The lights in the banquet hall, like a cascading golden waterfall, glittered enchantingly; champagne glasses were stacked into a towering pyramid, surrounded by flowers and ribbons, resembling a crystal mountain.
The waiters, dressed neatly in crisp shirts and black vests, moved between guests. They gracefully lowered their arms and, after the glasses on their trays were taken, nodded discreetly. They then retreated with heads held high, presenting an image of proud swans.
"I never would have expected to encounter a fellow scholar here, one who also appreciates Mitzkevich as I do. When I visited Lithuania, I even toured his former residence..."
"Oh, indeed, madam, I first heard of his friendship with Goethe during my trip to Weimar. He must have greatly enjoyed Goethe's poetry; this is evident from his "Ode to Youth"..."
Near the window, Shiller was engaged in conversation with a silver-haired lady.
Soon, the topic deepened. The elegantly poised old lady gently shook her head and said, "Forgive my lack of understanding regarding psychology. I only know those young radicals, headed by the Bowers brothers, who are always spouting off about brainwaves, mind-reading, mind-sensing, and all such nonsense."
"If I were to find a reasonable explanation for their pseudo-scientific jargon, I suppose 'psychology' would be the best fit. People should rely on systematic knowledge, rather than holding out hope for some superpower to fall from the heavens. Don't you agree, Sir?"
"Oh, Madam, your words resonate deeply with me. As a psychologist, I find myself constantly explaining to my various patients whether mind-reading actually exists in this world, whether I can uncover their secrets, or if I know what they had for dinner last night..."
Gazing at Shiller's resigned look, the old lady laughed deeply before saying, "Honestly, I don't have a favourable impression of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. However, I must admit that one must be highly knowledgeable and possess a great deal of trust from the Defense Department to work there, let alone teach intern agents."
"You flatter me, Madam, I am merely... oh, hello, may I assist you with something?" Shiller turned to a waiter who had approached him. The waiter held a tray with a slim champagne glass filled with clear liquid.
"Mr. Wayne invites you to join him in a toast, expressing his gratitude for your honouring us with your presence at this banquet." The waiter courteously dipped his head, revealing a humble smile. The elderly lady raised her gloved hand elegantly and said, "Go ahead, Mr. Shiller. Mr. Wayne must be very curious about you. There are many difficult competing investors amongst Gotham's new wave of investment projects. He certainly requires the assistance of a psychologist."
Shiller gently lifted the champagne glass from the waiter's tray, winked at the old lady, and nodded in a manner that communicated his appreciation. After all, the information she had just revealed was vital, especially for one who was truly visiting Gotham for the first time.
Simply put, Bruce Wayne needed him - knowing this information before and after negotiations took place would yield entirely different results.
Shiller, holding his glass, moved from the window side to the side of the banquet hall closer to the staircase. Bruce Wayne was surrounded by a crowd, all members of Gotham's prominent families.
"Elliot, Kane, Bowers..." Bruce quietly named the individuals surrounding him in the theater, then let his gaze rest on the handsome, unmasked man.
It was evident that Bruce Wayne on the screen was not old. Although he was older than the Bruce in the theater, the maturity was only slight. The youth was seemingly transitioning into middle age.
However, his demeanor was entirely different from that of Bruce's. Of course, he too pretended to be a playboy, but he was neither flashy nor frivolous. Instead, he exuded a refined aura of proficient maturity.
This demeanor was reflected in his ability to carry on conversations with four or five social elites concurrently without appearing flustered. His responses to the mannerisms and conversations of different individuals were also well-executed.
Whether it was his proud raising of the head, restrained nod, or perfectly timed smile, his movements radiated a captivating charm.
"It seems that in this universe, you're quite the social butterfly," Diana laughed quietly as she said, "You're better at it than I am."
Just as Bruce was turning to look at her, the ageless princess lightly curled her lips and stated, "For a long time, I was more comfortable being a warrior, believing that bravery was the solution to all problems."
"During the war years, I earned countless praises for my bravery. But I was also told that once this cruel era passed, I would need to join the masses, find a way for my homeland and comrades in human society."
"I spent so much time learning about human etiquettes, but I still occasionally make blunders, like a clumsy young girl."
Laughing slightly, Diana seemed to recall her past mistakes. However, soon she turned to look at Bruce, saying, "Becoming a social butterfly is not an easy task. Look at your other self; he's doing quite well."
Clark, with his hand resting under his chin and showing great interest, stared at the Bruce on the screen before turning to look at his peers. His eyes shone brightly, as if they were stars in the sky.
"Bruce, you…"
"No, I don't follow this routine."
"Of course you…"
"No, I can't do it, that's not me."
"You're too handsome," Clark said without any realization of what he was saying. He continued as usual, "Perhaps I'm only a naive small-town youth, but from the time I could remember, I've never seen someone as handsome or as elegant as you. How should I describe it? The Bruce Wayne everyone expects?"
