Chapter 163: The Avenger of Gotham (Part 1)

In the office of Arkham Asylum, Gordon stood with his hands on his hips, watching Schiller fiddling with his umbrella.

Schiller had dismantled the entire canopy, leaving only the ribs; he lowered his head to unscrew the handle, then yanked hard on one of the ribs.

The rib snapped with a "crack," and a small component inside shot out with a "whoosh"—Gordon let out a yelp of pain, clutching his left cheek; Schiller straightened up and looked at him, sighing: "I told you not to watch me repair things. I have no formal training in mechanics or engineering. Injury is inevitable."

Gordon stood up, holding his face, and pulled the component from between his fingers to show it to him, then said: "I told you—you couldn't fix this. It looks ordinary, but it's incredibly complex."

"Don't you have anything else to do?" Schiller bent back over the umbrella frame, then glanced out the window at Gordon: "Are all your cops this idle?"

"I'm solving the problem at its root," Gordon crossed his arms and stared at Schiller. "I've noticed a pattern: as long as I keep you under surveillance, no trouble ever comes our way."

Before Schiller could retort, Gordon pressed on: "So the secret society you invited me to join—was it formed specifically to fight the mysterious group that Poison Ivy claims is poisoning Gotham's rain?"

"That wasn't an invitation. The moment you learned the truth, you were already in—and you had no choice. Even if you refused to fight them, they'd find you anyway."

Gordon's brow furrowed tightly. "Are these supernatural forces real? Like… magic, witchcraft?"

"Do you believe in God?"

"Of course I—"

"If God exists, why not magic and witchcraft?"

Gordon opened his mouth, thinking Schiller had a point—but he wasn't a devout believer, only a vague theist, so he had no real grasp of such mystical notions.

Schiller twisted the umbrella handle—and it came off entirely. Gordon heard him mutter a curse, then picked up the handle and tossed it aside.

Gordon could no longer bear watching this amateurish repair job. He walked over, picked up the handle, and said: "Here's a deal: if you give me a full rundown of that organization, I'll find someone who can actually fix this. How's that?"

"Don't joke. The only umbrella maker in Gotham is dead. People from other cities—even if they could do this—wouldn't dare come to Gotham. Am I supposed to travel all the way to Metropolis just to fix an umbrella?"

"Actually, even if you went to Metropolis, it'd probably be faster than your current attempt." Both Gordon and Schiller looked down at the umbrella, now scattered into pieces.

Schiller had to admit Gordon was right. He had zero talent for this—just fumbling blindly. Since the Stark lab, he should've known: he could twist lightbulbs, and nothing else.

"So where are you going to find someone who can fix umbrellas?"

"I don't know any umbrella repairmen. But I do know someone who can rewire traffic lights."

As Gordon dialed the phone, he said to Schiller: "Remember that kid who tampered with the traffic signals during Traffic Civility Day?"

"Oh, yeah—I remember. He made it so only the right-hand lane at four intersections could move freely—and then a gang war broke out there…"

Gordon spoke into the phone: "Hey? Send someone to East District to bring that little brat in. I need to talk to him."

Not long after he hung up, a young officer dragged in a boy of thirteen or fourteen, gripping him by the collar. The boy was cursing loudly, but when he saw Gordon, he instantly wilted like a plant hit by frost.

Gordon patted his back and urged him forward. "This is Little Slipper—a genius. He's an electrician, wires circuits, even invented his own mechanical devices."

"What's your name?" Schiller asked.

"I don't have a name. Everyone calls me Little Slipper."

Though Gordon was among the most respectable and civilized cops in Gotham, years on the front lines had given him a rough edge. By comparison, Schiller—the refined university professor—looked far more harmless. Little Slipper darted behind Schiller and stuck out his tongue at Gordon.

Gordon sighed and explained: "This kid is the one who rewired the central roundabout traffic lights. He was hired by a mob boss on Madrid Street to speed up his drug trucks—he broke into the signal housing at night and rewired the circuits…"

"He's not a native of Gotham. He came from the countryside of Broodhaven. His parents died; his uncle was an electrician who brought him to Gotham to earn money. But his uncle fell ill and died within months of arriving. Now he's alone."

"This kid's sharp," Gordon said, eyeing Little Slipper with clear admiration.

"He survived alone in Gotham—and thrived. With the electrical skills his uncle taught him, several mob bosses treat him like royalty. If I didn't have a bit of clout, I couldn't even get him to come."

