Chapter-69 | Black Sun and Bat Light... (3)

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....

"Hello? Can you transfer me to Godfather, please? Thank you."

"Good afternoon, Godfather. I would like to discuss a business proposal with you..."

In the office of Arkham Asylum, Schiller put down the phone. He pulled on the telephone cord and blew the dust off the receiver, then poured himself a drink. He picked up the old-fashioned telephone, twirled it around, dialed a number and said, "Hello? Brand? Are you in Hawaii? ...No, don't worry, enjoy your vacation. I'll handle it."

Later, Bruce walked in and put a stack of papers in front of Schiller. Schiller said, "It's quitting time, would you like a drink?"

"No thanks, I don't drink."

"You look a bit tired."

"I haven't slept in almost fifty hours."

"Of course, with the new giant bat-signal you created, it's been shining a lot lately. The whole city knows there's a batman now."

"But..." Bruce sighed. He hesitated for a moment and said, "Alright, I'll have one. Thank you."

"What's got the Batman drinking?"

Bruce said, "I feel like I shouldn't be doing this, the bat-signal shouldn't exist and it certainly shouldn't be used."

Before Schiller could ask, Bruce continued, "I set up six bat-signal towers throughout Gotham. In the past few days, they've been activated 25 times, 19 of which were pranks. So, I designed a security measure for them and since then, I've received 12 calls for help, all of them from the gangs asking for my support."

"I won't allow the gangs to use them, so they've been trying to sabotage them. Of course, I've set up security protocols, but they're not very effective. Some poor and homeless people press them and then the next day they're killed by the gangs."

Bruce covered his face and took a deep breath. He took a sip of his drink and struggled to swallow it. He said, "People beyond help, and no one being saved. If this is Gotham, then I'll say it, I was naive to think it could be different."

"I knew it… Bat signal would not be of much help," Bruce said finally.

"I suggest you take a few days off. When you run into a problem you sacrifice rest time to solve it, and then move on to the next problem. It's a vicious cycle, and it's not doing you any good," Schiller advised.

Bruce, looking tired, said, "Alright, I'll go home and sleep. I'll be back at work tomorrow, copying medical records, answering phones, making rounds, anything really."

The next day, Bruce showed up to work on time, just as he had said. Schiller was already in the office, sipping on a steaming cup of coffee. Bruce made himself a cup of Americano and started reading a thesis.

After a while, a nurse knocked on the door and said, "Doctors, patient Andrei on the second floor in room 5 has been causing a disturbance. He's been demanding that the nurse increase the dosage of his morphine, otherwise he's going to file a complaint."

Schiller, with no change in his expression, said, "Give it to him, at triple the market price. And if he causes any more trouble, make it five times the price."

Bruce almost choked on his coffee.

"Bert on the third floor is asking for pain medication, he kept us up all night last night," the nurse continued.

"Tell him that the guy who sells the pills fell off the railing yesterday and hit his head, so we're out of stock," Schiller said.

"And that patient in room 6...Holden or Galt, is it? I think he's got a bit of a problem. Tell him to send someone over, we'll take a 70-30 split," Schiller said, flipping through a file.

After the nurse left, before Bruce could say anything, the phone rang again. Schiller answered it while still looking at the file.

"Hello? Whiskey's run out?...Right, I've got the last bottle here. Who said they had some in stock the other day? Let me see...fourth floor, room 1. Tell them to get a line from the bar, and tell them not to bring any watered-down stuff, or I'll give them a permanent treatment recommendation form...," Schiller said before hanging up and immediately dialing another number.

"Tell them that assassins are not allowed in, they must have a main gate pass for $100,000, $50,000 for the inpatient department, an additional $30,000 for the floors above the third floor, and a security patrol map with the full package...," Schiller said into the phone.

"Hello? The equipment department said the EEG machine broke down in room 5-2. Who's the patient there? East district's old Bendt? Donate a machine and have them take the patient away, they can come back for a recovery recommendation later," Schiller said, hanging up the phone.

"Professor..." Bruce started to say, but before he could finish, the phone rang again. Schiller answered it.

"Hello?...No deal? Tell him that the twin brothers on the south side are asking for $500,000 and it's not a buyout. If he doesn't agree, he can forget about getting any money from our liquor business," Schiller said.

"Hello? No, security at Arkham Asylum is now handled by the Falcone family. If he wants to try and force his way in, let him. The Godfather sends his regards," Schiller said, hanging up the phone.

Just as Schiller hung up, Bruce saw his chance to speak. "Is there something..."

[ShaneFreak: XD... ]

"Hello? How many people tomorrow?...No, that's not possible, that little bald eagle won't be able to squeeze out much money. He's not as good as his father. Tell him to go to prison. We don't take in trash here...He's taken over his father's business? Fine, room 7 on the second floor is reserved for him...What? Diagnosis forms? That's another price..." Schiller said into the phone.

"Let's postpone the remaining three to next month and let the judge find a reason, like an upset stomach or something. There's no room on the fifth floor. And what about that police officer? The corrupt one? Has he been discovered? We only take in patients with mental illnesses, not intellectual disabilities. If they want to be admitted, they can go back to their old home. Who else? No, he won't work out... Has he already been arrested? Then let the police put the evidence back and find that guy whose last name is Brock. He'll understand."

