He Wasn't Batman Yet

One morning, with Gotham City still blanketed in smog, Schiller stretched and sat up in bed. He had only just settled down in Marvel and enjoyed a few quiet days when he noticed S.H.I.E.L.D. agents appearing near his psychological clinic again.

Those people were like chewing gum that simply would not come off. That might have been true for ordinary people, and even Stark, the wealthy magnate of that world, had been endlessly annoyed by them with no way to deal with them.

But Schiller was different. After being pestered by the young Batman in Gotham, he could simply pick up and leave, heading to Marvel for some peace and quiet. Now that agents were watching him in Marvel, he could leave again and hide out in Gotham.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had no idea how Schiller had vanished. His departure left no trace: no train or plane tickets, and no sightings of him at any highway intersections. This only strengthened Nick Fury's belief that Schiller was anything but ordinary.

After returning to the DC world, his colleague, Jonathan—the future Scarecrow—did not notice that his Fear Gas had been stolen, because Schiller was not greedy. He had only taken a small vial.

After all, unlike Scarecrow, he did not need Fear Gas to stage terrorist attacks. He only needed it to deal with a few insignificant gang members. Nor did he need any high-tech equipment to disperse it. All he needed was a small spray bottle. One spray at an ordinary person's nose, and the concentrated Fear Gas became the finest weapon possible. Gang members could not possibly have Batman's reflexes.

While studying the gas, Schiller had no systematic knowledge of chemistry, but he at least knew how to make the most of what he had. Beyond spraying it at others as a weapon, he discovered that this earliest version of Fear Gas did not seem particularly pure. Besides triggering fear, it could provoke other negative emotions as well. For a psychologist, that was excellent news. After all, if a patient stubbornly refused to reveal their inner feelings, treatment could not proceed.

Schiller discovered that he could dilute the Fear Gas hundreds of times and wear it as perfume. He did not know why—perhaps it was the system's doing—but the gas had no effect on him while still infecting those near him with a small amount of negative emotion.

That was right. Schiller planned to use this trick on the inexperienced Bruce, the young Batman.

The current Batman was nothing like the later master strategist. Bruce was still far too young. Having just traveled the world and mastered countless skills, he was eager to begin his plan for revenge. He put on the earliest version of the Batsuit, took up his Batarangs, and set out to fight criminals. In his eyes, spending hundreds of millions to build equipment was ridiculously easy. But he had yet to realize that what truly made him Batman was not those external tools, but the spirit deep within him.

Clearly, Batman still had a long road ahead of him. For his own safety and for a stable life in Gotham in the future, Schiller had no choice but to become young Bruce's Mind Mentor.

It was another ordinary morning. For Bruce, meeting Schiller in the rain the previous night had only happened yesterday. Schiller had called him by his real name, but Bruce was not surprised. He knew this person must possess something beyond the ordinary.

Perhaps it was a superpower, perhaps magic. During his travels around the world, he had seen many people like that. He also knew that the world was far more complicated than ordinary people imagined, and that many unbelievable powers were watching it.

Bruce knocked on the psychologist's door again. A steady, deep voice came from inside. "Come in."

For some reason, Bruce actually felt relieved. The reply had come very quickly. Clearly, the person inside knew who he was and was quite willing to let him enter.

Batman hated all things mysterious and illusory, and Bruce did too. To him, Schiller's attitude meant that perhaps he would explain what was going on rather than continue to evade and conceal things, talking circles around him with verbal tricks.

Bruce sat across from Schiller again. "Professor, it seems you're in a good mood today."

"Mr. Wayne, it seems you aren't in a very good mood today," Schiller said. "I thought you would make me a cup of coffee like you did on your first day."

He spread his hands, indicating the empty tabletop. "You should know that I deliberately didn't make coffee this morning. I was waiting for you."

Bruce fell silent for a moment, but he still rose and made Schiller a cup of coffee.

Schiller simply found it amusing to drink coffee personally made by Batman. Bruce, however, saw it as a test—or perhaps a technique of mental interference, using words to force someone to carry out an ordered action. Well, thinking of it that way did fit Schiller's Character Design better: a mad doctor obsessed with psychology and psychiatric research.

