"Alright, next up, I'm going to highlight the key points for the final exam. Open your books to page 1—we'll start with the table of contents and go straight through. Everything from Chapter 1, Section 1, all the way through the last section of Chapter 10: is testable."
"Keep turning pages. You must memorize the first 50 pages—everything except the pictures. All conceptual statements will appear on the exam as fill-in-the-blank questions. After page 60—at the end of Chapter 2, Section 3—the remaining material will be assessed through essay and short-answer questions."
"Also, after Chapter 7, I'll select several core topics to use as prompts for your final paper. The paper must still be 3,000 words long. The exam-to-paper weighting is 7:3. The exam-to-coursework weighting is 6:4."
"In other words, if you don't do well on the written exam, you will fail the course."
"Per Gotham University tradition, starting next academic year, I'll be organizing additional advanced psychology courses. If you want in, you'll need a total score of at least 85 on this final. Related clubs and societies are also in preparation. If you're interested in serving as a lead organizer or club president, come to my office after class."
"Alright—class dismissed."
Schiller snapped his book shut and walked out. Only then did the students finally relax—and immediately dissolving into wails.
"Oh my God! This book is thicker than my fist, and I have to memorize the whole thing?"
"Do you think if I flunk, he'll just shoot me?"
"I've never seen him carry a pistol or a revolver. My guess is he's a cold-steel guy—bayonets and knives."
"Who remembers what he said about Chapter 3? Where do the essay questions start?"
"Help! Evans! Evans, you there? Do you have notes? Lend them to me, please. Damn it, I came to half these classes already high—I couldn't vibe-sync a thing to remember and osmosis isn't real, you just cannot absorb things by leeping on them or maybe my head isn't empty enough, aaaahhhh!"
"If my dad finds out how hard I'm studying at college, he's going to cry tears of joy!"
Bruce sat among them, but he wasn't nearly as flustered. Memorizing a book was hardly a problem for him.
He wanted to run something by Schiller—about building a private prison—but Schiller's mood was visibly foul today, so Bruce hesitated and didn't follow him out.
A moment later, Evans found him. "Did you catch what the professor said about the club and society?" he asked. "I want to be the lead. You know I've been handling class discipline and the homework anyway. But I want your take on the society—are you going to join?"
Bruce understood what he meant. Gotham University had hobby clubs, but also study societies. Popular courses spun up their own societies—basically, extra tutorials with the professor. And of course, societies needed funding. Plenty of them wanted Bruce aboard because he was rich.
But Bruce had never really involved himself with legitimate clubs. He had no patience for club bureaucracy and didn't want people chasing him for money.
Psychology was different. He felt he could get extra help there. "I'll talk to the professor about taking a society president role," he told Evans. "As for the club, I'm not interested. You can run the class and the club yourself."
Bruce certainly knew Evans was Falcone's son, but that sort of background was common in Gotham. In this class alone, there were six or seven children of mob bosses—Evans's father was simply the most powerful.
Most of the guys Bruce horsed around with were also nephews and sons of major crime families. In a way, Batman's alter ego was already behind enemy lines.
As for why Schiller was in such a bad mood, that went back to the morning.
Over on the Marvel side, Obadiah had been pulled back from the brink, but he was still extremely weak. The mechanical heart beat fine, but as Strange had said, he was old, his body was failing, and he'd have to stay in the ICU. Stark was at his bedside—the only family he had left. Not even Pepper could cut into that father-and-son-like vigil.
Rhodey had stepped away from the military for the time being. He said he hadn't taken a proper vacation in years, so just before Schiller left, hejoined an Antarctic research expedition and temporarily left New York.
There were still plenty of unanswered questions around the Iron Man affair, but things had quieted down—for the moment.
So Schiller returned to Gotham.
When he woke up this morning, the weather was uncharacteristically good. There was still a thin mist, but you could make out a faint sheen of sunlight on the ground. A rare treat.
