Chapter 413

In the past year, Gotham's traffic has improved more than in the entire previous decade.

First, the new mayor's three initial actions targeted traffic directly: several consecutive Traffic Civilization Days nearly turned Gotham's Central Roundabout into rubble, but they also made clear the mayor's determination to crush traffic chaos—even if it meant destroying the world.

Then came the realization that logistics problems were hindering organized crime's growth, forcing most gang bosses to understand they couldn't drain the pond to catch fish—they needed to build first to profit. If no one invested effort or money, everyone would just get stuck, and no one would earn anything.

Though these gang bosses had little education, their desire to make money was fierce; driven by profit, they actively joined the Traffic Civilization Days, providing ample firepower support to traffic police and officers, while also spending heavily to hire various professionals to restructure Gotham's road network and even sincerely inviting skilled traffic officers to come to the city and help maintain order.

Originally hot-tempered and uneducated drivers also realized that only with clear roads could they have more options; with better logistics came more vehicles, allowing them to stop being stuck working for low-wage gangsters and instead seek better jobs. So though they still cursed constantly, most finally learned to follow basic traffic rules.

With all these measures working together, Gotham's traffic improved dramatically—but if you had to pick one worst case, the Central Roundabout remained the most chaotic.

This traffic hub had existed for ages, built by the first European settlers who landed here; back then, it was just an ordinary town square. Later, when some Gotham families developed the area, they preserved the original structure and turned it into the largest and busiest roundabout in Gotham's central district.

The problem was, when the Europeans built it, they assumed only they would use it—and they all understood traffic rules. But later users weren't those Europeans; they were overwhelmingly illiterate, hot-tempered truck drivers.

Because traffic here was so terrible, Gordon had to borrow Batman's high-power Bat-Signal to serve as a traffic light. Later, Schiller recruited Marvel's heroes to boost the light's power, turning it into Gotham's brightest beacon.

Added to this were traffic police on the Central Watchtower armed with rocket launchers to enforce rules, and Gotham University interns handling tickets and towing, and finally, traffic at the Central Roundabout began to improve.

Drivers could now clearly see the massive four-way traffic light and mostly understood what each color meant: red meant stop, green meant go, when to turn and when to wait.

This was indeed a good sign, but it couldn't hide drivers' tempers. They always felt their green light was too short while others' lasted too long, so arguments erupted constantly in the Central Roundabout—so much so that they once boosted Gotham's hip-hop rap scene.

After all, you didn't even need a ticket—just a car and the courage to dive into the Central Roundabout's congestion, and you could enjoy a free concert of rapid-fire rhymes packed with every English and English slang curse word.

But thankfully, even if the green light was short, it still came; waiting only made them irritable and impatient, not violent. This situation lasted a long time, and overall traffic was improving steadily.

Until one day, a giant green bulb, visible from all four directions, landed atop the entire traffic light.

If viewed from above, the Central Roundabout revealed that when this enormous green bulb suddenly lit up, every car instantly slammed on the gas—followed by "crash!" "clunk!" "bang!" "boom!"…

Then came the rap concert, and "tatatata…"

The Central Roundabout had seen its share of destruction before; most drivers fired a few shots at their cars to vent anger and were done. If someone actually attacked another, it meant they already had a grudge—this was just the excuse. Police arrival quickly calmed the chaos.

But the only problem was, incredibly unluckily, one very innocent university professor got caught up—or rather, forced into—the brawl: Schiller.

Schiller had been in good spirits returning to DC, because university professors get vacation time; he hadn't used last year's leave and could carry it over. He planned to finish teaching his current material, assign a paper, then take his vacation.

Today was his last day of work before vacation.

Schiller had no grand vacation plans—he just wanted to visit nearby Bludhaven for the scenery. It had become a new tourist hotspot on the East Coast, and spending a few days there was a common choice for Gotham's middle class.

But the distance didn't justify a train or plane; Americans preferred road trips, so Schiller had planned to drive himself.

Now he stood by the roadside, staring at his Ford sedan—its front bumper nearly shattered, both rear wheels completely gone—and sighed deeply.

