Days as a Spiritual Mentor in American Comics Chapter 6233: Chicago Stories (4)

The morning breeze blowing from Lake Michigan is golden, especially when it sweeps past those old Gothic buildings. The fallen leaves and soil on the ground are lifted, turning into countless fine dust, outlining shadows of light. The window was only opened a crack, yet the cold air flowed all the way from the nose to the lungs. This cold is what woke Bruce up.

It had been many years since he experienced such a morning. Ever since Gotham got the sun, it was no longer the cold that woke people up each morning. The difference was that Chicago’s sun was always without warmth, even though it was bright and clear, the temperature was scattered by the unrelenting wind.

Bruce rubbed his eyes and sat up. He walked to the window and felt the chill seeping through the gap of the badly closed window. Stark, sleeping in the bed on the other side of the room, had deeply furrowed brows, seemingly chilled to the bone.

Bruce sighed and reached out to pull the window shut, only to find that it couldn’t close properly. Years of dampness had warped the wooden window frame, leaving a small gap no matter how much he pulled. No wonder the senior had left a roll of tape in the drawer; it turns out he needed to DIY seal it himself.

The cold had wiped Bruce’s sleepiness away. He rubbed his eyes, went to the bathroom to wash up, splashed cold water on his face, looked at himself in the mirror, and used his wet hands to tidy up his bangs. He didn’t know what the standards were for the Brotherhood initiation, but hopefully, they weren’t fans of hair gel.

Bruce didn’t have any proper formal attire, so he wore the most basic white shirt. Without leather shoes, he opted for a pair of loafers. This looked a bit mismatched, so he quietly went to Stark’s bedside, took the black-rimmed glasses he wore yesterday, and put them on his face. This looked much better, a lot like Clark Kent.

Bruce wasn’t quite sure how a small-town boy new to the big city should dress, so he could only mimic Clark Kent. He looked at himself in the mirror from left to right, feeling that it looked pretty convincing.

Perhaps because of the different personas of Batman and Superman, Batman’s handsomeness carried a kind of classical melancholy, which was focused around the eyes. His brow ridge was quite low, making his blue eyes appear especially deep, often giving a mature impression. The black frame glasses effectively concealed this part, making him appear more sunny and social.

When Bruce finally finished grooming himself in the bathroom, Stark had groggily sat up. He leaned against the wall, dazedly looking at Bruce, then glanced at the sky outside, scratched his tousled hair, and muttered: “Do Chicago girls prefer the morning?”

“I’m not going on a date,” Bruce rolled his eyes, “today is the Brotherhood’s recruitment day.”

“No way,” Stark practically complained, “Are you really going? How long has it been since you used that Batman brain of yours? What can a bunch of stupid riff-raff accomplish together?”

“Dorms are neither stupid nor riff-raff,” Bruce adjusted his glasses, answering earnestly, “They are just divided into singles and shared, as well as whether the windows leak air.”

“Achoo,” Stark sneezed, rubbing his chilly arms, then said, “I dreamed of snow last night, why is this ghostly place so cold?”

“Want to come with me?” Bruce asked, “I feel that if you stay here any longer, you’ll definitely end up frozen in the hospital. You probably don’t have much start-up capital either, right?”

Stark looked at him with a peculiar gaze, as if saying, “Do you hear yourself?” but after a while, he seemed to recall something, then said with a knowing expression, “No wonder you don’t get along with the other Batmen.”

“What do you mean?”

Stark pulled out his suitcase from under the bed, opened it, and it was filled with a bunch of odd electronic components, looking broken and shabby. Bruce glanced at it and his eyes widened: “Where did you get these?”

“Junkyard,” Stark fished out a monocle from somewhere and clipped it into his eye socket, “Before coming to school, I took a spin around the largest junkyard, there’s some good stuff there, I plan to go again later.”

This didn’t seem to bother Stark now, constantly rummaging through that pile of electronic parts. Bruce hesitated and said, “Do you need my help?”

“Are you really that kind-hearted?” Stark turned to scrutinize him.

“I was thinking… can we beat Shiller without wearing a mecha,” Bruce seemed to be genuinely considering, but after a moment said, “Forget it. You’ll need space to build a mecha. I’ll move out, and you can have the double room to yourself.”

“You’re overthinking it,” Stark didn’t even look up, “Without the Stark Group, I won’t be making any mecha; otherwise, I’d spend the rest of my life in some lab, being exploited. I just want to make something to exchange for money.”

Bruce looked at him and said, “You’re not quite what I imagined.”

“What did you imagine I’d be like?” Stark asked casually.

