Chapter 78: Gotham 1987 (Part 2)

By afternoon, it rained as the newspaper’s weather forecast had predicted, fine drizzle falling over Gotham.

Schiller sat in the manor’s study, the sound of rain outside the window like the finest sleeping pill.

On the cluttered desk, stacks of books cast undulating shadows under the wall lamp; the inkwell and the reflection off Schiller’s lenses glowed sharply in the dim room as he penned invitations in elaborate, ornate cursive English.

Customs worldwide were nearly identical: when you moved, you notified friends and family to come visit; Schiller planned to invite his few remaining friends in Gotham for dinner that weekend.

Tomato

The rain outside grew heavier; damp air seeped through window cracks, and in the lamplight, fine mist drifted slowly onto the desk. Soon, beads of condensation formed along the windowsill, reflecting the firelight from the hearth behind like tiny rubies.

Darkness deepened; colder fog than daytime frosted the glass. Schiller set down his pen, rubbed his wrist, and looked up.

From this angle, Gotham looked no different—only darker and quieter in the rain, even strangely tranquil.

Regardless, cities of the 1980s moved far slower than the information age that followed; Schiller spent the entire afternoon writing letters until the butler came to remind him dinner was ready, and only then did he leave the study.

After dinner, Schiller dressed, took his umbrella, and stepped out the door. The rain that had fallen all afternoon had ceased, leaving only the cold, damp air clinging to the city, filling every breath.

Puddles on the ground gleamed like pools of mercury in the dark, reflecting streetlights into golden shards—like autumn leaves left behind. When Schiller’s heels crushed them, the light vanished in ripples and splashed droplets.

As with customs everywhere, when you move, you must also visit your neighbors.

The neighborhood’s safety was decent; anyone who could afford and maintain such a manor was either wealthy or noble. Though not as bustling as the southern rich districts, the decaying old quarter retained a slow, old-fashioned charm.

A block from Schiller’s manor stood an opera house, but few troupes performed here anymore, so it had become the residents’ clubhouse.

Schiller reached the theater’s entrance; the attendants were clearly unprofessional. Only when he reached the steps did they approach to open the door. Schiller removed his hat and stepped inside.

Though the night outside was cold and rainy, the theater was warm. His glasses fogged; he took them off, walked to the front desk, and tapped lightly on the surface.

The supervisor, dozing off, startled awake, blinked, saw a man, sat upright, and asked: “Do you have a reservation?”

“I’m the new resident of the Viscount’s Manor. Tonight’s entire bar tab is on me. God bless everyone.”

The supervisor immediately warmed. “Ah, it’s you! I just heard yesterday—the largest Viscount’s Manor has a new owner. Your taste is extraordinary. Only a man as generous as you deserves such a grand estate.”

“Rest assured, when everyone comes out later, they’ll know you’re a kind gentleman.”

As the supervisor poured out flattery, Schiller silently placed a roll of dollars beneath the bell. The supervisor instantly added: “Don’t mind the building’s exterior—it’s Gotham’s oldest theater. Some wear is natural. But our service is the best…”

As Schiller descended the theater’s steps, he glanced back at what might be Gotham’s oldest theater, its facade worn by time. Decades ago, it had welcomed countless renowned troupes, countless actors taking the stage, one after another.

Now it lay utterly desolate. Its faded facade stood like a stone stele recording Gotham’s history, carved by wind, rain, and snow—perhaps more dramatic than any staged play, yet few remained willing to watch.

When Schiller returned to the manor, it was late, but he still had unfinished writing from last night.

He was grateful for this slower-paced era: no barrage of texts or calls to interrupt him. He had ample time to read slowly, extract knowledge from paper sources, then write it down with his fountain pen.

Suddenly, a soft sound came from behind. Schiller didn’t turn. “Gordon came to visit, and at least brought a gift. What about you? The uninvited Bat?”

Batman’s shadow, cast by the wall lamp, split into multiple silhouettes. “I’ll deliver it by day.”

“Gordon’s about to marry. Won’t you give him a gift, even as the suit-wearing weirdo? He’s your partner.”

“I have nothing to give.” Batman’s voice remained low and calm, lulling in the midnight room.

“Then why are you here?”

“To wish you well in your new home.”

“I suspect you’ve already toured every room in this manor—and, barring accident, obtained the architectural blueprints through some means.”

