Often, this world is just a case of whatever you fear, will come.
Ding!
The elevator doors opened on the 7th floor. Shiller didn't open his eyes but dashed out of the elevator at top speed, recalling the layout of the 7th floor that he had seen through Peter's eyes before, first bypassing the vestibule, passing through a long corridor, then turning right.
Upon pushing open a glass door, the lights dazzled him instantly.
Blinded by the sudden brightness after getting accustomed to the dark, Shiller extended his arm to shield his eyes, slowly opening them while squinting toward the glittering light ahead.
A group of people stared at him with astonished looks.
Shiller slowly lowered his arm and could finally see that the spacious dining room was filled with tables, each surrounded by people. Eight huge chandeliers lit up with splendid light, and neatly-dressed waitstaff stood on both sides, ready to serve.
Closest to Shiller was a man in chef attire, and Shiller saw his head had completely melted, pooling on his neck, but with a flicker of light, what appeared instead was a handsome and dignified old man, his silver hair neatly combed back.
Shiller looked onward with a trance-like gaze into the center of the dining room, where everyone, dressed in shiny formal attire, sat on chairs, looking at menus placed on the tables, while in the kitchen beyond another door, other chefs were busy at work.
"It seems our last guest has arrived," the head chef said, "I assume you remember your reserved seat?"
"Yes..." Shiller said, "I reserved... the seat by the window."
"Then go ahead."
Shiller, nodding, walked slowly to the last empty seat by the window-side table, as if it had been prepared just for him. He sat down and recognized the face of the person sitting opposite him—it was Jeremiah Valeska.
He wore a checkered suit, his hair was neatly combed, and he donned black glasses that made him look benign. He was intently scanning the menu, occasionally muttering to himself.
The noise of Shiller sitting down caught his attention, and he looked up at the man opposite him. But upon seeing Shiller's vacant look and his dilated pupils, Valeska lowered his head again, resuming his perusal of the menu.
However, Shiller gradually shed his confused look, since the head chef's attention had turned to others. Shiller began surveying the surrounding people. Unquestionably, even if this timeline's hotel hadn't been as corrupted, it was improbable to have so many unscathed individuals gathered together.
Some of them had concealed their true identities.
Shiller didn't believe his fleeting illusion was a misperception, but such is the nature of the Cthulhu Mythos: everything is normal until it's not. Despite many signs, many people lose the ability to judge what's normal, thus unable to uncover the horrors lurking around them.
Shiller didn't intend to delve into this abnormality, unfortunately, he had brought something even more abnormal with him.
Shiller sat in his chair, flipping through the menu like all the other guests, oblivious to the world outside. But after a few seconds, the lights in the dining room began to flicker.
Bang!
A loud noise came from outside the dining room as if something was banging on the door. All the diners lifted their heads in bewilderment, and Shiller mimicked their expression as if he had no idea what was pounding on the door from the outside.
The head chef turned abruptly towards the door, as if he saw something, and slowly walked towards it, but then stopped halfway, raising his hand and pressing it down gently.
All the diners lowered their heads, and Shiller felt something pushing his own head down, a sensation wet and slimy, like a water-logged corpse that had been soaking for days.
Shiller obligingly lowered his head; it was better not to look.
But he still discreetly raised his eyes toward the head chef, making sure the chef wasn't looking at him, presumably not suspecting him of bringing that thing here. Shiller breathed a sigh of relief.
In fact, it had been deliberate. Knowing that there were two mutually restraining forces within the hotel, it was conceivable that creatures usually locked up were blocking the path of some entities. By releasing these creatures and introducing them into another plot, it was highly likely that some trouble could be stirred up for the other side.
As expected, waiters who had been lined up by the window began walking towards the door. The banging continued, with no screams heard; still, a waiter vanished outside the door.
A rustling murmur arose.
This was more terrifying than any scream or wail. Shiller heard certain sounds coming from outside the door, reverberating in the room. He wanted to cover his ears with his hands but thought it too conspicuous.
The best option would have been to rupture his eardrums right then and there, but unfortunately, the thing pressing down on his head seemed ever ready to react, and any move to grab a fork would surely be noticed.
Shiller's face began to match the pale countenances of the other diners; his expression turned vacant, his pupils dilated, and he started muttering in chorus with those whispers. However, his Sanity Points were infinite, so as long as there wasn't any violent conflict...
Bang!!!!!!
A strong tremor interrupted all whispering in the entire dining room; then, a fierce shake followed. Shiller immediately felt sticky liquid flowing down from his nose, blood dripping onto the table in front of him.
But the thing pressing down on his head wasn't so forceful anymore, so he took the opportunity to grab a napkin and wipe his nose. Many of the surrounding diners seemed to wake up from a deep sleep.
Soon, in an orderly fashion, the waiters returned to their positions as if the trouble had been resolved. Although Shiller no longer felt the thing above his head, under the scrutiny of many eyes, he still refrained from any rash movements.
