Chapter 248: Hollywood Black-and-White Films (Part 1)

In the morning, in Arkham Sanatorium's office, Schiller, holding a bag, saw Peter standing at the door, knocked, and looked up: "Come in."

"Doctor, I'm back," Peter said with high spirits, walked in, took off his backpack, unzipped it, and began rummaging inside; after searching for a long time, he exclaimed: "Oh, here it is!"

He pulled out a box from the backpack—a square transparent case containing an old-style videotape, the kind used in hand-cranked projectors.

Peter handed the tape to Schiller, scratched his head, and said sheepishly: "I think you'll like this."

Schiller smiled as he took the tape and said: "More than a gift, I'm curious—how was your Hollywood trip?"

Peter made a strange expression: one eyebrow high, the other low, forming a step; one eye large, the other small—utterly comical, reminding Schiller of Spider-Man's most common mischievous face from the comics.

Peter sighed: "That's a long story."

Schiller, meanwhile, was unwrapping the old videotape and said: "No rush—we can watch the old movie while you tell it."

Peter stared at the exposed videotape and said: "This thing's an antique—modern projectors probably can't even play this kind of tape anymore?"

"You should know who still has a projector that can play this…"

Morning light grew brighter, passing through morning, noon, into a drowsy afternoon.

"Click," Steve bent over, adjusted the old projector's stand, then pointed to the window.

Stark grumbled as he walked to the window, pulled the curtains shut; Schiller sat on one side of the sofa, clinked his glass against Connor's on the adjacent armchair; Natasha bent over, fiddling with a small golden figurine.

"Come on, besides this antique, who else would enjoy using this broken-down machine to play such old films?"

After saying this, everyone in the room stared at Stark; he blinked and said: "You're not the only one who doesn't want to watch, are you?"

"Please, with this time, why wouldn't I go create something new for human civilization?"

Stark muttered to himself as he sat down on the sofa; Steve, standing behind it, pressed the projector button; as black-and-white images projected onto the wall, Steve walked over and sat down too.

Accompanied by the upbeat jazz of 20th-century films, objects in Schiller's vision began to fade: the fabric sofa's surface smoothed out, the leather sofa's sheen spread from one corner until it covered the entire seat.

The lamp's stand rose higher; the glass shade's vintage patterns curled upward like grapevines; the alloy window frames spread ancient wood grain; sunlight streaming through the window dimmed from blinding to soft; the moment the sun dipped below the horizon, a soft "thump-thump" came at the door.

Standing outside was Bruce; Schiller put down his pen, stood up, and said: "Your Hollywood trip's over?"

Bruce pressed his lips together; his expression was odd. Schiller said: "What's wrong? Did Selina feel uncomfortable?"

"She adapted fine," Bruce said, voice low but layered with complexity.

"Then it's you who didn't adapt?"

Bruce said nothing, pulled a beautifully wrapped wooden box from his bag, and handed it to Schiller: "... souvenir, Professor."

Schiller took the box, saw the old videotape inside, and said: "How did you know I have an old projector at my estate?... h, never mind—stupid question."

"Click," Harvey straightened the projector stand, aimed the head at the wall; Victor set down his glass, leaned back against the plush leather sofa; Gordon lit Schiller's cigar, then lit one for himself, exhaling a plume of smoke.

Bruce sat half-asleep on the single armchair, eyes half-closed, like a bat dozing in a cave.

As the projector button was pressed, the film image projected onto the wall; the orchestral melody turned somber, percussion and drums joined in, the roar of a car engine drowned out the howling wind.

"Whoa!!" Selina wriggled out of her seatbelt, leaned her upper body out the convertible's open door; Bruce pulled her back in, then sighed.

This was the thirtieth time he'd sighed on this stretch of road; Selina rested her arm on the door, tilted her head, chewing gum; she blew a bubble, turned to Bruce: "Honestly, when you took off your mask, I nearly jumped out of my skin—you're Wayne?"

"I thought you'd figured it out already."

"I knew you were rich, but I didn't know you were this rich," Selina pressed her finger to her temple, chewing gum: "But you said you'd take me to Hollywood to make a movie—isn't that ridiculous?"

