Chapter 2259

The Batcave Restaurant isn't a high-end restaurant in the true sense; it has no Michelin rating, and its scores on various websites and food critic columns can only be described as mediocre, but it's this popular precisely because it's more down-to-earth.

There's no tedious and meticulous reservation process; the phone number for reservations and inquiries is written right at the entrance, no introduction from anyone is needed, and you don't have to wait half a year to taste a dish, nor do you need to wear formal attire at all — you can walk straight in wearing beach shoes or flip-flops after playing on the beach.

This makes the tourists' style blend naturally with the restaurant's own style; at least there's no comical scene of a group of suited Wall Street elites dining in a cave full of natural scenery.

The restaurant's child- and elder-friendly policies make the atmosphere quite warm; it's often whole families gathered around stone or wooden tables, chatting and laughing while admiring the view.

The children's clothes were handled by Alfred; to avoid being too formal, Alfred chose more English countryside-style outfits for the boys.

The slightly younger boys — Jason, Tim, and little Barry brought by Victor — all wore shirts with suspender shorts and round-toed leather shoes; Jason wore a light camel checkered shirt, Tim a dark brown polka-dot shirt, and Barry a coffee-colored fine cashmere sweater; from afar the color palette was quite unified, as if in an instant they'd returned to the Welsh countryside.

Dick is already in high school; he long ago completed the transition from child to teenager and in many important occasions started dressing like an adult in shirts and suit trousers, but this time he wore a rather preppy fake two-piece: a black wool vest with a white houndstooth pattern on the outside, a white shirt, dark jeans, and sneakers underneath.

Harley's development speed was the fastest among her peers; because girls in this age group often mature earlier than boys, she already looked like a young lady, and she was self-taught in makeup, looking even more mature after applying it.

Unfortunately her height still wasn't enough; she couldn't wear those pretty bodycon dresses, so today she wore a pure white scallop-neck knee-length dress and deliberately stuck on a pair of white false eyelashes, looking just like a walking Barbie doll.

The adults dressed even more casually; Shiler got Bruce's reservation, so Arrogance got off work to rest, and Greed came to work in high spirits.

His private clothes were unremarkable: shirts when it was hotter, hoodies and sweaters printed with all sorts of patterns when it was colder; today he wore a gray long-sleeved sweater with a very small blue tulip pattern in the upper left corner.

Victor and his wife were the typical American vacation style: Victor wore a white short-sleeved shirt, a floral jacket printed with sunflowers, loose shorts printed with waves and sailboats, and flip-flops; Mrs. Fries wore an orange horizontal-striped short-sleeved top, jeans, and a thick leather belt.

In short, this group of people thrown into the restaurant fit the style here perfectly, not the least bit abrupt; but the ones who came in after were more or less tinged with the bizarre.

No matter where Stark goes, he's in a suit, shiny leather shoes plus sunglasses, looking like he's about to buy the restaurant.

Natasha didn't go to the opening ceremony; she came straight from the beach, the bit of fabric on her body could barely be called clothing, every place that could be exposed was exposed — any millimeter less and Lucifer would have to airdrop in to manually censor it.

Pamela wore not much more than her, one hand hooking the newly-met Scarlet Witch Wanda, the other holding a phone filming Natasha ahead, eyes still glued to Diana in an Amazonian-style swimsuit.

Steve likewise didn't attend the opening ceremony; he came in hugging a surfboard wearing just a pair of shorts, and even the shorts had an American flag pattern.

The main-universe Batman wore his Batsuit; Bat-Bruce was also in a suit and leather shoes, dressed like that American Psycho; Arkham Batman wore an old-fashioned peak-lapel suit exclusive to presidents, as if always ready to be sculpted into Mount Rushmore.

Peter and the main-universe Barry had just finished strolling the streets and returned, dressed in the most typical American teenage street-punk style: black short-sleeved shirts printed with English, sleeves bunched into a pile of wrinkles at the wrists covering the backs of their hands, loose camel-hair long pants and high-tops, sunglasses, baseball caps, and ear studs — looking like they could blend into any rap group at any moment.

The rest of the Spider-Men wore all sorts of varied outfits, but most were very vivid in color, mainly red, blue, and bright orange; the moment they surged through the door, the place seemed to instantly turn into some modern art exhibition.

After this group of freaks packed the whole restaurant, Bruce and Joker Arthur only squeezed in with the last wave; they hadn't had time to change either, so Arthur was in his classic red suit and pale skin, Bruce in a hoodie.

But a bit of a dispute occurred between them; Arthur walked forward briskly with his head down, Bruce chasing behind him saying something.

"No, don't even think about it, bullshit! I'm not going to see any more shrinks, even if you pin the blame for destroying the Federal Reserve on me, I won't do it, I'd rather go to prison."