"Of course, the man we see now is only a newly uncorked bottle of wine. But there will come a day when he transforms into a grand champagne tower, just like the other you from another universe," Constantine chimed in, rolling his eyes as he spoke.
Meanwhile, Barry, who was sitting nearby, just quietly moved his seat a bit farther away.
He knew Batman all too well, and he also knew that one day, Batman would make these people pay for trifling with him. He certainly didn't want to be part of the reckoning, even though he had always thought Batman was quite attractive during his time in the Prime Universe.
"Apologies, gentlemen, allow me two minutes to introduce you all to Professor Schiller Rodriguez, who currently works at the Federal Bureau of Investigation Intern Special Agent Training Academy. He is a well-known lecturer and psychologist," said Bruce on the screen.
Bruce gently raises his wine glass to Schiller, and the people around him react differently when they see Schiller. They soon realize that Wayne wants to speak privately with the professor.
Up until now, the wealthy man had been holding his glass without clinking it with anyone or sipping from it. But the moment Schiller appears, he raises his glass—an impeccably timed social signal.
After polite salutations, everyone disperses. Schiller reaches out but doesn't clink glasses head-on as is required in social etiquette. Instead, he slightly rudely taps the bottom of Bruce's champagne flute with the side of his tall glass.
Bruce, with his piercing gaze, scans the part where the glasses touched, and then looks up at Schiller. His smile, which had previously been surface-level during his conversations with others, has disappeared.
Schiller is sending a signal—he knows him.
"I never clink glasses directly with anyone. If I do, I never bring the glass to my mouth again," Bruce explains quietly to his theater companions, "This is for safety, as someone once poisoned their own drink and then spread it to others' glasses whilst clinking."
Seeing the others look at him as if he's crazy, Bruce shakes his head and says, "Even without the poison, the spread of droplets is terrifying enough... I have a mild case of cleanliness obsession, but I believe it's necessary."
"If you hadn't mentioned it, I'd never have noticed..." Barry, as if infested with lice, shrugged his shoulders alternately, saying, "Now I feel a bit disgusted too, after all, if there's someone else's saliva in the drink or something..."
"Please, stop talking!" Harley exclaims with a disgusted expression.
On the screen, Bruce takes back his glass and smiles again. He looks at Schiller, saying, "Mr. March gave me a call last night specifically to sing your praises. Allow me to express my respect; you've made indelible contributions to federal security..."
"You are too kind," Schiller replies, tilting back his glass, and takes a sip of his drink. An ever-so-subtle hint of surprise flashes in Bruce's eyes.
"I bet he's got at least 80 plans already," Clark says as he watches the screen, "79 of which are for superpowered people who are not afraid of poison, right, Bruce?"
After having spent some time with him, Clark has come to understand the way his friend operates—typical of someone who can't live without plans and strategy.
"That's an understatement," Barry states decisively.
"How many, then?"
"80 for non-superpowered humans not afraid of poison, 80 for superpowered humans, 80 for aliens, 80 for demi-gods, 80 for speedsters, 80 for magical creatures, 800 for when all of the above unite and attack Gotham, and then 8000 backup plans."
Just as Clark was about to ridicule Barry for his exaggeration, he saw a thoughtful expression on Bruce's face. His eyes widen as he turns to Bruce, "You're not serious, are you?... Are you?"
"He is actually more mature than me," Bruce rubs his chin, "The idea of a united attack is indeed worth guarding against."
"Give me a break! You bunch of nutcases!" Clark exclaims, exasperated.
"Mr. March was my first patient when I came here. Oh, don't misunderstand, this doesn't violate any confidentiality rules. He doesn't shy away from seeing a psychologist and he allows me to talk about it."
"Yes, it's not like decades ago," Bruce adds with a laugh, "People are starting to pay attention to their mental health. In times of frustration or fatigue, they learn not to blame themselves excessively but to seek professional help. I think it's a sign of societal progress."
"I toast to your understanding of psychology," Schiller raises his glass again, toasting Bruce from afar, and takes another sip.
Bruce, on the other hand, notices that the man across him is completely unperturbed about Bruce not drinking. This is not normal. Most people would be taken aback if their toast is not reciprocated. Although they do not dare to say anything to Bruce Wayne, that momentary doubt, annoyance, and even disappointment are impossible to conceal.
But Schiller seems to know all along that Bruce does not drink. He has no expectations, and thus, no disappointment.
In the few sentences exchanged, Batman draws a surprising conclusion—one that even surprises him: the professor understands him well, not referring to his thinking or behavioural logic, but some minor details of his personal habits.
This understanding is even more chilling to Batman than the Joker's—it's as if Schiller has known him for ages and is capable of peeking into his private life, bypassing the barrier of the Batman mask. Even Robin, his closest flock, can't do that.