He decided to take advantage of it with a round of "random chat." Finishing the Iron Man incident had earned him another chat token, and he still had one left over from before—so now he had two.
Gotham, however, never misses a chance to be Gotham. Schiller opened the chat panel and tapped "Random Chat."
The avatar that popped up had black hair and a green domino mask.
Schiller slammed the system shut on reflex.
Green Lantern.
Yes—Green Lantern, played by the same actor as Deadpool.
Deadpool hadn't appeared, but he was everywhere. Schiller hadn't actually met him, yet he already felt surrounded by him.
"I have to ask—have you seen any strange flying objects? I mean classic flying-saucer stuff…"
A message from Green Lantern came in quickly.
From the wording, Schiller guessed that Hal had probably just stumbled onto a crashing alien craft—the very encounter that ends with an alien bequeathing him the Green Lantern ring.
Schiller reopened the avatar. Sure enough, Hal's ability wasn't copyable yet; he hadn't become Green Lantern.
Schiller replied: "I vaguely remember a few sightings. Why? You saw a UFO? I can recommend a site—it's full of reports like that. You can dig around."
"I've already checked all that—every UFO site on Earth. They're all about things flying in the sky."
"So what did you see? If a UFO isn't flying, why call it a UFO?"
"Oh, it… right, it was flying—was, was… never mind. Forget it…"
Hal clearly realized he shouldn't be telling an internet stranger this much. If word got out he'd found a crashed unknown object, the military would be on him in a heartbeat.
Schiller sighed. Never mind what powers the ring might grant—just the fact that Green Lantern shared an actor with Deadpool was hard enough to swallow. Hopefully, Hal's personality would stick to the comics and not be another motor-mouth.
By afternoon, Schiller's mood had lifted a little, and that was when Gordon came by. "Have you seen Falcone lately?" he asked.
"I have. Why?"
In Gotham, dealing with the mob wasn't shameful—it was unavoidable.
In fact, being able to exchange a few words with the Don was something to brag about.
"Our new police commissioner seems to be Falcone's man," Gordon said. "Hardly surprising. I just want to know how he plans to handle this mess."
"Falcone used to be a hard-line hawk years ago, but recently he's drifted conservative. I wanted to get a sense of whether GCPD is about to veer one way or the other."
A mob-aligned commissioner sounded absurd anywhere else; in Gotham, it was Tuesday. Gordon might be a righteous cop, but he understood the city better than anyone. He wasn't some hot-headed crusader out to topple every structure single-handedly.
Quite the opposite—he wanted to find a unique path through a very complicated game. That meant keeping a working relationship with every faction.
"I'm the Don's family tutor now—teaching his son," Schiller said. "You're right; age has made him more conservative."
"I don't think you need to worry about him taking extreme measures. If anything, he may help you cut down the troublemakers."
Schiller poured coffee for Gordon and continued, "The last time I was at his house, the family heads were meeting. I heard that the eastern docks aren't exactly peaceful…"
Gordon sighed. "I just received the same report. The Edward family, which controls five eastern docks, has experienced an internal conflict. The younger Edward killed his father and is now at war with his uncle."
"You know how important those docks are. Sixty percent of Gotham's contraband comes through them."
"I've heard the Edwards are old stock—one of Gotham's native families, even older than Falcone," Schiller said.
"Hard to say. I just wrapped an incident there last night. The new commissioner has already been invited by Little Edward. I came to you today to find out whether Falcone plans to get involved—and if so, will he back the kid?"
"If Little Edward really takes over…" Gordon exhaled. "He's a pure mad-dog type. He won't embargo the dangerous shipments the way his father did. Gotham will blow up again."
"When isn't this city a wreck?" Schiller shrugged. "Relax. This one isn't in the police lane yet. Worst case, you'll be making more clean-up runs."
"As for the Don…" Schiller shook his head. "All I can say is: these days Falcone looks more like your friend and ally than your enemy."
"He has even more reason than you do to keep Gotham from burning."