Seizing this opportunity, he turned his attention to the Jeremiah sitting opposite him.
The reason he was sure this was Jeremiah was because the temperament of the two brothers was completely different.
The story of the Valeska brothers in "Gotham" is quite interesting. In summary, Jeremiah is innately wicked, possessing all the traits of a narcissistic personality disorder and antisocial personality, but he always blamed all the bad things he did on his younger brother.
Jeremiah had perfect disguise, always seen by everyone as a gentleman, systematically attending school and university, intelligent, composed, and full of gentlemanly grace.
But Jerome, who was falsely accused, had been seen as a bad child from a young age, believed to be wayward, and was continually ostracized and abused, leading to an increasingly deteriorating mental state, eventually, of course, dropping out of school and becoming a complete madman.
All of the above is the story in the original work.
But ever since Little Bruce acquired the powers of the Evil God, everything changed. One of the two brothers became an insurance investigator, and Schiller suspected it was Jeremiah, as Jeremiah resembled the Joker he knew of, always chasing after Little Bruce, almost bursting into his home.
However, given Jeremiah's education and character, he likely wouldn't go to an insurance company to apply for a job, while it was possible for Jerome, with his lower level of education and poor mental state, to degrade to taking such a job.
In any case, the two of them look exactly alike, and with neither having their faces disfigured, it's hard to tell who is who. The Joker is always cunning, and right now, Schiller couldn't be completely sure that the person sitting in front of him was definitely Jeremiah.
The reason he needed to determine who was who was because the brothers' personalities differed, Jerome was purely insane, while Jeremiah was well-disguised, and their goals also differed, one seeming purely intent on destroying Gotham, and the other on ruling Gotham.
More importantly, their relationship with Batman was different, which was also the reason Schiller felt Jeremiah was more like the Joker. In the original work, Jeremiah always hovered around Bruce, while Jerome was more independent.
Jeremiah's connection to Little Bruce was deeper, and therefore if Jeremiah was sitting in front of him, Schiller could confidently guess that Little Bruce was also hiding at this point in time; otherwise, if it was Jerome, the evidence would be insufficient.
As Schiller pondered, the head chef clapped his hands forcefully.
Clap!
All the diners slowly raised their heads and turned to look in that direction, as the head chef stood in the center and spoke.
"Thank you all for coming. Next, along with all the chefs of the Wayne Hotel, we will present a perfect banquet for everyone. I will introduce every dish and its story, hoping you all have a perfect day here."
Great, this day was destined to not be perfect, Schiller thought to himself. I want to see what kind of trouble you can stir up next.
Waiters flowed towards the kitchen, and soon they each emerged, carrying a black tray, and stood beside each dining table, placing dish after dish in front of the diners.
The procedure was standardized, the movements elegant—if you disregarded that what was placed on these plates were human heads, it would have been a delightful start to a perfect day.
Schiller looked down at the contents of his plate; calling it a human head wasn't quite accurate—it was more like the head of someone whose skin and half the brain had completely decomposed, with eyeballs that had all fallen out.
Still, Schiller vaguely recognized through the structure of the skull that this was himself, and not Naog Sokhup, but Schiller Rodriguez.
The rotting lips moved.
"I have devoured them, ingested them into my belly, turned them into my nutrients, becoming the flowers nourished by their spirits.
They are dwindling, dwindling, I can feel the hunger, death approaches, and the flowers begin to wither.
I have eaten myself, starting with my spleen, slipping into my stomach, thorns grow upon the petals, and the hardwood becomes supple roots.
They grow more numerous, more numerous, I have never felt such satisfaction, about to become a grand tree.
Now, it's your turn, your turn."
Schiller looked around, all the heads on the tables were chanting the same poem, and after the words fell, someone picked up the cutlery.
The stranger sitting next to Schiller pushed away the decaying flesh stuck on the skull with a fork, and the flesh of his face also fell off, splatting onto the plate, sliced with a knife, then picked up with a fork and put into his mouth.
The man seemed completely oblivious that a piece of his face had fallen off, as blood flowed out profusely. It was as if he was eating the most delicious thing in the world, emitting subtle moans of pleasure.
There wasn't much decaying flesh to begin with, and with rapid consumption, it was quickly dwindling, and then the man took up his knife and fork to cut the flesh from his own face, continually feeding it into his mouth.
In the end, flesh and skin were not enough to satisfy him, and he slowly moved the knife towards his eyeball.
Then, everything on the plate couldn't satisfy his voracious appetite, he cut off his own head with the knife, and the head rolled onto the plate with a thud.
The doors to the restaurant were pushed open.
A man who looked exactly the same walked in, and at the head chef's behest, sat back down in his original seat, in front of him was the head of his previous self.
The quiet sound of cutlery clinking resonated in the restaurant, an authentic banquet began.