At this point Murphy’s fairly used to the random odd jobs the Rogues MC keeps sticking him with. They’re not terrible, really. Occasionally boring and usually solo stuff. Today, he’s stuck with another prospect he’s never met before. Lichfield’s tiny, shorter than Murphy even, and seems reasonable enough. She agrees to drive the van from Bludhaven to Gotham and didn’t spend too much time trying to make idle chatter on the ride in. And they make good time, despite the traffic.

Gotham’s somehow even shittier than Murphy remembered it being. Sure, the weather’s nice. It’s cool, breezy, pleasant, the leaves just starting to turn… but that does nothing to lift the general air of misery hanging over the city. Or the spectacular smell of human waste and old, stale garbage. Pendleton and Lichfield drop their van ad unknown cargo off in an unassuming parking garage and walk a few blocks down the way to pick up their ride home. It’s in behind some busted row house, and as soon as they both round the corner Murphy knows this has to be some kind of fuckin’ test. This is one of the worst cars he’s ever seen that’s still maybe, possibly running.

It’s a station wagon. A staton wagon with only most of its wood panelling, even less of its windows intact, and so much rust Murphy isn’t sure it won’t simply fall the fuck apart if they have to brake suddenly.

“At least it’s not a Pinto,” Murphy mumbles when he climbs into the driver’s seat. The doors squeal ominously when shut, but they do shut. He supposes he should be glad it even has doors – and seats. It certainly has seats. They’ve got those awful beaded covers that clack loudly every time Murphy moves. It smells musty. It does, surprisingly, sputter to life relatively easily… somehow. The engine coughs and chugs like no tomorrow.

It’s not until he’s pulling out on to the street that he realizes there’s no radio in the console. There’s just the big, empty gap in the console where the radio should be. Of course. Of course there’s no radio.

Pendleton and Lichfield spend the long, long ride back to Bludhaven in a deep, awkward silence, broken only by the sounds of blaring horns and yelled obscenities from other drivers. It’s late afternoon by the time they limp back to Gotham, and the Rogues’ clubhouse is quiet when they finally arrive. There’s a handful of cars out front by the tattoo parlor, and a few more in the back by the row of mismatched motorcycles. They drive by one of the full patch guys out having a smoke, some wiry dude Murphy’s not met yet. He doesn’t even look up despite the car coughing loudly the whole way. By the time they park and Murphy gets out, he’s vanished back into the club house.

It’s less quiet inside. The radio’s on low on some rock station or other. Skinny guy from the parking lot’s nowhere to be seen, but there’s other members Murphy knows hanging out in the main living area. Mostly just the guys without rank. Eddie Nygma’s by the bar with a stack of files and paperwork and Crane’s off in the kitchenette getting coffee.

Eddie doesn’t even look up when asking, “Did it go alright?”

“It went fine,” Murphy answers, finding a stool by the bar to settle. “Traffic was shit, though.”