Chapter 8: Hes Not Yet Batman

Chapter 8: Hes Not Yet Batman

On a misty morning in the still-haze-shrouded city of Gotham, Schiller stretched lazily and rose from his bed. Just as he had settled into some peace and quiet in Marvel, it didn't take long for him to discover the presence of SHIELD agents at his Psychological Clinic nearby.

These individuals were like sticky toffee, seemingly impossible to shake off. Even for someone like Stark, the billionaire of that world, they proved to be an incessant nuisance with no easy solution.

However, Schiller was different. After growing weary of the young Batman's pestering in Gotham, he could simply pack up and leave for Marvel to enjoy some tranquility. But now, in Marvel, he had caught the attention of SHIELD agents. So, he had the choice to return to Gotham and hide there.

The SHIELD agent never figured out how Schiller vanished without a trace. His departure left no footprint; there were no train or plane tickets, and no one at any crossroads spotted him. This only strengthened Nick Fury's conviction that Schiller was far from an ordinary individual.

Upon his return to the DC world, his colleague, the future Scarecrow Jonathan, hadn't noticed the theft of his fear gas. Schiller wasn't greedy; he had taken only a tiny amount in a small vial. Unlike Scarecrow, who used fear gas for terror attacks, Schiller merely dealt with a few low-level gang members. He didn't need sophisticated science and technology to release the gas; a small spray bottle aimed at an ordinary person's nose turned that concentrated fear gas into a potent weapon. After all, those gang members didn't possess the reaction time of Batman.

While researching this gas, Schiller, despite lacking a systematic background in chemistry, knew how to make the most of it. He discovered that this early version of fear gas didn't just induce fear; it could also evoke other negative emotions. For a psychologist like him, this was excellent news. If patients refused to open up about their inner feelings, treatment could not progress.

Schiller realized that he could dilute the fear gas hundreds of times and use it as a perfume. Somehow, perhaps due to his system, the gas had no effect on him, but it could infect those around him with mild negative emotions.

Yes, Schiller planned to use this technique against the inexperienced Bruce, the young Batman.

The current Batman wasn't the wise old man of later years. Bruce was still young, having just traveled the world, mastering various skills, and was eager to kickstart his revenge plan. He donned the initial version of the Batsuit, armed himself with Batarangs, and was ready to take on criminals. In his eyes, throwing a few billion to create gadgets was a simple task. But he had yet to realize that what truly made him Batman wasn't the gear but his inner spirit.

Clearly, Batman's path to growth had a long way to go, and Schiller, for the sake of his own safety and a peaceful life in Gotham, had to become the young Bruce's mentor in matters of the mind.

On a typical morning, Bruce's encounter with Schiller on a rainy night seemed like yesterday. Schiller had called him by his real name, and Bruce wasn't surprised; he knew this person had something extraordinary about him.

Perhaps it was a superpower, perhaps magic. During his world travels, he had encountered many such individuals and knew that this world was far from the simplicity ordinary people imagined. Many incredible forces were lurking in the shadows.

Bruce knocked on the therapist's door once again, and a steady voice from inside invited him in.

Batman despised all things mysterious and metaphysical, and Bruce was no different. To him, Schiller's attitude suggested that perhaps he would explain the situation rather than continue to evade and conceal, using verbal tricks to beat around the bush.

Bruce sat across from Schiller once more and said, "Professor, it seems you're in a good mood today."

"Mr. Wayne, it seems your mood isn't so great today," Schiller replied. "I thought you'd bring me a cup of coffee like you did on the first day."

He gestured to the empty desk, "You see, this morning I purposefully didn't make coffee, anticipating your arrival."

Bruce paused for a moment but got up to make Schiller a cup of coffee anyway. Schiller found it amusing to drink coffee made by Batman himself, but Bruce suspected it might be a test or a form of mental manipulation, making him carry out an action dictated by the other person. Well, that fit Schiller's persona—a mad doctor obsessed with psychology and mental studies.

Schiller took a sip of the hot coffee, dispelling the chill that had settled in him due to Gotham's cold weather. Bruce finally asked, "Why were you there last night?"

"I don't understand what you mean," Schiller replied.

"If you wanted to hide, you should have worn a mask last night instead of denying it after I saw your face," Bruce countered.