Here's what happened: when all drivers saw the green light, they floored it—they'd waited too long and refused to check whether the light was real. But Schiller knew it wasn't real, so he didn't step on the gas.

The car behind him, already accelerating, slammed into his car, which then hit the pickup truck ahead.

Everyone knows in rear-end collisions, the middle vehicle suffers most. Had Schiller not had Spider-Sense and teleported out the instant of impact, he'd still be pinned under the airbag.

As Schiller considered who to call, a familiar figure approached. Wensis greeted Schiller, glanced at him, then at his car, halted his steps, and silently stepped back two paces.

He said: "Good morning, Professor."

"Why are you standing so far?" Schiller asked, waving him over. "Come here. Who should I call in this situation? You know I'm an outsider—is there a towing company here?"

Wensis had no intention of moving closer. He stood still, lips pressed tight: "There is one… but…"

At that moment, another group arrived. A man in a suit, holding a clipboard, sized up Schiller and his car, then said: "Severely damaged vehicle. Towing fee increased by 20%. Paul, handle his car. Doyle Towing—thank you for your business."

Schiller sighed, reached into his suit pocket, pulled out his wallet, flipped through it, and said: "Alright, how much for towing?"

"One hundred twenty dollars, sir."

Schiller stared at him, incredulous: "What? One hundred twenty dollars?"

"Special circumstances, sir. Can't you see? Cars are waiting for lights. If you don't use us, Reardon will charge you two hundred!"

Schiller shook his head. In Marvel's 21st-century New York, this price might be acceptable. But this was 1988—most prices were still in cents.

Wensis stepped forward to help, but Schiller shot him a look to stop him, pulled out two bills from his wallet, and said: "Here."

Doyle took the money, whistled—he'd gotten ten dollars extra. He waved toward the car: "Paul, be gentle! This is our big client!"

He flicked the bills with his fingers: "In Gotham, people who tip are rare. Thanks, sir. We guarantee your car reaches its destination safely. Doyle's the most professional towing company—next time, come back!"

The Great Luo of All Worlds

Wensis looked at Schiller and shrugged: "At least the service attitude is decent, right?"

Schiller calmly put his wallet away, returned it to his pocket, then looked around at the chaos. As Doyle had said, most cars on the scene were wrecked; the Central Roundabout was jammed again, and the central island had been reduced to rubble once more.

Then Schiller looked up.

So where was that newly landed green light—or rather, Green Lantern Hal?

He was hovering hundreds of meters above, staring in horror at the scene below.

He'd thought Gotham's people were simple and honest. Now he knew: Gotham was truly simple and honest.

He wanted to fix this, but his gut told him not to go down yet.

His instinct proved right: Schiller wasn't the only one suffering. The Wayne family was too.

Before Hal hovered over the light pole, Bruce had been driving, carrying Selina, Elsa, Dick, and old butler Alfred—they were heading to the hospital for checkups.

It wasn't Bruce who wanted the checkups; Alfred insisted. He needed to ensure Bruce's unusual lifestyle hadn't harmed his health. Though doctors could come to the house, Alfred wanted comprehensive exams for everyone—so the hospital was better.

They'd booked morning appointments, so Bruce drove everyone early. They expected to be stuck at the Central Roundabout for a while—but instead, they were stuck all day.

Bruce's experience mirrored Schiller's: when all drivers assumed the light was green, Bruce recognized it wasn't—it was Hal, the Green Lantern—so he didn't press the gas.

Fortunately, his car was a safety vehicle, far superior to that Ford sedan. The worst damage fell on the cars ahead and behind him; Bruce's remained unharmed.

But that didn't mean he wasn't furious. Gotham's traffic had improved, and Bruce had taken pride in it—it made his life easier. But why the hell had this glowing green idiot come here to wreck it?

Even angrier was old Alfred. In that instant, he'd seen Hal's form.

Days earlier, he'd already noticed this glowing green figure—suspected of tailing Elsa, and also Bruce.

Alfred narrowed his eyes, gazing upward. Through Gotham's thick, layered clouds, he sharply caught the faint green glow.

At that moment, Hal shuddered violently.