Schiller took a sip of the hot coffee, driving away the chill that had seeped through his body in Gotham's cold weather. Bruce spoke first.

"Why were you there last night?"

"I don't understand what you mean."

"If you wanted to hide it, you should have made yourself a mask last night instead of denying it now after I saw your face."

Schiller set down his coffee cup with a crisp clink against the desk. "I'm not denying that you saw me last night. I'm asking why you would ignore your fortune of several tens of billions, instead of donating it to charity or setting up foundations, and put on a ridiculous skintight suit to run through Gotham City's streets in the pouring rain and trade fists with a bunch of petty thugs."

Faced with that question, Bruce fell silent.

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

"Because your fundamental goal isn't to save anyone. It's revenge."

"That is the answer you're giving me," Bruce said.

"No. I merely saw the answer within your heart," Schiller said.

"I don't believe mind-reading exists in this world."

"Of course there is no such thing as mind-reading in this world. It's just that some people don't realize how their intense inner desires reveal themselves through their reactions. People always think they hide their hearts well, but that isn't actually the case."

"Can I learn that ability?" Bruce asked. "The ability to see through people's hearts."

"And then use it to take revenge on criminals?" Schiller asked. "Clearly, you've made all of this sound far too simple. Bruce, perhaps your motive is revenge, but if you treat it as the force supporting everything you do, then you'll end up just like you did last night."

Schiller made a falling gesture. Bruce explained, "When I went back last night, I added a cape to my Bat-armor. I was also planning to design a utility belt..."

"You know those things aren't the point. You could give your hands an Iron Fist capable of exerting several thousand kilograms of force. You could give your boots an engine that would let you leap to the moon. You could even design yourself a pair of wings and fly to any planet in the Solar System. You can do all that, Bruce. I believe you can."

"But that still isn't enough. Not nearly enough."

"If I had that kind of power, I could eliminate every criminal in the world, couldn't I?" Bruce asked.

Schiller sighed. Clearly, Batman had not yet encountered Joker, so he could not imagine how an unarmed criminal—a frail, powerless ordinary man who only knew a little acrobatics and fighting—could defeat a superhero proficient in hundreds of combat techniques and trained in abilities from across the world.

Schiller felt that no matter how much guidance he gave the current Bruce, he could only count as an associate professor in the future Batman's life. The one who would truly teach Batman everything was, ironically, his sworn enemy: Joker.

And right now, Joker was probably still living a very ordinary life in some circus.

Bruce was still very Prideful. He asked Schiller to teach him psychology, because that was how he had learned all sorts of skills across the world. His humility and eagerness to learn did not actually conflict with his Pride.

Schiller said, "As I said, of course you can study psychology. Everything is in the textbooks. You can attend my classes, go back and memorize the material, do your homework, write papers, and then take the final exam. I'm a professor. I won't stop any student from learning."

"You know that isn't what I want to learn..."

"Then what else do you think there is?"

"Your... special ability." Bruce gestured as he spoke. "I've seen many people like that around the world. They have special abilities that ordinary people don't..."

"No, I'm different from them. I don't possess any ability beyond that of an ordinary person."

Bruce pondered for a moment and pursed his lips. Clearly, he did not believe him. But Schiller truly had nothing more to explain. The young Batman was simply too immature. He was too straightforward, too impulsive, and too unwilling to consider consequences.

He also seemed far too impatient. His lack of success in the superhero business had only worsened that impatience. Clearly, he believed that if he could learn skills like mind-reading from Schiller, dealing with criminals would become much easier, instead of getting shoved off a building by a few gang members and crashing to the ground in disgrace.

He had not yet figured out what had caused his failure in the first place.

Bruce left Schiller empty-handed once more. Schiller only told him—indeed, threatened him—that he had better study properly, finish all his courses, and get good grades on the final exam.

Bruce clearly did not listen to a word of it.