"But you have to listen to my introduction of him..."

Bruce dragged Arthur by the collar toward Shiler; since he'd reserved in advance, Shiler had sent the kids to Alfred's side, and he sat alone at a two-person table closest to the glass curtain wall.

From Arthur's body language it was clear he didn't want to go at all, but how could he possibly wrestle free from Bruce? He was just dragged stumbling to Shiler.

"Listen, I have zero interest in how professional he is or how much he helped when you almost couldn't graduate; I just don't want to see a shrink, I..."

"Do you know how much his consultation fee is?" Bruce turned his head and stared at Arthur.

Arthur instinctively blanked for a second, subconsciously saying: "Uh, how much?"

"3 million dollars an hour, I'll pay."

Arthur plopped down opposite Shiler, and as soon as he sat he waved his hand urging Bruce to bring over his previous brain CT results, placed his hands on the tabletop, and gave Shiler a signature smile.

"You know, I've always held immense respect for doctors who save lives and heal the wounded, and even greater reverence for the professional ones among them..."

"Don't listen to his nonsense." Shiler also put his hands on the tabletop, glanced at Bruce, and said: "It's not that expensive for everyone; I charge proportionally based on assets."

"Angel in white!"

Bruce watched their clasped hands and rolled his eyes, then said: "I'll go check on Tim; he messed up his cousin's reading club and pissed off his aunt again."

After Bruce left the two sat back in their seats; Arthur tightened his suit buttons, Shiler stared at the brain CT images and said: "I have to introduce you — the person who operated on you is called Stephen Strange, known in another universe as the God's Hand, the best surgeon in the world."

Arthur opened his mouth; clearly he wasn't as relaxed as he acted, more riding the manic high of his performance's huge success, immersively playing a successful comedian to be so glib.

But when the excitement jumping in his nerves gradually dissipated, he was never good at facing doctors, lawyers, and such figures; in his own words, society never gave him the chance to interact with such big shots, so how could he be expected to hold his own against them?

"It's fine, you just have to sit here." Shiler glanced at Bruce walking away and said: "We can totally pretend to talk about something; when time's up I take the money and leave, and you don't have to force yourself."

Arthur was slightly surprised; his widened eyes squeezed deep frown lines onto his forehead, his sunken eyes rolling around, constantly glancing toward places where Shiler wasn't.

"Your physiological illness has been completely cured now." Shiler looked at the sea outside the window and said: "Of course, as a psychiatrist, that was never within my purview to begin with, but within my purview, you don't have anything that needs treatment either."

Arthur clearly didn't believe it; he took it as comfort, but then Shiler immediately stated his own view.

"In the first half of your life, everyone told you you were sick; they said you were a lunatic, that a mental patient must regularly see a psychiatrist, best go to a psych ward for checkups, rot in a mental hospital and never come out."

"But is that really because you were sick? Maybe you were ill, but actually not that severe at all; they just treated you as an unstable factor."

"They don't actually care whether you're truly sick, whether you're in pain, whether you need treatment at all, or what kind of treatment you need; all their urging you to see a doctor is actually a kind of self-soothing prayer."

"Similar to: although I feel this guy is beyond saving, if the doctor prescribes him some sedatives, he'll quiet down a bit; even if he can't be cured, at least it'll occupy most of his spare time so he has no chance to come out with a knife and slash people."

"They don't care about your life, health, and welfare; they only hope you don't cause them trouble, so they define you as a lunatic as much as possible, to sway the doctor's judgment, just like they've swayed juries countless times."

Arthur's gaze deepened; clearly he started listening intently; he pressed his lips together hard, staring at Shiler and said: "You're saying things I like to hear."

"Don't look down on yourself like that; I'm not coaxing you." Shiler lowered his eyelids to look at the tabletop and said: "I've seen many patients; they're unsure if they're sick, don't know if they should see a doctor, only the surrounding environment demands they do so, and the only thing confirming their madness is others' increasingly extreme views."

"In reality this is society's bullying of the weak; if you're poor enough, frail enough, helpless enough, others can use their discourse power to define everything about you, even your own mental state, until in the end even you don't believe yourself anymore, and so you sit in front of a psychiatrist."

Shiler looked at Arthur seriously and said: "What were you thinking the first time you went to see a psychiatrist?"

Faced with this kind of question, Arthur showed he was very maladapted; after a long pause he still said: "I just wanted her to cure my laughing disorder, and I had some insomnia; maybe she could prescribe me some sleeping pills."

"Is that what you told her?"

"Yes, and then she told me everything would pass."

"Did she prescribe you medication?"

"She couldn't prescribe medication; she had no authority to do so."

Shiler sighed inwardly.