Schiller, busy with his work, looked up to see Bruce staring at him with a complex expression, a mixture of shock at how things could be this way, and a hint of disdain, as if to say, "I knew it."

"Don't look at me like that. The hospital is running smoothly, isn't it?"

"But..." Bruce opened his mouth, wanting to question Schiller, but he didn't know where to start.

"I did some business with Falcone, he had his henchmen stir up some trouble with some gangs that had money, and then his underlings, the police chief, would arrest and prosecute them. I gave them diagnoses of mental illness and admitted them to the hospital. As for what happens next, it depends on whether their families or enemies have more money."

Bruce stared at Schiller, who spread his hands and said, "What? Surprised? Or do you really think I'm a good guy like Harvey?" What gives you that impression?"

Bruce was speechless.

Over the next few days, Bruce watched helplessly as Schiller effortlessly joined...no, not joined, but creatively created a new Gotham-style industrial chain.

His good professor, in a head-turning, dust-riding attitude, quickly integrated into Gotham and even outshined it.

But Bruce couldn't say anything, this perfect Gotham industrial chain, the only ones hurt were the gangs.

From the results, the gangs were ripped off, Arkham Asylum quickly established order, the medical staff were safe, and the various gang members in the hospital were so well-behaved that when Bruce went to visit, the gang leader would even say thank you to him!

They thought Bruce was a doctor and could give them painkillers. A few gang leaders, seeing his close relationship with Schiller, even brought him cigars every day, hoping Schiller would let them pull the strings too.

One time, Bruce followed Schiller to see a patient and during a break, he overheard the gang leader in the next room talking.

"Cort is a bad guy, a real scumbag. He brought in his own bitter alcohol and had someone destroy another business just to monopolize the alcohol business here. He had a conflict with those twins..."

"If you ask me, he's very shrewd. After all, it's a business worth several million dollars."

"Really that much?"

"That redhead downstairs, just by selling cigarettes here, earns twenty thousand a week! Who doesn't smoke here? Who doesn't smoke cigars? He can get good stuff from the dock and people come here specifically for this smuggling line..."

"Room 2 also made a lot of money. Who doesn't know he's lucky, and got connected with the godfather, next quarter, he's going to have another restaurant."

"When the nurse comes, put out your cigarettes, be careful not to anger those girls, they're all Black Widows under the Red Queen."

[ShaneFreak: Word by Word translation, it is in raws...]

These short days in the hospital, the things Bruce had seen, gave him a very complex and tangled feeling.

Bruce thought, if he were in this situation, what would he do? He thought for a while, and then admitted that he really couldn't think of a more efficient or more straightforward solution.

One night, Schiller was in the ward, speaking to a woman without legs: "Not bad, the medication is already taking effect, the excited state will disappear soon..."

The woman lay in bed, very calm, or perhaps numb, as if she couldn't hear Schiller's words, but Schiller continued to talk to himself: "Recently there have been a lot of cases, but it doesn't matter, the psychological therapy is almost over..."

His voice was perfect for nights like this, always carrying a calm strength.

Schiller turned around and found Batman standing behind him. Batman's voice was low as he said, "How did she end up here?"

"You fixed the problems with the beggar's body, helped her with the amputation surgery, but she has some congenital mental issues and was sent here before..."

Schiller looked at Batman. His mouth always turned downwards, and he always seemed colder and sharper at night, making it hard for others to approach him.

"You seem surprised. Why? Do you think I only associate with gangs and criminals?"

Batman remained silent, and Schiller ignored him, turning to adjust the bed of the woman and pulling up the blanket.

Without looking at Batman, Schiller asked, "Do you feel disappointed?"

"For this unfeeling city, for those who are not worth saving and for those who do not let you save anyone else?" Batman's deep voice echoed in the hospital room.

"Do you think the decision to turn off the bat signal is the right one?" Schiller asked.

"Do not be disappointed," Schiller continued. "The black sun is still a sun, and the bat may not light a lamp, but in the darkness, the light that the bat shines is still a light."

The cold light shone on the hospital's white sheets, and Schiller bent down to smooth out the bed sheets.

Outside the window, the night in Gotham was still dimly lit. Schiller straightened up and looked out the window. Batman saw that, in the moonlight, Schiller's shadow stretched long behind him.

Batman looked up and saw that most of the walls and ceiling were his own shadow, a black bat with sharp ears.

The bat does not light a lamp, he does not even have a lamp to illuminate himself. There has never been a lamp in the world for him, and for many years, there has even been a faint light.

But now, this bat has decided to learn to light a lamp, for the dark nights here, for this city that is beyond cure.

The Batman also looked out the window, towards the almost invisible, dimly lit lights in the darkness. He thought, if this grotesque city will one day no longer see the sun rise, then at least, on the eve of the end of the world, in this cold night with weak lights, there will be the lamp that he lit.

A light that is bright but useless, and useless but still bright.

A light lit by a bat.

[ShaneFreak: Gotham mostly have cloudy and foggy environment, so the bat light can easily reflect and so people see the bat...]

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