In the narrow prison corridor, the lights above flickered on and off. It wasn't due to power shortages, but deliberately done to prevent the inmates from resting properly and have less energy to cause trouble.
The hour of relaxation each day was before dinner because the lunch provided was meager, and dinner time was relatively late. By then, most inmates were famished, preventing them from having enough strength to fight.
The prison guard rapped the bars with the baton in his hand. Every prisoner here could understand the Morse code hidden in every knock. Inmates in each cell lined up one by one; two guards descended from the stairs at the end of the corridor, unlocking each cell door with the keys in their hands. They led groups of four to the exercise yard.
According to the "Human Rights Act," prisoners were not to be handcuffed or shackled during their relaxation time. But due to the unique nature of Florence Prison, Class A prisoners were required to wear electrified electronic anklets during exercise time. This was as a precaution against certain inmates who had special abilities suddenly going berserk and harming others.
Looking from the perspective of Amanda and the policy of allowing special-ability inmates and common criminals to exercise together, it seemed like she would only be too glad if the special inmates suddenly went mad, killed all the serial killers, then she could justifiably execute them all. But unfortunately, most people still treasured their lives, and so far, there had been no mass riots at the Florence ADX Supermax Prison.
When it came to the cell where the Bandaged Murder Demon was, in the normal course of things, the bandaged murderer, whose bed was closest to the door, should have been the first to leave, but Big Dog elbowed him aside, let out a lewd whistle, then took the lead spot.
The Bandaged Murder Demon didn't line up properly, which greatly displeased the prison guard who rattled the bars impatiently with his baton. The smallest inmate at the back of the line gently pulled him forward and whispered, "You better behave, don't forget that you have an electrified anklet on."
"Follow me during exercise time," said the Bandaged Murder Demon.
The small guy looked terrified. Just as he was about to reply, Big Dog, who was standing at the head of the line, turned to glare at him. There was murderous intent in his eyes. The small guy swallowed hard and said nothing.
When the four men were eventually escorted out of the cell and brought to the exercise grounds, Big Dog made an obscene gesture to the inmates at the back of the line, then strode off towards another group of prisoners.
Bandaged Murder Demon didn't look back at the small guy but simply walked to the periphery of the exercise ground and sat down on a stone block near the electrified net. The small guy followed him, clearly worried.
Both of them squatted beside the stone block. The small guy nervously said, "You shouldn't have crossed Big Dog. He specializes in organ trafficking. He once captured two FBI agents alive, tortured them, and then took their hearts and kidneys. That's why he's classified as a Class A dangerous convict. The FBI hates him."
The small guy glanced fearfully at the southernmost part of the yard. A group of buff, burly men were gathered there, their arms and backs covered in colorful floral tattoos, while some had skull patterns inked on their faces. He continued, "See them? That's the Mexican Gang, notorious in every high-security prison. You don't want to cross them."
"Is that why you got sent here, because you crossed them?" This was the longest sentence the Bandaged Murder Demon had said. The small guy shrank back, "If I had crossed them, would I still be alive to be sent here?"
His gaze moved to a group of people around a hundred meters to the right of the Mexican Gang. As the Bandaged Murder Demon followed his gaze, there appeared to be another gang gathered there. The small guy stuttered, "They are a South American Gang too, dealing primarily in drugs. That's why I was sent here; because I crossed them."
The small man turned back to see the Bandaged Murder Demon's remaining one-eyed gaze coldly focusing on him. Frightened, the small man took two steps back, his voice shaky, "I know you've killed many people, but in prison, those who don't belong to a gang are destined to be bullied. You've crossed Big Dog, the Mexican Gang won't let you off either!"
Yet all the Bandaged Murder Demon said coldly was, "I am a Gothamite."
The small guy looked like he had been doused with cold water. He shuddered violently, his voice trembling, "W-what are you planning to do? Why do you want to find me?"
"You weren't ostracized," the Bandaged Murder Demon said with an icy tone. This carried an implied threat; not one of violence, but one that suggested it wouldn't be pleasant talking to a corpse.
"They needed someone to smuggle drugs here," the Bandaged Murder Demon's only eye bore into the small man, "All the heavy convicts want cigarettes and drugs, which is why you've been able to survive under Big Dog for so long."
"Please!" the small man pleaded in despair, "I didn't want to do this, but they needed an inconspicuous informant. If they made some strong thug do this, that damned Amanda wouldn't let him off."
"What's your name?" the Bandaged Murder Demon asked.
