Chen Mo was forced awake by a burning sensation in his stomach.
In his dream, Stark, black cards, and Batman squatting nearby to hand him tissues all shattered into the cold morning wind of Gotham, which carried the stench of rust mixed with rotting seaweed.
He stared at the ceiling, thinking the only flaw of that dream was waking up from it.
Waking up meant facing reality, and reality meant being completely broke.
Chen Mo patted his flat stomach, then glanced at the dried spider silk on his wrist. A detailed description of Spider-Man's webbing would probably be flagged as passionate and vulgar.
Sigh.
Chen Mo's logic was crystal clear: no money meant no protein, no protein meant no webbing, no webbing meant no farming rewards--a perfect capitalist death loop.
Thank you, Gotham; thank you, System; thank you, Old Ma, that absolute idiot of an American fanboy.
Relying on intercepting food from punks on the streets every day wasn't a long-term solution.
He was stronger than the average adult now, and management down at the docks was lax enough that even undocumented people could blend in to haul heavy sacks.
He'd take it one day at a time; at least it was a stable income.
Sigh.
Why did he still have to look for a job after transmigrating?
He didn't want to be a failure-man anymore; he wanted to be Batman.
Chen Mo rolled out of bed, deciding to try his luck at the docks.
The Gotham South Docks.
The air was thick with the smell of cheap rolled cigarettes and diesel exhaust.
Larry sat sideways on a rickety wooden chair, spitting out a glob of thick phlegm that landed precisely two centimeters away from Chen Mo's foot.
With this kind of accuracy, the guy could win a medal at the Olympics.
Chen Mo had been waiting around the docks for most of the day before this manager finally showed his face.
He had heard this man's name from some punks back when he was doing his good Samaritan deeds.
"Larry, hauling cargo. Need hands?"
Larry squinted, sizing him up.
Hmm... an illegal immigrant kid looking for work because he's about to starve to death.
Hmm???
This Asian youth really did look good. Even though he was wearing a washed-out hoodie, that face of his was so clean it looked like it had been cut right out of a Gucci ad.
In Gotham, looking like this was a form of hard currency in itself.
Not complimenting your looks, but complimenting how sellable you were.
In every sense of the word.
And he was a clean-looking Asian who didn't look like he used drugs... fun and delectable, even better.
Larry's eyes rolled as he held up three fingers.
"Three days, thirty bucks."
Chen Mo quickly did the math in his head.
Thirty for three days meant ten dollars a day.
The minimum wage in New York was sixteen-fifty an hour.
In other words, the legal wage for one hour of work was enough for Larry to make him haul cargo for three days.
Perfect Gotham economics.
"Deal."
Since the guy was actually willing to pay, whatever.
Larry pulled a blood-grooved dagger from his waist and slammed it into the tabletop with a sharp ting.
"But the rules have to change. The money can be settled, but you have to pay an 'initiation fee' first. The pharmacy next door is watched by an old man; go rob it. Cash is split eighty-twenty. Do that, and you can walk tall around these docks from now on. Of course, whether you're walking tall or being carried out flat depends on your performance."
Once this kid committed a crime, it would be much safer and risk-free to kidnap and sell him.
Chen Mo stared at the dagger.
A few hundred US dollars.
Protein powder.
High-tensile spider silk.
The somewhat naive Chen Mo had even begun mapping out an escape route in his head.
The camera in the alley behind the pharmacy was broken. Leap over two walls, and there was the subway station. Perfect.
【System Warning: Severe criminal tendencies detected in the host. Superpower degradation penalty countdown: 3, 2--】
Chen Mo instantly straightened his spine, his eyes bursting with a righteous aura that made Larry's skin crawl. His face-changing speed was so fast that Sichuan opera masters would have begged to apprentice under him.
"Larry, you are insulting me."
Larry froze.
"Robbery? That's against the law."
Chen Mo's tone was as sincere as if he were reciting a public service announcement, his voice clear enough for half the docks to hear.
"Honesty is the foundation of a person's standing in society. Although I am so poor that I don't even know where tomorrow's breakfast is coming from--seriously, right now my stomach holds nothing but air and hope--I have a heart of gold. You want me to rob someone? No, that is a betrayal of justice. I, Chen, am a good man in life, and will be a well-deceased man in death. Wow, that phrase is so philosophical, I'm engraving it on my tombstone."
The cargo workers nearby all stopped what they were doing, looking at this chunibyo teenager as if he were a lunatic.
In Gotham, talking about "honesty" and "justice" was rarer than streaking naked down the street.
At least naked streaking could be explained by having too much to drink.
And honestly, quite a few people did that.
When Larry finally snapped out of it, his old face turned bright red.
It was the humiliation of being lectured in public by a brat. In Gotham, this kind of humiliation had to be washed away with blood.
Or at least by selling the kid straight to a pleasure house.
"Are you fucking playing me?"
Larry bolted upright, his rolls of fat trembling.
"Giving you face and you don't want it. Since you're so high and mighty, fine, don't expect a single cent. As for you--"
He scanned Chen Mo's face up and down, like estimating the market price of a pig, "Those old perverts at the underground pleasure house will definitely pay a high price. Just this face alone is enough for you to pay off my debts. Don't worry, they'll treat you very well, at least for the first month."
Several burly men closed in.
Standard Gotham workplace culture: if talking fails, use fists; if fists fail, use knives; if knives fail, use shipping containers.
Oh wait, he was the one moving the container.
Chen Mo sighed. "So you're saying my onboarding training is a one-way ticket to a pleasure house? Gotham's labor laws are truly comprehensive."
