last night's incident was simply a test of vehicle self-driving technology. I wasn't hurt."
"That's good." Bruce Wayne's voice over the phone seemed to carry the roar of a sports car engine and the laughter of women. "I thought my most capable CEO was going to take a leave of absence. I really don't want to manage Wayne Group myself. Good heavens, spending even an hour in the office is torture."
"You don't need to worry, Mr. Wayne."
"Beep—beep—"
The abruptly disconnected call cut Lucius off. The gesture was entirely in keeping with the usual impression people had of Bruce Wayne.
The sole heir to the Wayne Family, the actual owner of Wayne Group, Gotham City's playboy, an idle and incompetent wastrel, a pitiful orphan whose parents had died, and the luckiest yet unluckiest man in Gotham City.
Young Master Wayne, that was truly rude.
Lucius sighed, hung up his phone, and began examining the wreckage of the wheelchair in the laboratory.
It wasn't that the wheelchair contained any particularly advanced technology. Its origins were simply somewhat strange.
After investigation, the wheelchair driver's identity had been confirmed. He was an ordinary thug from Gotham's East End with numerous prior convictions at the Gotham Police Department, including robbery, theft, and assault. He had even been involved in a murder. Given his level of knowledge and financial means, it was essentially impossible for him to have built something like this himself.
What was interesting was that this clearly illegal high-speed wheelchair had never appeared in Gotham before. According to the surveillance data, all they could determine was that it had appeared on the same fixed stretch of road every night for an entire week, between ten and ten twenty. Its starting point seemed to have been a certain neighborhood in the Audisburg District.
As for how it had ended up in the thug's hands, and how it had collided head-on with Lucius's vehicle while he was conducting a full-route scan of Gotham and testing its self-driving system, even Lucius couldn't figure it out.
Moreover, to verify the possibility of drunk or drugged driving, Lucius had also tested the thug after reconstructing his body. The results showed a strange drug compound in his system. Strangely, this compound was unlike any known drug.
There was also a deformed thermos at the scene. A few strange blue plant petals remained inside its walls, and their composition was identical to the drug compound in the thug's body. Based on the current experiments on white mice, it appeared to be a new type of stimulant.
The mouse had remained highly active for ten hours, and it still showed no sign of fatigue. Its physical condition also appeared to be healthy.
Whether it was a new health supplement or a new narcotic, as long as there was a possibility of it entering Gotham City in significant quantities, it was already important enough to attract Lucius's attention.
Although, judging from the current situation, there were already countless things more serious than this. The Riddler, Scarecrow, Penguin, Joker, and a whole host of other supervillains, not to mention the Roman currently being investigated by Batman—in other words, the Falcone mob family.
The things these people could cook up included poison-gas bombs capable of killing the entire city, nuclear warheads capable of leveling it, and gun battles and riots that covered the whole of Gotham. Everyone was baffled as to why this city had not fallen apart yet.
In Lucius's view, it might have been because Batman was always there to clean up the mess. Somehow, he could always throw all those people back into prison overnight.
Returning to the matter at hand, he had extracted the DNA from the rim of the cup. At present, there were only two human samples. One belonged to the wheelchair-driving thug, while the other had no match in the police department's DNA database.
"Maybe I should find an opportunity to ask around that area and see what I can learn. If I'm lucky, Batman won't have to investigate this personally." Lucius stared thoughtfully at the lively white mouse.
"Hey, Ma Zhaodi."
Ma Zhaodi had just gotten out of a taxi and was about to enter the restaurant when the owner of the newsstand next door teased him, "What happened? Why aren't you riding your precious wheelchair today?"
"It got stolen." He sighed and walked over. "Give me a newspaper. Do you sell anything for self-defense?"
"New stock. Berettas, Colts, and P229s. You actually left the house without a gun today? That wasn't very wise."
"I brought one. Then I suddenly thought I might as well buy another as a spare—wait, a P229? Made in Germany?"
"Made in Gotham." The newsstand owner chuckled. "Don't you want something with more kick?"
"I don't want to die from some shoddily made counterfeit pistol. Besides, I don't have much money on me right now."
"You're underestimating Gotham, kid." The newsstand owner gave a sly grin. "A locally made Colt Python, with your choice of parts. Just bring the money tomorrow. If anything goes wrong with the gun, I'll pay you triple."
"If I survive long enough to come back and find you, will triple the money be enough to buy your life?"
"Heh heh heh. I have genuine goods too, but they aren't cheap. Why not play a game instead? My guns have a minimum price and a maximum price. You can choose any price in between." The owner handed over the gun. "If the gun has a serious problem right there on the spot—something that could get your head blown off, like exploding or falling apart—I'll immediately give you your money back. Bullets cost extra."
Damn, so this was actually his main business.
"That's how the rules work. Willing buyer, willing seller. Once we agree, the deal is final. If something goes wrong later, don't come looking for me. How about it?"
Ma Zhaodi raised an eyebrow and called out to the owner of the food cart beside them, "Hey! Val!"
The cart owner kept working without pause and looked up. "What is it?"
"How many years has he been doing this?"
"Huh? At least two years."
Ma Zhaodi turned back. "I'll take one Beretta and one Colt Revolver."
"Heh heh, thank you for your patronage."
"Ring ring ring—"
While eating lunch, Ma Zhaodi instinctively picked up his phone. The screen showed an unfamiliar number. After thinking for a few seconds and confirming that he hadn't recently given his number to anyone except his boss, supervisor, or the Drake couple, he felt an ominous premonition rise in his heart.
Rather than believe in the coincidence that "the Drakes changed their phone number," he was more inclined to believe that someone had set their sights on him.
Could it be Clinton? But how had he gotten his phone number? Clinton probably couldn't have found it on his own, could he?
Could the stolen wheelchair have caused trouble, with the investigation eventually leading back to him?
Was the Gotham Police Department really that efficient?
He answered the phone.
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