Batman said nothing. He seemed to acknowledge it. He never hid from Schiller his excessive caution, his suspicion of the world.

“Did you read today’s paper? See the news about the Iron Curtain?”

“It doesn’t concern me.”

“It’s a global event.”

“Gotham won’t get better. Nor worse.”

Silence fell between them. Only the scratch of Schiller’s pen on paper echoed in the quiet room. After a moment, Batman said: “The group from Metropolis—they came to kill you.”

“Let them come. Or do you think Gotham’s people fear Metropolis?”

Batman fell silent again.

“I guess you had a fight with your butler, didn’t you?”

Batman didn’t answer. Schiller continued: “Once, there was a man who drove recklessly at midnight after quarreling with his beloved ‘butler.’”

“Why did they fight?”

“Because the man couldn’t decide whether to marry his butler.”

Batman fell silent again.

“I suspect your butler is heartbroken over your injuries, yet won’t stop you from your chosen path. So he internalizes his pain.”

“But you noticed his sorrow. You don’t want to quit your work, yet you don’t want to hurt him.”

“Your brilliance and logic fail you here. So you drive through the night.”

“Let me guess—your new Batmobile is parked outside my gate, and its engine is still overheating.”

“Does telepathy really exist?”

“Stop asking stupid questions.”

“If it did, could you tell me what Alfred is thinking?”

“You’re far more direct than he was. But then, his torment wasn’t just familial—it was romantic.”

“Romance… the most elusive thing. I offered to tell him the answer. He refused.”

Batman’s gaze settled on Schiller’s ring. “Are you married? Why didn’t your wife come with you to Gotham?”

“Looks like you didn’t really want the answer.”

Schiller said: “Then leave. Go find Gordon. Stay here, and you’ll only hear what you don’t want to hear.”

Batman said: “This manor is excellent. Thirty-six rooms. You sleep in the east master bedroom upstairs. That leaves thirty-five.”

“I won’t give you a key.”

“I don’t need one.”

Schiller pressed his fingers to his brow. “But if you don’t come home, what will your butler say when he comes looking for you?”

“Why do you seem more afraid of him than of me?”

“It’s hard to explain, but I truly dread your butler showing up.”

Seeing Batman still refused to yield, Schiller sighed. “Fine. If you wish to stay, I require parental consent. Call him now. I must hear his approval before you sleep here.”

Batman: “….”

“The phone’s downstairs. Dial it—or leave.”

In the end, Batman relented. On matters involving his butler, he always behaved like a child—just as Stark did with Pepper.

Schiller didn’t mind Batman staying. He didn’t mind Batman having searched every corner of his new home. It was inevitable. At eighteen, Batman wouldn’t search. At twenty-eight, thirty-eight—he would. Nothing in Gotham escaped Batman’s eyes. Schiller wasn’t the Joker; he had no time for endless hide-and-seek.

Later, Schiller finished his paper. It was deep night. Outside, darkness was impenetrable; only puddles reflected distant lights.

Soon, the butler signaled the phone was ringing. Schiller picked up the receiver. Batman stood in the deepest shadow of the parlor, listening.

“Yes, correct… No trouble. Yes, I know. They always do. I’ve seen many before…”

“Really? That’s serious… I have a professional first-aid kit… Oh? You’re a remarkably diligent butler…”

“I don’t think it matters…” Schiller glanced at Batman. For some reason, Batman felt his heart lurch—like a student trembling beside a teacher, trying to deduce the parent’s anger from fragmented words after being called in.

“Alright, rest assured… No problem. Then that’s settled… Morning, you say?… I will. Goodbye.”

Schiller saw Batman open his mouth, as if to ask something—but he asked nothing.

Schiller said: “Your butler says you’re injured. But he’s already treated you.”

He glanced at the grandfather clock. “It’s too late. Your butler says you should be asleep by nine. You’re over three hours late. Take the key. Go upstairs.”

“I don’t need a key.”

With those final words, Batman vanished. Schiller shook his head, then went upstairs.

Schiller already knew Batman’s identity, so Batman hadn’t slept in his suit. When Schiller knocked on his door, Bruce was in pajamas.

Usually, the serious Batman revealed only a chin. Now, Bruce’s demeanor was utterly different—a Batman with his full face exposed.