Schiller put down his coffee cup, making a crisp sound against the desk, and said, "I'm not denying that you saw me last night. I'm asking why you chose to spend your vast fortune not on donations or charitable foundations but on dressing in a ridiculous costume, running through Gotham's streets in the pouring rain, and fighting small-time thugs."

Bruce fell silent.

"This isn't a rhetorical question," Schiller remarked. "You don't need to think about how to answer because I'll answer for you."

Schiller wasn't well-versed in chemistry and couldn't make any modifications to this unique gas. He could only transfer it to different containers or dilute it slightly.

But there was one thing he could do: use the fear gas to scare Batman.

Schiller quickly appeared in the Morrison District, knowing that Batman would return here. Bruce was that kind of person, where he stumbled was where he insisted on getting up again, refusing to go elsewhere; it was his pride.

The Morrison District was small, with only six narrow alleys. The building Bruce fell from was the first alley in Morrison District, where there was a nightclub run by the Sewer Gang.

The Sewer Gang was just a small gang in Gotham. They got their name because Morrison District had a drainage ditch nearby, and the gang enjoyed throwing unfortunate victims into that ditch. Over time, the ditch had become increasingly foul-smelling, and other gangs began using "sewer" to refer to this gang. The Sewer Gang took pride in this, feeling quite pleased with themselves.

Clearly, Batman's first enemy to defeat wasn't some famous supervillain. They were a group of small-time hooligans smoking cigarettes in the nightclub upstairs. Batman used his combat skills to deal with most of them, but his lack of practical experience caused someone to throw lime powder in his eyes, and he stumbled and fell from the building.

In the early days, Batman had no sidekicks, and his equipment wasn't yet mature. It wasn't surprising for him to have setbacks like falling into a sewer, but the Sewer Gang wouldn't have such good luck a second time. Schiller leaned against a wall at the end of the Morrison District, and he soon heard terrified screams coming from the nightclub. Night fell quiet quickly. A gang, which no one would have cared about, disappeared from Gotham like this.

Batman walked out, clearly in much better shape than before. He lowered his head, seemingly contemplating how to modify his Bat-suit.

Suddenly, he remembered something and walked forward, taking a turn. He wanted to find the beggar again, give her some dollars, and inform her that the Sewer Gang had been dealt with, and she could use the money without any danger.

Indeed, he found the beggar in her old spot, still wrapped tightly in her blanket, shivering in the cold, damp Gotham night. The umbrella Schiller had once given her was nowhere to be seen.

Batman handed her the money and said in a deep voice, "There are no more gangs in this neighborhood. You're safe now."

The beggar looked up, trembling, but Batman didn't see any gratitude in her eyes. Incredibly, he realized that the beggar's eyes held nothing but hatred.

"Aren't you happy?" Batman asked.

"Of course, he isn't," a familiar voice came from Batman's overhead. Schiller stood on the balcony of the building where the beggar sat, looking down at Batman from the second floor.

"Because of the Sewer Gang's presence, the nightclub had a steady stream of customers every day. Some of them would hold food in their hands, and when they had only a little left, they would throw it on the roadside. That way, the beggar could pick it up and continue to eat."

"But now, with the Sewer Gang gone, the nightclub can't stay open. No customers means no food."

"But a few hundred dollars are enough for him..."

"Yes, you have the best medical system in all of Gotham, a private doctor, a family health consultant. You've never experienced a simple cold or fever, let alone know what it feels like when someone is so cold they can't stand up."

"In your imagination, he could easily take a few hundred dollars and go to the nearest supermarket, buy enough necessities, maybe even find a motel to stay in for a few nights, and then get treatment for his illness..." Schiller trailed off and continued:

"But sadly, he can't even take the first step."

Batman crouched down; he pulled the banknotes that had fallen at the beggar's feet, rather than holding them. He felt a sense of absurdity he couldn't resist, a shame that choked him.

Suddenly, he felt that many negative emotions were irresistibly engulfing his heart, making him want to roar. Batman had never lost control like this before tonight. He stood up, staggered backward a few steps, and then sat down on the ground.

Clearly, an unexpected tragic ending and the negative emotions induced by a trace of fear gas were enough to silence Bruce for several days.