That evening, Schiller went out again. He returned to Jonathan's secret base and stole quite a bit more Fear Gas. This time, no matter how foolish Jonathan was, he should have been able to see that more than half of his two rows of test tubes were gone.

Schiller was not proficient in chemistry, so he had no way to improve or modify that special gas. He could only put it into different containers or dilute it slightly.

But there was one more thing he could do: use the Fear Gas to scare Batman.

Before long, Schiller appeared in the Morsen District again. He knew Batman would return here. Bruce was that sort of person. Wherever he fell, he had to get back up in the same place. He would never willingly choose another location. That was his Pride.

The entire Morsen District was not large, with only six alleys. The building Bruce had fallen from stood in the first alley of the district. There was a nightclub there, controlled by the Gutter Gang.

The Gutter Gang was merely a small Gotham gang. A drainage ditch ran beside the Morsen District, and the Gutter Gang liked throwing miserable victims into it. The ditch grew increasingly foul, so other gangs began using "gutter" as a name for this gang. The Gutter Gang took great pride in it.

Batman's first enemy to defeat him was clearly no notorious villain. They were only a group of thugs smoking upstairs in the nightclub. Batman used his fighting skills to take down most of them, but his lack of practical experience led to someone throwing a handful of lime into his eyes. He staggered and fell from the building.

The early Batman had no assistant, and his equipment was far from mature. It was not strange for him to suffer such a setback. But the Gutter Gang would not have that luck a second time. Schiller had only leaned against the wall at the end of the Morsen District for a while before frightened cries rang out from the nightclub. Soon, the night fell silent. A small gang no one would care about vanished from Gotham just like that.

Batman emerged. Clearly, he was in much better condition than last time. He kept his head lowered, as though still calculating how to modify his Bat-equipment.

Suddenly, he remembered something. He walked forward and turned a corner, intending to find that beggar again. He wanted to give her some more dollars and tell her that the Gutter Gang had been dealt with, so she would no longer be in danger with the money.

Sure enough, he found the beggar in the same old spot. She was still tightly wrapped in her blanket, shivering in Gotham's damp, freezing night air. The umbrella Schiller had once given her was gone too.

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

The beggar lifted her head tremblingly, but Batman saw not a trace of gratitude in her eyes. To his disbelief, the only thing in her gaze was hatred.

"Doesn't that make you happy?" Batman asked.

"Of course it doesn't." A familiar voice came from above Batman. Schiller stood on the balcony above the beggar, looking down at Batman from the second floor.

"Because of the Gutter Gang, the nightclub had a constant stream of customers every day. Some of them would carry food in their hands, and when they had only a little left, they would casually throw it by the roadside. Then the beggar could pick it up and keep eating."

"But now that the Gutter Gang is gone, the nightclub can't stay open either. No customers means no food."

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

"Yes, you have the best medical system in all of Gotham. You have private doctors and family health consultants. You've hardly ever experienced what a cold or fever feels like, much less what it feels like when someone is frozen so badly they cannot stand."

"In your imagination, she could simply take a few hundred dollars to the nearest supermarket, buy enough daily necessities, perhaps even stay in a hotel for a few nights, and then cure her illness..." Schiller drew out the last word before continuing.

"But unfortunately, she can't even take the first step."

Batman crouched down and pulled aside the blanket at the beggar's feet. He discovered that her entire lower body had been frozen bluish-purple. Gotham City had endured several days of rain, and her legs had soaked in water until they were swollen beyond recognition.

Batman was well versed in surgical theory. He knew that even at Gotham's best hospital, such legs could only be treated through amputation.

He fell completely silent. Looking at the many dollar bills the beggar had not clenched in her hands but allowed to drift carelessly onto the ground, he felt an unbelievable absurdity—a suffocating shame.

Suddenly, he felt countless negative emotions swallow his heart with irresistible force, making him want to roar. Batman had never felt so out of control as he did that night. He stood, staggered backward several steps, then collapsed onto the ground.

Clearly, a tragic story with an unexpected ending, combined with a tiny amount of Fear Gas-induced negative emotion, was enough to leave Bruce withdrawn for several days.