哥谭市,一个既不阳光明媚也不温暖的早晨,哥谭大学的学生面临着期末的心理学考试.
当埃文斯分发文件时,教室里爆发出一阵呻吟和哭泣声.然后,门外回荡着大理石地板上的脚步声.刹那间,教室里一片寂静.
席勒收上雨伞,走进教室.看到大家埋头于纸张里,他满意地点了点头.
然后他把雨伞捅在地上,把手放在把手上,在教室中央宣布."你有1小时40分钟.从技术上讲,您可以尽早提交论文.但是我住在这里很无聊.所以,我一定会批改你的试卷.
"最起码,你必须确保你写的东西足以让我读完,直到你走出这个教室.
"另外,虽然我没有要求你们分开坐,但你们最好不要互相窃窃私语.请保持字迹整洁.并且禁止使用草书.最重要的是,一定要把你的名字写清楚,我的意思是你的法定姓名.不要让我像开学第一天那样重复自己,强调不要使用昵称.
"好了,开始答题吧."
整个教室完全安静下来,只有铅笔在纸上刮擦的声音.
哥谭大学从未有过如此浓厚的学习氛围的教室.布鲁斯抬头看了一眼,在写作的短暂停顿中.斜坐在他面前的是来自东区的鬣狗的侄子,一个臭名昭著的麻烦制造者,从小就已经开始抽烟,喝酒和打架.
但现在,他坐在自己的位置上.十分钟过去了,他还在勤奋地写着.出乎意料的是,他充满酒精和烟草的大脑可以让他保持正常运作.
布鲁斯的左边坐着哥谭大学著名的涂鸦男孩.他擅长喷漆,经常把墙壁弄得一团糟.在谢尔顿的校园禁酒令期间,他甚至在通往校长办公室的走廊墙壁上喷绘了一幅嘲讽院长的涂鸦.
然而,他并不那么好.他无法为第一个作文问题想出答案,正忙着在纸上画各种图案.
布鲁斯以敏锐的视力瞥了一眼他的纸,注意到他正在画席勒.与其他讽刺涂鸦不同,他画的席勒背对着黑色的太阳,伸出双臂.粒子状的图案围绕着他,营造出一种奇怪但很酷的效果.谁知道呢,也许席勒会为他精心制作的艺术品多加两分.
半个小时过去了,令人惊讶的是,超过三分之二的学生还在写作.这在哥谭大学确实是一个奇迹.
在之前的期末考试中,一些捣乱者从一开始就缺席.座位永远不会全部坐满.考试开始两分钟后,有些学生只写了自己的名字就离开了教室.
Ten minutes into the exam, many have already filled casually in the multiple-choice questions, dropped their pens, submitted their papers early, and walked out.
In the past, after 20 minutes, there would only be a few students left in the entire classroom. And those who remain aren't really writing their papers; they just have nothing else to do so sleep here.
But now, Bruce looks at his watch. Forty minutes have passed, and about half of the students are still putting their thoughts onto paper.
There is not a single person daring to turn in their papers early. Although most of them have already racked their brains and are on the brink of desperation, they keep biting their pens, sitting at their desks, hoping to squeeze out a few more words from their blank brains, hoping to lessen the professor's anger when he sees their answers hovering between illiteracy and semi-literacy.
In fact, even with entry level textbooks on psychology, grasping the various specialized terms, names, theories, and definitions is no easy task.
Not to mention these Gotham University students who never study anything. Even ones of Ivy League schools have to do their pre-reading before attending specialized lectures; otherwise, they find their brains blank.
Memorizing, for these students whose brains have long ceased functioning, is already difficult, not to mention cramming within a week or two.
When an hour has passed, the majority of students have stopped writing. Bruce jots down the names of those who stick to working hard on his scratch paper; they will become the core member of the psychology club he plans to establish in the future.
After giving it some thought, he also adds the name of the graffiti boy. A club always needs a talented artist.
After a long wait of full 1 hour and 40 minutes, when the professor at the front of the room finally throws down the words "Time's up" and the voice land heavily on the floor, a chorus of sighs fills the classroom. It is evident that they are all on the verge of going crazy.
No one dares to leave even after the papers are collected. It isn't until Schiller securely fastens the papers, counts them, double-checks the names, and leaves the room with a stack of answer sheets that the classroom explodes like a bomb, "boom," and everyone rushes out.
"Oh no! I just fill half of the fill-in-the-blank questions. I'm over!"
"Damn it! I crammed the definitions of psychology so hard last night! Why weren't those included? I wasted so much time at the beginning!"
"I write the answer to the second essay question on the fourth one! Oh no, what should I do? I must lose all my points!"
"Which one of you guys applies for graduate school? Evans, do you apply? My dad told me that if my brain can pursue graduate study, we might as well expect our dog to climb trees! But my dog is a Corgi..."