But it made no difference. When Schiller warned him Alfred expected him home for breakfast, Bruce still wore a complex, conflicted expression.

“I advise you go home. If he comes looking, I won’t help you. Remember: teachers always side with parents.”

Seeing Bruce still reluctant, Schiller pressed further: “If I meet Alfred tomorrow, I’ll have to discuss your academic record. You barely passed your final exam, ranked near the bottom. Worse—you missed six assignments entirely, and half your submissions fell short of word count.”

“I’ve kept every assignment you turned in. If you don’t want your butler to see your nonsense and academic trash that only pollutes minds, go to sleep now. Wake early. Return to Wayne Manor.”

Before Bruce could respond, Schiller slammed his door shut.

That night, Bruce lay in bed, recalling recent events.

Thanks to Schiller’s brilliantly inventive supply chain, gang wars had surged. Batman’s work grew harder.

By day, he investigated hospitals to unravel the gangs’ tangled ties. By night, he monitored battle sites, preventing escalation.

Police had heavier weapons now, but gangs weren’t defenseless. When police used firepower, gangs responded with greater violence. The conflict escalated. Batman hadn’t upgraded his gear before being thrust into fiercer firefights.

His armor, designed for pistols and blades, couldn’t withstand machine-gun rounds and grenades in gang wars.

A few nights ago, a machine-gun bullet struck Batman. This wasn’t a pistol round—it was palm-length. He was lucky: only a glancing wound to the shoulder. Had it hit center mass, half his lung would’ve been destroyed.

Yet the injury was severe—the worst he’d suffered since becoming Batman.

When he returned to Wayne Manor, he was barely conscious. Only his superhuman willpower kept him from collapsing before reaching home.

Bruce knew he rarely responded to painkillers or anesthetics—he often woke mid-procedure. This time, during surgery, half-asleep, he saw Alfred sitting alone beside the operating table.

He couldn’t describe Alfred’s expression. It clenched his heart—long dormant, now violently stirred.

He realized: Alfred had changed. He aged. He seemed more broken than when Bruce’s parents were alive.

Then he understood: the Waynes’ deaths didn’t only hurt him.

Perhaps, when Alfred realized he might lose Bruce too, he aged again.

Bruce lay in bed, turning over, haunted by the blurred image of Alfred he’d seen in surgery.

What troubled him even more was that when he woke up from surgery, Alfred said nothing—he did not try to stop Bruce from doing anything, he simply prepared breakfast as he always had on the countless mornings Bruce jolted awake from nightmares.

Sitting at the dining table, Bruce could barely swallow; he was Batman, but he was still a man, and very few people could maintain a calm mind and eat normally after such an intense emotional shock.

So he merely swallowed two bites and fled the Wayne Manor as if escaping.

In fact, his first destination was Gordon’s, but he arrived just as Gordon was driving off to Schiller’s house.

He followed Gordon all the way, and even watched from outside the window as the entire conversation in the restaurant unfolded.

He also saw Schiller sitting alone in his chair, smoking an entire cigar.

That professor felt alien to him—he had never seen Schiller like this. He seemed relaxed, yet cold and sharp. Though Schiller had often been serious at school, it was nothing like this.

He looked like someone else—a stranger.

He thought perhaps the professor he had known before was merely a disguise, just like his own.

Two madmen in this insane city played their roles, appearing in the most ordinary of social identities—as teachers and students burdened by mundane daily life.

Perhaps this was not a story of Pride and Prejudice, but one of An Actor’s Self-Cultivation.

In Gotham, this decaying, ancient theater worn down by time, on the stage of Gotham University, the first act of this absurd drama appeared strange and comical.

On Bruce’s first day of school, the first teacher he met—a stern, rigid man who seemed determined to avoid trouble—gave him, in a psychological session with no clear motive, the very answer he wanted most.

And after one performance after another ended, the two actors finally met beyond the stage.

Setting aside their social roles, this absurd drama was no coincidence—madmen attract madmen, oddities often meet oddities; it was merely another manifestation of the law of like attracts like.

Bruce lay in bed, drowsiness creeping over him; in his half-sleep, he heard the dull ticking of the manor’s pendulum clock, seeping into his dreams without pause.

Beyond that, on this cold night of 1987 in Gotham, the only sounds were the nearly inaudible wind and the relentless crackle of the fireplace burning through the night.