“A typical elite,” Bruce said, “born into privilege, with ambitions higher than the sky, or at least an idealist who only cares about the fate of the human race. I didn’t expect you to be so pragmatic.”

“I often regret my privileged background,” Stark said jokingly, “if I weren’t a Stark, my greatness would have reached even higher levels.”

“Indeed,” Bruce nodded. He had no doubt Stark could fight his way up from the bottom. If he only had a smart mind, perhaps not, but it was clear that Stark was inherently a very pragmatic person, with terrifying adaptability.

Once a globally recognized superhero and millionaire Iron Man, upon arriving here and finding himself without money, the first thing he did was go scavenging in the junkyard. He can be arrogant enough not to acknowledge anyone’s judgment on his inventions, yet also diligent enough to rummage through a heap of electronic waste for materials just to sell for a bit of money.

No wonder he managed to escape from Afghanistan, Bruce thought to himself, indeed, under great fame there’s true skill, people from the Prime Universe always have some tricks up their sleeves.

But Bruce also felt that Tony Stark was truly proud. He believed that the underpinning logic of all people being unworthy to judge him was that, even if he stood on the same starting line as them, or even far below theirs, he could still do far better than those people. He never hesitates to prove this point with actions: falling into the hands of terrorists, piecing together a mecha with shrapnel; coming here alone, going to the junkyard for materials, without concern for face nor fear of trouble. Bruce believed his evaluation of Stark wasn’t wrong; Stark was not just an elite, but the most typical American elite.

“What happened to the Brotherhood?” Bruce asked again. He noticed that Stark was quite bothered by this, so he sat on his bed and looked at Stark across the room and asked, “The university I attended didn’t have a Brotherhood; they ceased to exist due to some accidents, so I have no clue.”

“Do you know about those accidents?” Stark asked.

Bruce shook his head: “That was too long ago; it was during his dad’s youth. Moreover, there are so many accidental incidents in Gotham, it’s impossible to distinguish which was caused by whom.”

“That’s the key,” Stark said. “How does a group like that maintain cohesion? Through love and affection?”

Bruce looked at him. Stark, still fiddling with the electronic components, continued talking: “Either they have common interests, or they share common secrets.”

“Building a common interest is hard; it requires time, maybe some luck too, and during the university stage, it’s difficult to achieve any significant interest outcomes. Without positive incentives like this, it’s almost impossible to bind everyone together through common interests. The best way is to ensure everyone shares the same secret.”

“You mean…”

“A secret, actually, is leverage. So long as everyone has leverage against each other, they can naturally unify. Doing good deeds won’t create leverage; only doing something bad together, something that would destroy their lives if exposed, can leave leverage.”

“I think you really need to come with me,” Bruce said invitingly, “I have no experience at all, now I’m really turning into a small-town boy.”

Stark looked at him with a complex expression: “Why is there someone like you in Batman? Other Batmans would only say to me, ‘I’ve got it. Nothing will go wrong with me around.'”

“It’s quite the opposite,” Bruce acknowledged realistically, “If they were really like you said, my joining would definitely cause even bigger trouble.”

Stark couldn’t help but cover his eyes with the back of his hand; he said, “I’m not going; I hate such lively yet hypocritical occasions. But if you do run into any trouble, just give me a call.”

Bruce mumbled softly, showing some dissatisfaction: This era doesn’t have mobile phones; to call someone you have to dial a landline first, then the person at the telephone connects, goes upstairs, knocks on the door, and finds the person. With such efficiency, by the time Stark gets here, daylilies would be cold.

“Otherwise, better not go,” Stark clearly didn’t want Bruce to go, “The Brotherhood’s dormitory isn’t a good place either, not only because there are many people, but also because there are a bunch of rules to follow, and entry and exit might not be free.”

That suits me just fine, Bruce said to himself. More people means it’s hard to be caught alone. Rules mean people who fear trouble might not go. Restricted access is even better, ideally with a strict curfew keeping all serial killers outside.

Bruce indeed could use his wisdom like Stark, invent something to make some money. Not to mention America’s major banks and the Federal Reserve backend, he could come and go as he pleases. However, moving out of school is asking for trouble; living in those expensive elite studios is equivalent to having one foot in the Lake Michigan floor. What he needs is a place that’s crowded, with daily parties. Reducing the chance of being alone is increasing survival rate.

“Alright,” seeing Stark really didn’t want to go, Bruce gave up, then added, “Remember to tape up the window or else it will be drafty at night.”

Stark rolled his eyes. He put down his things, walked to the window, pulled it open, gave the window frame a solid punch, and closed the window again tightly.