"I still have two papers left to submit. I have to complete them before the break, or else I'm anxious throughout the holiday and can't enjoy it."
A few people gather around Bruce's desk; they are the first batch of members invited to the club by Bruce. Reni, the graffiti boy with a fluorescent yellow headband, boasts, "The professor must love my work. I can tell he is a person with a good taste."
"But he might prefer to see your correct answers," Bruce says.
"Forget it, I'm hopeless at that. Memorization pollutes my brain," Reni touches his nose. He is a typical Germanic people with green eyes and a few freckles, dressed in a reggae-style outfit.
"And who says that isn't the correct answer? Who says you have to write? Drawing works too; I'll pass!"
"Fine, I'll pay you to help me create a poster. Make it big, impactful, and use it to advertise our club. I don't care how much I should pay, but I want it to be truly awe-inspiring," Bruce requires.
Reni snaps his fingers, "Bro, you've found the right person! Nobody in Gotham knows how to do it better than me!"
The group huddles together and whispers.
"What? You mean you want to..."
"You're a genius..."
"Count me in, I want to join too!"
"This is a big surprise... Yes, I'm in..."
"…maybe he'll give us a pass..."
A few days later, Schiller is furiously grading papers, while his anger is accumulating Although he anticipates the level of these ignoramuses at Gotham University, he doesn't expect them to perform so miserably.
Determined not to let these academic trash continue to pollute his mind, Schiller decides to work late today and correct all the papers at once, then give most of them a failing grade.
Suddenly, he hears a sharp shriek from outside the office building, somewhat like a fire alarm but shorter and sharper.
Schiller stands up, looks out of the window, and notices some lights flickering. It is still early evening, much earlier than when the streetlights turn on. Most teachers and students haven't left the school yet.
He hears a commotion downstairs, as if someone is calling out his surname. Schiller puts down his pen, leaves the desk, and walks toward the window.
The entire side of the building across the street is covered in a huge curtain. Schiller has overheard that they are doing some wall renovations there. Since he doesn't usually take that route, he hasn't paid much attention to it.
But just as he reaches the window, the curtain drops instantly from the opposite building's wall. There seems to be a gigantic graffiti painting on it, as tall as seven stories. A row of spotlights suddenly lights up, illuminating the whole side of the building as if it is daylight.
It is indeed a massive graffiti, with Schiller's back view at the bottom and a black sun filled with numerous strange patterns above. Around the sun are several circles of golden patterns, and Schiller's silhouette stands in front of the black sun.
Schiller's figure is almost merged into the background of the black sun, or rather, this immense, incomparable sun seems like his shadow.
Schiller stands by the window, momentarily blinded by the bright lights. When he opens his eyes, he sees this scene.
Schiller: "..."
Symbiote: "...Wow."
The side of the graffiti reads, "Join the Psychology Club. Face people's hearts. Face the black sun. - By Blue Ghost Reni"
Schiller lowers his head and sees a group of people excitedly waving to him from the ground floor. Most of them are psychology students from Gotham University, including Bruce Wayne.
Schiller looks up, admiring the black sun composed of countless mysterious patterns. It exudes a peculiar and terrifying aesthetic, captivating the gaze to the point where one can't look away, as if one's soul is being drawn into it.
Terrifying, mysterious, bizarre, outlandish,and yet filled with an irresistible beauty that traps everyone.
Schiller recalls that the original meaning of "Gotham" is "fool's village." Indeed, this place is full of various absurd fools, not knowing where they come from or where they're going.
But at the same time, it is also full of geniuses, possessing unparalleled talents and fascinating vitality.
Schiller is indeed fascinated. The bold and eccentric absurdity, filled with a unique verve that nowhere else in the world possesses, is like terrifying vines climbing out of an abyss, as well as top-notch artworks alongside countless masters.
Schiller knows more than these students, but he just realizes that there is one thing he hasn't learned -
He hasn't learned Gotham yet.
Everyone living here is both insane and sober.
This dark city doesn't need anyone to save herself. They live so crazily in the abyss, embodying a twisted and bizarre vigor.
It grows from the darkness. The people here use madness as their swords, accurately pointing directly into anyone's heart.
Schiller stares straight at the black sun. He thinks, perhaps, the people here are unexampled geniuses. The only fool, is himself, is anyone outside the comic who tries to play the savior.
The people here, with brains devoid of any psychological theory knowledge, can see through their professors like mind readers.
The black sun is still the sun, the most accurate profile of Schiller.
The embodiment of Schiller is indeed not the scorching sun, but the sun that doesn't shine or emit heat - the black sun.
After a few minutes, Schiller uses his finger to write a line on the misty glass - "All of you pass."
Instantly, a burst of cheers erupts downstairs. Beneath the black sun, it is as if the followers, illuminated by this perpetually dark star, are celebrating a new birth.