"You can call me Jimmy," the small guy shook his head, "I used to smuggle people across the border. One day, two suicidal cops got involved, I killed them both. However, one of my men recorded the incident, he was an FBI informant. The evidence was irrefutable, and I was sentenced to seventy years in maximum-security prison without parole."
The Bandaged Murder Demon's single eye narrowed slightly. He stared at Jimmy in silence. Finally, Jimmy sighed, "I've butchered many 'pigs', meaning, I've disposed bodies of stowaways. The FBI uncovered them, I knew I should've buried them separately."
"How many have you killed?"
With a pucker of his lips, Jimmy states, "I've been in this line for twenty years. Have we been short of brash or burdensome ones? At least I ensure they die swiftly, instead of falling into the hands of organ traffickers and drug dealers. They'd make them suffer even more."
Jimmy sighs, looking at the Bandaged Murder Demon, "What about you? Honestly, it's quite rare to find a Gotham native in here. That cursed place is impenetrable even to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Many criminals pursued by the Bureau aspire to flee there. Why did you leave?"
"Refuge."
The Bandaged Murder Demon's one-word reply leads to a myriad of thoughts. Jimmy watches him with curious eyes and tentatively asks, "Hiding from enemies?"
"No, hiding from my teacher."
In Professor Shearer's office at the New Arkham Mental Hospital, Victor, leaning on a couch sipping his whisky, says, "…you have to understand him. At the time, he really didn't have a better means to subdue you. The broccoli was a kept-at-bay necessity."
"Of course, I understand," Shearer replies from a relaxed position on the couch, a glass of wine in hand, "I certainly have no qualms that he made an exclusive trip to Kansas to hire an agricultural expert and contacted another revolutionary fighter to travel to far-flung Mexico, bought Lamborghini tractor, and under the assistance of a princess, a magician, a cryogenic scientist, and a botanist, cultivated a whole field of broccoli, then dumped me in the middle of it."
"Uh…" Victor, a bit guilty, hides his mouth with his glass and admits, "To be honest, your behavior with a nanomachine controller did kind of frighten me. Of course, I had no idea that Bruce's restraining measure was actually broccoli."
Shearer takes the pocket square from his suit pocket and meticulously refolds it. He smoothes each crease with his fingers, casually remarking, "Indeed, no surprises there. His imaginative capacity in the matter is far better than when being innovative in his academic papers."
"But I didn't expect him to choose to go back to studying psychology, knowing fully well he recently made a blunder." Victor's spirits lift again. He leans towards Shearer, elbow on the armrest, and says, "This must be some form of sincere apology and plea for forgiveness."
"He better be."
Shearer returns the folded pocket square to his jacket pocket and adjusts the protruding corner. He then stands, using the arms of the chair to push himself up. He walks over to his desk, where he proceeds to go through his schedule, event by event. He continues, "I sincerely hope that even in my absence from Gotham University, the institution has never ceased to progress, especially in terms of academic achievements across various fields…"
Victor immediately stands from his chair. He feigns a smile, puts down his glass, and extends a hand towards Shearer, "I must go; I have something to attend to."
In record speed he runs out of the office door, dashes to the patients' activity center of Arkham Mental Hospital, locates the Cryogenic Lab, and grabs hold of the nearest telephone, shouting into the receiver:
"Bruce, get here already! When do you plan on submitting your paper? If we don't produce results this week, we're both screwed!!!"
"What? You are carless? Then fly!... What? You don't have a plane? Then build one! You can't even get into the Batcave? Then just go home and build... You've been kicked out of your home?!"
Victor, the phone still held to his ear, heaves a sigh, "Listen, Bruce, our emergency restriction measures for Shearer have been tremendously successful, but now it's time to pay the price!"
"If we can't produce a sufficient amount of research prior to Shearer's anger reaching its peak, I'll immediately transfer you back to the psychology department. Just take care of it!"
Baffled in the laboratory at Gotham University, Bruce, fresh off the phone, barely puts down the receiver when a distressed long-haired girl storms through the door yelling, "Bruce! When do you plan on starting that research project you mentioned about Gotham's indigenous plants?!"
"Damn your emergency restriction measures! Professor Shearer has asked me to have breakfast with him on Wednesday morning. If I can't present research findings by then, I'm done for!!!"
"Bang!" The door that had just closed flies open again. A red-haired youth rushes in, panting, "Bruce, is the Ark Reactor interface ready yet?! I'm already a week late for my Sociology paper on the cultural impact of Gotham's solar revival. I'm finished if I don't hand it in soon!!!"