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"The next day, after class, Schiller collected assignments as usual. But today, something was different: all 32 papers were turned in neatly—and judging by their thickness, every one of them actually hit the word count.
That was strange. Normally, even with his relentless hounding, there were always one or two who didn't bother. And among those who did, plenty tried to cheat—a couple of pages sandwiched between blank sheets, or a half-hearted copy-paste job from some article.
But this time, as he stood at the lectern and flipped through them, he found that every student had written a proper essay. Some weren't great—obviously from people who'd never written an academic paper before. Still, they'd all at least tried to stick to the topic. The wording might have sounded like the desperate rambling of functional illiterates, but at least they'd made the effort.
The class sat frozen as Schiller browsed. Normally, this close to the bell, students would already be packing up. But now not a single one moved—they sat stiff and silent, waiting for his verdict.
The reason was simple: last night, word spread that Schiller had gone all the way to Gotham's underworld king, Falcone himself, to chase down Evans for an overdue paper.
This was the "pre-Batman era." In those days, the real power in Gotham lay with Falcone and the twelve mafia families under his sway.
Just how strong were they? Sal Maroni, "the tyrant of the East End," was nothing more than a lapdog to the Laurens—and the Laurens ranked near the bottom of the twelve. At the very top stood the Falcone family, whose Godfather's word was law.
In Gotham at this time, you can get by without knowing the mayor's name, even without knowing who Bruce Wayne was—but you had to know Falcone and the families. Otherwise, you wouldn't last long in the city.
So when the students heard that Schiller had gone all the way to the Godfather's door to collect homework, their frantic late-night rewriting session became a tale of near-death survival.
Schiller, unusually pleased, told them:
"These papers look much more promising. It seems everyone took the assignment seriously this time. Once I've graded them, I'll be adding ten extra participation points across the board. For the few who did particularly well—if you're not planning on graduate school, you can stop by my office to talk about a recommendation letter…"
To his surprise, the classroom erupted in applause. Whether they were cheering for the bonus points or just for their own survival, it was hard to say.
All of this, however, was being closely watched by Principal Sheddon Smith.
Smith was the kind of man you might generously call "persistent"—or less kindly, "obsessive." Once he had his sights on someone, he wouldn't let go. Schiller's hard stance kept him from making an immediate move, but he never stopped looking for an opening.
As principal, Smith had access to the classroom cameras. He used them to monitor Schiller's lectures, convinced it was the best way to keep tabs on him.
For the next few days, Schiller's classes looked impeccable. Every student sat silent, Evans had taken on the role of class monitor—collecting and distributing papers, maintaining order—and the whole thing ran like clockwork.
This gave Smith the wrong impression.
Back at Princeton's administration office, he'd dealt with students of this caliber all the time. At Gotham University, too busy shoring up his own position, he'd never stopped to truly assess the student body. In his mind, writing papers was just a student's duty. Sure, Gotham University didn't rank like Princeton, but the kids couldn't be that much worse. At least, not from what he saw in Schiller's classes.
So Smith let himself be misled.
He still had a problem: his campus prohibition order was stuck in limbo. Some students complied and turned over their booze. The holdouts, though, were hardliners—ready to wave guns rather than give up their right to drink. And while students could wave guns, a principal couldn't. He wasn't a Gotham native, still thought like a man of "civilized society," so the whole thing had stalled.
If punishing didn't work, maybe winning them over would.
Before administration, Smith had been a professor. An Oxford grad in modern literature, he'd taught at both UC and Metropolis University. He thought maybe he could copy Harvey Dent's approach—build rapport with the students, win their loyalty.
So he decided to teach a class.
The timing seemed perfect: Gotham's literature department barely existed. Only a single instructor taught the basics, and the program hadn't admitted new majors in years—no soil for literature in this cursed city. Sheddon imagined reviving it, founding his own department, raising a loyal cadre of students who owed everything to him.
From the outside, Schiller's classes seemed easy. A neat routine: walk in, let the students settle, open the textbook, lecture, hold a discussion or two, wrap up with questions and summaries, then collect papers at the end. Next class would start with graded feedback. Simple, no gimmicks, just straight teaching. If the students played along, the objectives got covered and sometimes there was even time left over to chat.
Through the cameras, it looked effortless. Sheddon, like a backseat gamer, thought, I could do that.
And so he tried.
But reality was brutal. Schiller's class was an illusion—students only behaved for him. Literature basics, like psychology basics, demanded memorization and essays. The first week, out of dozens of students, only two papers came in, one of them half-finished.
Smith lashed out, hammering them with his politician's bluster. The result? Next week, not a single paper will be turned in.
In math or physics, maybe a few students had a natural interest. But literature basics? Dry, thankless, boring—no Gotham student cared.
In class, chaos reigned. Sleeping was the mildest offense. Others ate, shouted, and hammered away on game controllers. Some openly rolled joints. No matter how Smith yelled, nobody listened. Even storming out only turned the class into a louder study hall.
The truth was simple: Smith didn't understand Gotham. He didn't realize these kids were already "good" by Gotham standards. No guns in class, no bombing the building, no kidnapping teachers—that already made them shining examples of civic virtue.
But Sheddon Smith was losing his mind.
Worse, some students knew he was behind the hated prohibition. So they staged protests in his class. One group dragged in a crate of champagne, popped corks, and sprayed him from the front row until he was soaked. Others threw impromptu drinking parties right there.
He screamed about expelling them, about stripping credits. They didn't care. He did expel two—but that only made the rest bolder. And one night, walking across campus, Smith got jumped: two bottles hurled from the bushes, splitting his head and landing him in the hospital.
He couldn't fathom it. The same students who sat like obedient quail in Schiller's class became anarchic lunatics in his own.
He didn't know what Schiller had once said:
In Gotham, the only thing that can deal with criminals… is another criminal."