OBS Chapter 3864 The Nameless Bat (34)
Chapter 3864 The Nameless Bat (34)
Chapter 3864 The Nameless Bat (Thirty-Four)
"Are you going to the crime scene, Professor?" Natasha turned to Schiller. Although she didn't particularly like calling him "Professor," she went along with it because that's what everyone in this universe called him.
Her reason for disliking this form of address was simple. It was a very conservative and formal way of addressing the professor, at least in the United States. It was only used during the first few meetings with the professor. After that, most students would choose to address the professor by their surname or first name, and even in casual greetings or emails, this term would not be used.
Vocabulary with such a clear professional connotation carries a coldness that keeps people at arm's length, usually not conducive to efficient and friendly communication. Natasha genuinely wanted to have a good talk with Schiller, because he was clearly difficult to deal with.
Schiller nodded slightly, and then Natasha saw him stand up, seemingly to get the car keys. Well, the female agent thought, even though they had almost identical faces, you can't expect her to so easily accept riding in the car of a stranger she's barely met, especially since she's a CIA agent.
Soon, Schiller walked to the door and picked up an umbrella. Natasha followed him into the garage. Unsurprisingly, it was a classic Bentley, its surface reflecting a bright but not sharp light, exuding the same elegance as him. This man was a walking embodiment of the old world.
As Schiller got into the driver's seat, Natasha moved to the passenger seat. It started raining again as the car drove out of the garage.
“This awful weather,” Natasha couldn’t help but complain. “Why is it raining all the time in this city? Have you ever seen it sunny?”
“Weather is usually a safe topic, but it’s not in Gotham,” Schiller began. “This city hardly gets any sunshine, and it rains all year round, day and night. The rain washes away many traces of murders, but it also brings in more bacteria and viruses.”
Schiller's voice was deep, and he spoke slowly. Natasha thought he would make a lot of money as an hourly therapist. Either they could extend the treatment time several times over with these aria-like long monologues, or he could simply put the patient to sleep and then give him a maximum bill.
"Did the previous cases also occur on rainy days?"
“No, I’m afraid there’s no such pattern.” Schiller turned the steering wheel and said, “There were two cases when it wasn’t raining. The police found a lot of traces in the surrounding area, but the traces all pointed to the manipulated person, not the real culprit, the Eden Killer.”
"Well, it seems that catching him will indeed be difficult."
“Isn’t this exactly what you wanted?” Schiller said in a completely flat tone. “You never intended to catch him. The case is difficult to solve, so your incompetence won’t be apparent.”
Natasha paused, her fingers moving slightly. "I'm here to catch the killer," she said. "Although I initially planned to take a faster approach to de-escalating the situation, that wasn't a certainty, otherwise I would have stormed into the TV station and arrested him already. I did consult with the Penguin and you as thoroughly as possible, at least in that respect."
“To conceal your true intentions,” Schiller said, tilting his head slightly. “The more dutiful and proactive you appear, the more you can hide your true purpose of not intending to capture the Eden Killer. You don’t need to argue about that; I didn’t intend to capture him anyway.”
Natasha felt uncomfortable all over and said, "Can you try to talk to me differently?"
"what?"
"Don't be so blunt," Natasha said, rubbing her arms. "Or maybe you've set the air conditioning too low. Why do I feel a little cold?"
"You've already shown considerable professionalism by not immediately asking me if I can read minds, madam," Schiller said, turning up the air conditioning temperature.
“I don’t ask because I already know the answer. Although Dr. Schiller keeps saying he’s a magician and a mutant, or that the symbiote gave him the ability, and keeps telling us he can read minds, he just wants to use it to get higher consultation fees and force us to fill out his psychological questionnaires. But I know he doesn’t; you just have a unique talent.”
"Would you like to see it?" Schiller turned to him and asked with a smile.
"Excuse me, what?" Natasha asked, somewhat surprised.
Would you like to witness this unique talent?
“I think it’s better not to,” Natasha shook her head rapidly. But clearly, the Schiller in front of her was the complete opposite of the doctor. The doctor was the kind of person who seemed to do whatever he wanted, but in reality, he would listen carefully to his friends’ opinions and take them into consideration; while the one she was dealing with now was the kind of person who seemed to be a good listener, but in reality, he did whatever he wanted.
"You're in what you perceive as a transitional phase. You thought you'd enter a stable period after 30, like most people, and maintain a certain state until you die. But recently, some changes in your life have made you realize you might be facing a second 30, which isn't entirely a good thing. The situation is complicated and giving you a headache."
"If I had to pinpoint what brought you back into this state of waiting for change, yet feeling like it will never come, I would say it's your love life. You've regained a certain aspect of your love life, with a lot of people involved, and your relationships are a bit chaotic, filled with too many unresolved emotions and unreleased desires."