Selina pretended to be casual: "I've gone to the cinema before—I thought I looked just like those actresses on screen—but…"

Her tone grew hesitant: "Alright, I admit—I'm just a girl from the slums, never seen anything grand in my life. If a hundred cameras were pointed at me, I'd probably shake with fear."

"I just wanted to give you something real to do," Bruce turned the steering wheel around a bend: "As long as you don't steal, no one will question your status on set—I'm funding the whole film…"

Selina glanced at the receding scenery, then blinked her big eyes at Bruce: "You're really nice to me."

Bruce's grip on the steering wheel stiffened for an instant; Selina noticed, deliberately leaned closer to him: "You get nervous? That's rare."

"Even if I've never lived your rich life, I know you must have had many girlfriends—did you act like this with them too?"

Bruce turned his head away from Selina's proximity, slowed the car: "Hollywood's here… look over there."

Following Bruce's gaze, Selina saw, on a distant green hillside, giant white letters spelling out: "HOLLYWOOD."

Behind the letters, the sun slowly sank below the horizon; clouds shifted rapidly, night fell, then dawn arrived; when morning light pierced through the letters, Peter beside the car, beside Gwen, draped a blanket over her shoulders, pointing at the letters: "Look—we're here."

Gwen's smile glowed brilliantly in the morning light; Peter stared, almost stunned; seeing his dazed expression, Gwen burst out laughing: "Do you know how red your face is?"

Peter awkwardly turned his head straight, rubbed his face, then lifted his bangs with both hands, gazing directly into the morning light, at the white letters on the hillside.

"I heard this was originally an advertising billboard built by a real estate developer to sell houses."

"But now, the rights probably belong to the Los Angeles city government," Gwen brushed a strand of hair from her temple: "I wanted to visit Hollywood because as a kid I saw this billboard in movies—I even fantasized about replacing it with my own name."

Peter widened his eyes at Gwen as if he didn't know her: "You wanted your name that big, on a hillside?"

Gwen laughed breathlessly, slapped Peter's shoulder: "I was like that as a kid—my dad totally supported me—he made cardboard white letters and put them on my windowsill. I was thrilled. Seriously, don't you want that?"

Gwen placed one hand on Peter's shoulder, the other outstretched, fingers spread, pointing at the billboard: "People driving down this road see your name. Many will even stop just to take photos…"

"Wait!" Peter turned back: "Speaking of stopping… isn't parking forbidden here???"

No sooner had he spoken than he saw several uniformed police officers approaching, shooing away parked tourists; Gwen grabbed Peter's arm: "Get in the car! I don't want a ticket!"

They scrambled into the car; Peter started the engine, pressed the accelerator; behind them, someone slow to move screamed as he got fined; they exchanged glances and burst into bright laughter.

The car looked tiny on the long road; at the horizon, light dimmed as clouds covered it; "Snap!" a parking ticket slapped onto the convertible's side.

Bruce rested one hand outside the door, clutching a stack of dollars; the other held a cigarette; Selina took her own cigarette from her lips, leaned over to light his.

The officer squeezed the extra-thick stack of dollars, smiled at Bruce: "You can watch as long as you like, sir. Have a pleasant journey."

"The Age of Genes"

Bruce didn't even look at him—just held the cigarette, staring as smoke merged with the sunset on the horizon: "Now you can watch as long as you like."

Selina opened the door, stepped onto the roadside, stretched, yawned, squinted into the twilight: "I never thought I'd spend a day like this—standing where movie stars once stood…"

A coat was tossed from the car, landing on Selina; she turned to Bruce, still seated behind the wheel: "You're great everywhere—especially rich…"

Selina turned, propped her arm on the door, leaned back into the car: "But I always thought the Bruce Wayne in the papers was different—they said you had a crowd of shady friends, loved to party, and were a womanizer—all women fell for you…"

"But why do I feel you're always tense, never relaxed, and…" Selina opened the door, slid back in, pressed against Bruce, blew a warm breath into his ear with a smile: "…and a little shy?"

Watching Bruce's neck stiffen instantly, Selina blinked: "You're a mystery. More like a ball of yarn than a bat, my dear."

"Isn't that perfect?" Bruce looked back at her; his blue eyes, when fixed on Selina, were clearer than the West Coast sky.

"You're just a cat, my lady."