Schiller turned and looked at Little Slipper: a white boy with messy red curls and glasses.

He didn't look like a child from Gotham's slums. Though young, his body was solid—not weak at all, even stronger than Cobblepot—and his complexion was healthy, his eyes bright, lacking the dullness common among other children.

Few children in Gotham wore glasses. Here, they didn't read or attend school, so their eyes didn't strain. Parents rarely suffered nearsightedness, so it wasn't inherited. Little Slipper's appearance was utterly out of place.

Schiller picked up the broken umbrella and handed it to Little Slipper. "If you fix it, I'll give you a super cool toolbox."

Little Slipper took the umbrella, examined it closely, and exclaimed in surprise: "How did this get so wrecked? Did you take it into battle?"

Gordon smirked. "Last time I saw this umbrella, it wasn't this bad. It was just that someone tried to fix it despite having no idea how."

Schiller rolled his eyes, dragged over a chair, and sat down. "It's all because of Fish and Cobblepot—if they hadn't—"

"Wait!" Little Slipper suddenly gasped. "This umbrella's incredible! Why are all the parts different?"

Schiller stood up. "Hold on—I'll get you the toolbox."

He walked to the door, called a nurse, spoke a few words, and soon the nurse entered carrying a toolbox.

Inside, there were three or four tiers of tool displays. Little Slipper gasped: "So cool! I've always wanted a toolbox like this—but my uncle's was too small…"

"If you fix this umbrella, this toolbox is yours."

"Watch me." Little Slipper grabbed the umbrella and dismantled it in seconds. He worked for a long while, while Schiller and Gordon watched—but neither understood a thing.

After a while, Little Slipper stopped beside the table, stroking his chin. "This is tricky."

"This was handmade, right? Cast parts, polished components, assembled by hand?"

"Yes. This is a custom-made, handcrafted umbrella."

"Then why don't you just go find—"

Seeing Schiller's face darken again, Gordon stepped forward and clamped a hand over Little Slipper's mouth. "Don't ask that. Just fix it."

"But this umbrella's strange. Only the original maker can fix it." Little Slipper shrugged, pointing to a small pile of parts. "Look here—there should be six components here, but now there are only five."

He picked up a damaged piece from beside him. "This is the missing one. This screw looks like it was burned—its threads are completely ruined."

"That's why one rib won't hold up. To fix it, you need an exact replacement screw."

"I could've replaced the nut too, but this material—it's weird. The soldering iron won't work on it…"

Little Slipper told Schiller: "I really want that toolbox. I tried my best, but the materials used are too unique—nothing like factory-made products. I can't fix this."

Schiller and Gordon exchanged a glance—they both realized something. Schiller asked Little Slipper: "You're sure only the original umbrella maker can fix this?"

"Almost certainly. I'm not bragging—but before I could walk, I could screw a bolt into a nut."

He held up a screw and showed it to Schiller. "Look at the threads—you can see faint handwork. But more importantly, the thread design is unique. Standard screws won't fit."

"What if you recast one?"

"You can try," Little Slipper shook his head. "But I doubt it. The fit is so precise—if the material differs even slightly, it won't align."

In the end, Schiller gave Little Slipper the toolbox and said: "If you're interested, go to the Vocational School in the Living Hell. There's a mechanical engineering professor from Gotham University teaching there. With your talent, he'll be thrilled."

After Little Slipper left, Schiller picked up the phone and dialed a number. "Yes, it's me. Are you free to come over now? What? You're already on your way? Alright…"

About twenty minutes later, Batman appeared in the office. Gordon, Schiller, and Batman stood around the table, staring at the umbrella.

"So you're saying the Owl Court's umbrella maker, Vigen, made this—and only they can repair it?"

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Batman picked up one of the parts, squinted at it, and said nothing.

"Alright," Schiller tossed the handle onto the table and studied Batman. "You spent a long time in Cobblepot and Evans's rooms last night. What did you talk about?"

Batman continued examining the umbrella parts. "We're forming an alliance."

Gordon looked at him. "An alliance? To do what? Fight the Owl Court?"

"Exactly. We're all interested in that secret organization. We'll investigate it from different angles."

"You said you were coming over today? What's the matter?"

"I came to discuss one question—but now I have the answer." He pulled out another part, nearly identical to the damaged one. "I found this last night—on another umbrella."

As Batman spoke, time rewound to last night.