"You want to simplify all these relationships, to define them as 'a legitimate way for an adult to release desires that no one can question.' In short, you prefer to talk about sex rather than love, even to the point of self-deception, as if you are hypnotizing yourself."
"But it's probably not that simple. Tragically, none of the men around you are the kind of normal people who are blinded by lust and only interested in your beauty. It's hard for you to admit that they love your soul rather than your appearance. And the fact that no matter how much you offer them your beauty, they will inevitably develop some kind of deep emotional entanglement with you will make you despair."
"It's like an absurd comedy. Most beautiful people are disgusted by others who only care about their looks. They desperately want someone to truly love their soul. But you're the opposite. You'd rather exchange your beauty with them for a superficial release of desire than have any soul connection with them. Why is that?"
“You have a deeper sense of unworthiness than most people. This is not inferiority, but a kind of self-sacrifice. You believe that you have given your most sincere and noblest love to some great being and died with him. So the remaining remnants, even if given wholeheartedly to someone, are far from enough, especially if they intend to give you their most sincere and noblest love.”
"You feel this is unfair, so you don't want to make such an exchange, preferring to keep the release of desire and the fusion of emotions at a very superficial stage. You keep emphasizing this to them, even in a very frivolous way, such as frequently mentioning sex, acting like a libertine. But unfortunately, perhaps by coincidence, or perhaps they are smarter than you think, no one intends to give up, and even those who had originally accepted reality are now starting to have extra thoughts."
“You can’t stop them from thinking that way, madam. These men who are chasing you are saviors and self-sacrificers like Jesus, and what they love to do most is save the dying. When they realize that you have a tombstone in your heart, they want to save you from the identity of a weeping person by the grave. The more important that tombstone is in your heart, the more they want to do it.”
"Clearly, almost no one's tombstone is greater than the one in your heart. Anyone who has delved even a little deeper into your heart has felt the same despair you felt when your epitaph was carved. That despair is a distant past for you, but it is not so distant for them. The moment they touched it almost shattered them, and then that saintly desire to save and compassion made it impossible for them to give up on you."
"Sex, pheromones, and physical desires—the frivolity and shallowness you display will not disappoint them; instead, they will interpret it as a cure for numbing yourself. They are like someone genuinely helping an addict quit drugs, partially giving you the cure while trying to limit the dosage to a safe level, and constantly persuading and encouraging you, hoping you can get better again."
“But you can’t. You don’t refuse them because you’re busy weeping by the grave, but because the grave is too big and too heavy; it has become a part of you. Solemnity, mourning, and despair are an inseparable part of your soul, so how can they ask you to take that part away? Comedy is not the savior of tragedy; some people live on tragedy, so you refuse them.”
"But you have to solve this problem. You want to find someone who doesn't see through these things, or who simply doesn't care about you, to help you fend off these Jesuses chasing after you. I guess, Agent?"
"parking."
Schiller slammed on the brakes. Natasha pushed open the car door and got out. Raindrops fell on her dazzling red hair, which, under the red and blue lights of the police car across the street, resembled a mist of blood rising from a broken heart. The police tape at the crime scene was right in front of her. Natasha slammed the car door shut, then felt a shadow fall over her.
She turned her head and saw Schiller holding an umbrella over her. Natasha turned and looked at him coldly, "Tell me you can read minds."
“I didn’t, madam.”
Natasha pulled out her gun.
“Okay, I do.” Schiller turned away from the crime scene and looked at her. “I’m a mutant, or a sorcerer, or maybe the symbiote gave me this ability. I’m sorry for reading your private information, but I promise I won’t tell anyone.”
Natasha muttered a curse under her breath, then stared at him and said, "And don't tell anyone else, especially the agents."
"That probably won't work. Your suitors are all skilled at fending off unwanted attention; they'll need to be quite prepared if they want to protect you from unwanted suitors."
“I will talk to him.”
What difference would it make if I said it?
Natasha was about to say, "Then I would lose the opportunity to have a heart-to-heart talk with him and possibly take advantage of him," but she quickly remembered Schiller's earlier words about "the purpose of being frivolous," and felt her heart sink.
“Because that would bring back your arguments from his memory. Your talent is like a pistol without a safety; this kind of analysis without someone’s consent is extremely impolite. If it were to spread through your neural networks, it would be very offensive to me.” Natasha had to make her way of speaking more medieval; she knew that gentlemen valued politeness.
“As you wish, madam. I will say nothing.” Schiller turned his head back to the crime scene, his eyes carrying an inorganic indifference, as if he had merely picked up a glass of champagne at a banquet, rather than having just pierced a bright red heart with a bullet.