He stepped backward while complaining wildly in his mind: System, you see this, right? It's not that I want to fight, they want to sell me to perverts. This counts as legitimate self-defense, no points deducted, right? Or do you want me to quietly let myself be sold, and then reform the customers inside the pleasure house? Just imagine that picture yourself, System.
The System remained silent.
Acquiescence.
Or maybe it was just disgusted.
Whether the System had thoughts or not, Chen Mo didn't know, but he felt like it did anyway.
The leading thug threw a punch straight at Chen Mo's face.
Chen Mo's foot slipped--as if tripped by an oil stain on the ground, letting out an "oops"--and his entire body lurched bizarrely to the left.
The thug's punch carried too much momentum to be pulled back, smashing directly into the crane control lever behind Larry.
Crack.
That punch was worth at least three months of workers' comp.
The control lever snapped.
The shipping container suspended in mid-air let out a teeth-grinding screech of friction.
"Watch out--though I don't know which direction you should watch out for either!"
Chen Mo conveniently gave another thug next to him a shove.
Before the man could react, he crashed heavily into Larry.
Larry rolled out like a ball of flesh, landing right on the edge of the shadow of the falling container.
He rolled much faster than he walked.
Boom--
The shipping container slammed into the ground.
Larry wasn't crushed, but the impact sent him flying, landing head-first into a bamboo basket filled with rotten fish.
Perfect. Birds of a feather flock together, and stinky things end up in the same basket.
The other thugs tried to rush him, but Chen Mo had already retreated to the edge of the dock in "panic and distress."
"Don't come any closer! Come any closer and I'll jump! I really will! If I jump, you'll lose someone you can sell!"
As Chen Mo shouted, he "accidentally" stepped on a hemp rope on the ground.
The other end of the rope was tied to an unloading hook. Jerked by the force, the unloading hook swung back like a meteor hammer.
Physics is just so charming.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Three burly men lined up to be clipped on the back of their heads by the hook, rolling their eyes and collapsing to the ground in perfect unison. It was so neat it looked rehearsed.
Chen Mo clapped the dust off his hands and shouted to Larry in the rotten fish basket, "Larry, see? This is the consequence of not being honest. Even God couldn't stand it, His old self just gave you a push. You need to reflect. By the way, no need to give me that thirty bucks, just keep it for your medical bills."
With that, he bolted.
Thirty US dollars gone, but at least he wasn't sold.
And his exercise quota for the day was definitely met.
Walking through Gotham's dark, damp streets, the hunger in his stomach had evolved into a sharp ache.
It had graduated from "a bit hungry" to "my stomach is eating itself."
Chen Mo passed by a restaurant. Freshly baked bread sat in the display window, the scent of wheat and butter hitting him like a physical attack. In Gotham, this smell was more tempting than any crime.
Chen Mo stopped in his tracks.
Plan A was a massive failure.
Time to launch Plan B!
Chen Mo didn't go inside to beg for food.
He stood outside the window, utilizing his face--youthful, aloof, with just the right touch of exhaustion--to stare at the bread inside the display.
His gaze was clear and melancholy, like a kitten that had been drenched in the rain for three days, yet carrying a stubbornness that said, "I'm hungry, but I won't beg."
He had practiced this expression seventeen times in the mirror.
This was the ultimate killer move he had summarized from watching idol dramas in his past life.
In theory, it should work.
Though in a place like Gotham, the logic of idol dramas might not apply.
It really was a land of outstanding people and magical places...
Inside the restaurant, the proprietress was wiping a table.
She noticed the youth outside the window--the thin silhouette, those eyes written all over with "I'm hungry" but stubbornly holding out without opening his mouth, and that face. Especially that face.
She looked for three seconds.
Then she put down her rag and walked over. Not walking out, but walking over.
She pushed open the door and sized Chen Mo up, her gaze evaluating him like a piece of merchandise.
A classic Gotham-style assessment: first see how much it's worth, then see how it can be used.
"What are you standing here for, blocking my business?" She stared at Chen Mo's face for another two seconds, "With a face like that, wouldn't being a host at a club down south be better than standing out here? Or do you think the entry threshold for clubs is too high?"
"That's illegal," Chen Mo said, his tone sincere.
The proprietress sneered. "That's legal."
"?"
Chen Mo really didn't know much about American laws. He thought that selling a minor, no matter how you spun it, should be absolutely illegal.
For real? It's actually legal?
She glanced at his face again, "Forget it. I'm short a dishwasher in the back. Ten US dollars a day, covers two meals. You in or out?"
Chen Mo blinked.
This twist was faster than the fight at the docks.
"What are you looking at?" The proprietress stuffed a bag of sandwiches that expired today into his arms, "This is your advance lunch. Show up at six tomorrow morning. Late, and I dock your pay. No-show, and I call the cops; I'll tell them you stole from me."
Chen Mo looked at the bag of sandwiches in his arms, his Adam's apple bobbing. Then he smiled, a smile as bright as a sunny day that would never appear in Gotham.
"Thanks. Wishing you a prosperous business, a packed house, and plenty of tips."
He clutched the sandwiches, turned, and walked into the alley.
The moment he entered the alley, he tore open the packaging and took a huge bite out of the ham sandwich.
The bread crust was a bit hard, but this was meat.
It was protein.
It was the raw material for spider silk.
The more he ate, the more he felt his life was bitter.
He really hated this feeling of not having a single cent on him.
Chen Mo chewed while calculating in his mind. He knew there were still good people in this world.
The prerequisite was having a good enough face, and being willing to work twelve hours a day for only ten bucks.
Oh well, at least she was willing to pay.
Not bad at all.